Rule #9 (2 page)

“Who are those women?” I ask Hector.

His eyes scrunch. “Who are you?”

“I belong to the groom.”

“What’s a groom?” He takes a bite of his food. Half of it lands on his pants but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. I would say it’s a little of both.

“He’s the man who married that chick in the white dress.” I pick at my food.

“She’s my Tia
Alee-see-ah
.” He says her name in a sweet voice and his eyes grow wide. He scans the room and then points to my father’s new wife.

“Your what?”

“My Tia
Alee-see-ah
,” Hector looks at me like I’m stupid. “You know, the chick in the white dress. She’s my
tia
.” He’s points again and looks at me like I’m the dumb girl on the playground that he and his friends don’t want to play with.

Even Alicia has a title. I don’t know the difference between the
ninas
and the
tias
. I don’t get it and I don’t ask. Instead, I chalk this up to my pathetic little family, which consisted of mom, dad, and a single child who now has a different last name than her mother’s. My mom changed her last name back to her maiden name after the divorce.

I take a bite of the pork and it melts in my mouth. Maybe there are perks to this family after all.

My friend Natalie plops a latte on the table, which makes me jump. She sits to my right. “This place is dope. My dad got married at some stupid courthouse downtown.”

“Crap, you scared the bejesus out of me.”

Vianna sits on my right and takes in the sights, then looks at my plate. “That looks wonderful.”

I point to the buffet line, which is long.

Natalie takes a bite of meat from my plate. “We’ll wait ’till the line dies down.”

Hector uses this opportunity to ditch me and my two best friends, leaving his half-empty plate of food.

I point to Hector’s plate.

Vianna shakes her head, then leans forward and tells Natalie, “I’m sure your dad wanted a nice wedding but there wasn’t much time since your stepmom…”

“Was preggo and a bitch,” Natalie says.

Both of my friends hate the women their fathers married; Natalie’s just more vocal than Vianna. Actually, Natalie is vocal for herself
and
Vianna.

Vianna says, “Your stepmom isn’t as bad as—”

“Did you get this with foam?” I interrupt. The added fluff they put on lattes looks like whipped cream, but it’s only bubbles wasting space. I take a sip only to find it’s not spiked—damn, I really need something to get me through this night. It’s the least my friends could’ve done for me, since they deserted me to begin with.

“Do I look stupid?” Natalie raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t give me time to answer. “Miss No-foam, whole-milk vanilla. And no, I didn’t spike it. Vianna wouldn’t let me.” Natalie glares at Vianna. “Don’t call that bitch my stepmom.”

“Sorry.” Vianna pulls and twists her rich brown spiral curls. “What would you like me to call her?”

“Oh, I can think of so many things.” Natalie smirks. We’ve heard them all but Natalie rattles them off anyway. “Gold-digger, hag, home-wrecker, two-faced cow, had to birth a baby to take my place—skank.” Emphasis on the word
skank
. Ever since Natalie’s stepmom gave birth to Natalie’s half-sister Annabelle, Natalie’s been tossed aside. It’s all about that little girl.

“It’s a nice reception and the flowers are pretty. Are there any cute boys here?” Vianna is no longer listening to the names Natalie conjures up for her stepmom.

I, on the other hand, take mental notes. I need a special name for my father’s new wife of one hour, fifty-two minutes, and fifteen…sixteen seconds. I try to think of something good, but he drifts back into my thoughts, the boy with the voice, the arms, the chest, the hair, and the eyes. I haven’t seen him since he took Alicia out on the dance floor. Now he’s nowhere to be found. I don’t know why I even care. If I can survive the rest of this wedding celebration, I can go home to my mom’s house and never be around these people again. That’s my plan.

“We’re the only thing that’s sizzling in this place,” Natalie says. She’s wearing a short jean skirt and high-tops. Her blonde mane is perfectly straight and falls almost to the middle of her back. She’s not quite dressed for the occasion.

