by B. E. Baker
My cheeks heat up. Little nurse. I like that. “Well, my Aunt needs me to be the ring bearer for her wedding this weekend, and she thought it was a good idea if Hope comes with me. She’d be sort of like a symbol of healing and love. My aunt was married to a real jerk before.” I smile.
“