My father shook his head when he saw Natalie at the church. He’s lucky she didn’t wear a tank top. My father needs to calm down. I’m not saying he’s wrong, sometimes Natalie’s wardrobe choice is off, but she’s adorable and she’s herself—always.

My father thinks he knows everything about fashion, but he still tucks his button-down casual shirts into his jeans and wears a skinny belt most days. It’s beyond embarrassing. It ranks up there with him commenting on my social networks when he shouldn’t. This is the reason he only knows about one of them.

“Alicia is so pretty. I thought there would be cute Latino boys,” Vianna says. Vianna looks gorgeous in her sundress and sandals. Her skin glows against the yellow in her dress. I can’t wear yellow, not even with ebony trim. It washes me out. But Vianna, like her mother, can pull it off. Their dark skin radiates no matter what color they put on. Vianna and I share blue eyes, both from our fathers.

Different fathers, of course.

“There are tons of Latino boys,” I say.

The room is filled with Alicia’s family. The only surviving member of my father’s family, his brother, still won’t talk to him, so he’s not here. My uncle is pissed that my father cheated on my mom. I don’t like to talk about it—or her. And I refuse to speak, or even think
her
name, not Alicia’s, but the bitch that my father cheated with, that caused my parents’ divorce.

Natalie argues with me about the age of the boys attending the wedding, “Six-month-olds to fourteen-year-olds don’t count.”

“Oh, wait, check out Alicia’s dad. He’s looking our way,” I say. “Crap, he’s coming over here.” I turn away, hoping the old guy takes the hint that we—or at least I—don’t want to talk to him.

“Thirty- to one-hundred-year-olds don’t count either,” Natalie laughs.

I turn back around and see the small, round man shuffle his feet and snap his fingers. Then he turns. I hope he will stop and head back, but he completes a three-sixty and keeps moving forward. He stops halfway around and shakes his stuff, which he shouldn’t.

“Go, Grandpa.” Natalie does her own little dance.

“Don’t call him that,” I hiss, then smack her forearm. I wish she would stop.

“Look at his hair,” Natalie points. “The waves don’t move. At all. It’s like he puts the whole container of gel in his hair.”

I haven’t spent too much time around Mr. Morales. I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t need instant family. He’s probably some annoying old man who hates kids anyway, so what’s the use?

When he’s within hearing distance, he speaks. “You all look lovely. I love the fancy shoes.” Mr. Morales points to Natalie’s high-tops.

“I thought the sparkles were a nice touch,” Natalie lifts her foot up and points it to the right and then to the left.

I wait for him to mock us but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Sparkles are important.”

Alicia appears out of nowhere and asks her dad, “Papi, will you dance with me?”

“Would love to continue our chat later, ladies.” He turns toward his daughter and his eyes fill with pride. “Time to dance with the prettiest girl in the room.”

Mr. Morales takes Alicia’s arm in his.

Alicia clings to her dad’s arm and they head to the dance floor.

My dad walks toward me and my friends.

What if he asks me to dance? I can’t do this now. I’ll cry, and I can’t cry. If I give in, I’ll get hurt just like my friends. I need to make him think that I don’t care. It will be easier for him and me if I shut him out now.

I cross my arms, glare at him, then turn away. He passes us and asks one of the Ninas to dance.

“I have to pee,” I say quickly and head to the nearest exit.

After finding my way through the maze of people, I plunge through the side doors out to where the sun has hidden behind the mountains. I head west, as if to chase it. Halting on the sidewalk, I catch my breath. What I really need is air. The scent of the pine trees rushes in. I take a deep breath and relax. The weather is warm and perfect, allowing me to walk along the sidewalk toward the school attached to the other side of the church, without even a jacket. As I get further from the church, I hear a boy’s voice. He’s loud and upset—and Southern. I slide off the sidewalk, into the grass, and behind a tree. I lean toward the voice.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ll knock his ass into next week.”

I peer around the tree. The lights in the parking lot spotlight his fist as it plunges into the door of a black SUV, which causes me to jump back and take a deep breath. Why’s he so mad—and at who?

Then Mr. Southern Charm yanks the door open. He starts the engine, and the red lights and bumper sticker that reads
I brake for cowboys
fades east.

I let go of the air that fills my lungs, and my shoulders sink. It’s probably better that he’s gone. I’m either not his type or he’s some pissed-off boy who can’t control his temper.

CHAPTER TWO

I force myself to go back into the reception. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

My friends are sitting with the old guy, and they are
laughing
. They actually look like they’re having fun, and not at his expense. I take my time crossing the room so I can fully evaluate the situation. Instead of going directly toward the table, I circle the outer wall. My goal is to eavesdrop once I’m close enough.

I know my friends have my back—they always have—but I need to know what I’m getting myself into.

Vianna and I met Natalie in the fourth grade. That’s when Natalie moved to Pine Gulch. Usually groups of three don’t work, especially with girls. We do. Natalie’s the drama queen, Vianna the sensible one, and I’m the one in between. This all according to my mom. Vianna and I have been friends since preschool.

Back in fourth grade, after lunch, Vianna and I found Natalie on the playground with her fists balled up, tears fighting their way out as she staring at Sidney Jacobson, the stuck-up princess of the elementary school. Not much has changed. When we asked her what was wrong, Natalie sucked air through the gap in her front teeth and said, “Sidney says my mommy’s fat.”

“My mom says to ignore mean people.” Vianna patted her back.

Natalie punched her fist into her other hand.

“Sidney’s mom is ugly,” I said, loud enough for Sidney. “And stupid. Don’t worry, Natalie. Sidney called my mom dumb because she works at a clothes store. Sidney probably can’t even
spell
the word dumb.”

When Natalie’s fists softened, Vianna and I pulled her away from Sidney—which was a good thing for Sidney. After school that day, Natalie came to my house, and the three of us formed an inseparable bond. We ate Thin Mints broken up and covered with milk in small plastic cups like it was cereal. Then my mom had us compose what she called “The Contract of Three.”

“We’re going to make a very cool list,” my mom said, clearing the clutter from our oak kitchen table.

Natalie sat next to my mom, Vianna took a seat on the other side of the table, and I went in search of paper and pens. I loved lists back then. I still do.

I returned with my art supplies: blank paper, crayons, colored pencils, pens, and markers. It’s what I used to draw when I would sit with my dad and create masterpieces.

Mom helped me spread the supplies out onto the table. “Sometimes it’s hard when three girls try to be friends. So we are going to make some rules.”

“Why can’t three girls be friends?” Vianna asked.

“Because of stupid girls like Sidney.” Natalie took a red marker and, in big bold letters, wrote on a piece of paper:
Don’t say mean things about each other.

Then she said, “At least don’t say something about me to someone else. If you don’t like me, just tell me. If you can’t tell me then you should just shut your mouth.”

My mom had Natalie make two more copies.

Vianna grabbed a piece of turquoise paper and a white gel pen and wrote:
Don’t take sides.

“I guess you can take sides but you have to make sure you know all the sides before you do. ’Cause what if you only know one story and the other person didn’t tell their story and you take the wrong side?”

“Yeah, ’cause sometimes things get mixed up and you say stuff you don’t really mean and then someone takes it wrong—you know what I mean,” I said, looking at my mom.

Mom nodded and had Vianna make two more copies of the rule.

Don’t fight over boys!

“My mom is always fighting over my dad. He doesn’t want her anymore, so I don’t know why she keeps trying to get him back. He has a skinny girlfriend.” Natalie dug the pen into the sheet.

“Skinny girls are always hungry,” my mom said.

I grabbed a pink piece of paper and a darker pink marker and wrote:
Listen to each other.

“I hate when people don’t listen,” I said. Then I wrote it twice more.

Mom helped us tweak the rules, and then we mounted them on white eleven-by-fourteen poster boards and decorated them. I drew three pollywogs on the mine. Then my friends made me draw them on their versions. It was the beginning stages of me drawing the little creatures. They didn’t look very good, but nobody has ever said a word.

The Contract of Three

1. No talking behind each others’ backs. If you have something to say you need to say it in front of the person you’re talking about. If you can’t do that, keep your mouth shut!

2. No Taking Sides. Unless you follow Rule Number 1.

3. NEVER fight over a boy. Boys come and go. Friendships last forever if you follow the rules.

4. Listen to each other.

5. Support each other.

6. Respect each other.

7. Love each other.

8. Rules can be added if agreed by Massie, Vianna, and Natalie.

We each signed a copy, and my mom placed the rules in hot-pink frames. Then she changed the Vianna’s to black-and-white zebra print, since Vianna hated pink. We each hung our copy in our rooms. They remain the same without updates or changes. Although we’re always adding a rule number nine. Rule number nine always changes and has never been written down. The rules don’t always stop us from fighting, but the rules usually settle an argument.

Now I look at my friends talking to the old guy. I can’t imagine my life without Natalie or Vianna. I creep closer just as Natalie drops the bomb. “So how do you know that your daughter will not turn into an evil queen?”

I step back. It is definitely not time to get to know the old guy. Once I’ve put enough distance between us, I sit in a chair against the wall and wait for my friends to notice me. It doesn’t take long, since Natalie can’t sit still for longer than five minutes at a time. My friends leave Mr. Morales and find their way through the dance floor to me.

“Why are you sitting all the way over here by yourself?” Natalie asks.

“Because you’re over there asking questions that could land me time in the dungeon. I don’t need you making it worse.”

Vianna cuts in, “I don’t think she’s that bad. And her dad is funny.”

“That’s what you said about Dia—”

I interrupt Natalie: “Don’t say her name.”

“Hey, I’m on your side. I was just trying to say that Vianna wanted you to give her a chance, too, and look where that got you.” Natalie is talking about
her
, the woman who ruined it all.

“Let’s get out of here.” As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been “present” for long enough. It’s time to go home.

We all pile into Vianna’s car and drive to my house. The drive is quiet. I don’t feel like talking and my friends know my mood. The only thing they don’t know is that besides being upset about the wedding, I can’t get that boy off my brain. But at this point I don’t want to talk about him either.

When we hit the front door, my mom opens it, looks down at her watch, and says, “It’s only nine. You okay?”

“Can I have service to my phone back now?” I’m not trying to be rude; I just don’t want to talk about it. Mom nods and then moves out of the way. My friends go in first. When I walk by she puts her arm around me and squeezes tight. The tears start to fall just as my head hits my mom’s shoulder. “I can’t talk about this now. Okay?” I say, without looking up.

“Okay. I love you and I’m very proud that you went,” she says. She lets go but not before kissing the top of my head.

I follow my friends back to my room. My dog Buster follows me. Natalie jumps onto my unmade bed. The dog jumps up next. He kneads the pillow to his liking and then plops. My big-eared, bug-eyed brindle dog with barely any muzzle starts snoring, loud. It’s a Boston Terrier thing. Vianna sits on the chair in the corner, by my desk. It’s the only place that is clean. I don’t put anything on my desk because it is where I do all the details in my sketches. The shelf above my desk is filled with cheap, worn-down colored pencils and used erasers, and the drawers are filled with half-filled sketch books.

I grab a pile of clothes and shove them into a full laundry basket. The clothes that don’t fit fall out onto my wooden floor.

Plopping down next to Natalie I ask, “Do all stepmoms have psychotic personalities? Do they take a test? And what’s on it?”

What I really want to know is when the evil queen is going to show her secondary colors, the ones hiding behind that white dress she wore today. We all have them. Most of the time when primary colors are mixed, the new hue radiates beauty. But when they are not mixed properly, the color turns to mud. I need to be ready for mud.

“I’ll tell you what’s on the damn test,” Natalie says. She grabs a composition book off my dresser and rummages through a drawer until she finds a pen. Then she starts writing:

The Evil Step Monster Test

“‘Number One: Do you like children that aren’t yours?’” Natalie looks up for our answer.

Vianna shakes her head. I don’t answer because I really don’t know what to say. I’ve never had a stepmom before. I’ve only been cursed with my father’s crazy ex-girlfriend.

Natalie digs the pen into the notebook. “The answer is ‘Hell, no. Who would? Have you seen his stupid kids? They look like their mother. Our child, unlike hers, is perfect.’”

“Crap, I hadn’t thought about children. Are they gonna have kids?” I look at my friends in horror. “That’s all I need—some baby,” I say. “And Natalie, you’re beautiful.”

“Welcome to my pathetic world. Pretty soon you’ll have your own little half-sister.” Natalie shoves the black-and-white book away and flops onto her back. Her eyes shut. “And whatever. I’m not all that.”

“I agree with Massie. You are
very
pretty, Natalie. And Annabelle is a sweet baby sister,” Vianna says, pulling her feet off the floor onto the chair. She wraps her hands around her legs. “Try dealing with a stepbrother.”

“I’m not sure what would be worse, baby sister or pot-smoking, high-school-dropout stepbrother who can’t keep a job,” I say.

My friends argue over this. Natalie has the five-year-old half-sister, while Vianna has the twenty-year-old stepbrother. I’d choose the baby sister. She’s cute. I’ve met the brother once and he’s kind of slimy. I don’t say this out loud, though. It would be like taking sides and I don’t need to take sides on this one.

“Okay, Natalie, you win. Your baby sister is so much worse than my stepbrother. At least I don’t have to compete with an adorable kid.” Vianna winks at me. Then she announces, “I have a question.”

Natalie reaches to her side and grabs the book, then sits up. She’s ready and willing to be the appointed dictation taker for the quiz.

“‘Number Two: Will you make your stepchildren’s lives miserable?’” Vianna asks.

“That goes without saying,” Natalie says. “The answer should be, ‘Yes, every chance I get,’ because that shit happens as soon as they say
I do
.”

“They pretend to like us. But they don’t,” Vianna says. “I really thought Wendy would be nice. She acted nice in the beginning. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“I’m sure they have a list of ways to make our lives suck. Not like mine can get much worse. Since Stephanie came into the picture, my life completely, totally sucks.” Natalie taps the pen against the notebook. Then she starts to write again. “‘Number Three: Will you keep your new husband away from his children?’”

“Do you really think they plan it out?” Vianna asks.

“Of course they do,” Natalie answers. “I’m sure the minute my dad put that stupid ring on her finger, Stephanie was like, ‘He’s mine now. His kids have a mother, and she can take care of them.’” Natalie pauses before finishing. She can’t talk and write this out at the same time. “‘Besides, my daughter needs her daddy more than his other kids do. That was his past life, we are his life now.’”

“My plan is to keep my distance,” I say. “I think it’s better to be the one to stay away than to be the one who’s removed.”

“Yeah, Wendy removed me quickly.” Vianna’s eyes focus on the floor.

“Stephanie, too.” Natalie tosses the notebook.

Vianna lets her feet hit the floor. She stands and walks to the bed, picks up the book, returns to the desk, and writes, “‘Number Four: Will you make sure your husband spends more time with your children than his own?’” Vianna answers the question with, “‘Yes, I will.’”

Natalie marches over and takes the book away. “You can answer better than that. The answer should be, ‘My son needs him more than his daughter.’ But we all know it’s only because your son’s dad left you when you cheated on him. Skank. I think she’s on husband number four, if I’m not mistaken.”

Vianna looks worried about Natalie’s new entry. “Is anyone going to read this besides us?”

“No. My mom won’t even look at it,” I say. “And even if she did, she would never in a million years believe you would write that. Only Natalie would.” I think about the differences between my friends and me. “Alicia doesn’t have kids. But she does come with a father who is old and likes to talk. Not sure which is worse, kids or instant wanna-be grandpa. All I know is, I don’t have to babysit kids. I’m not babysitting the old man either.”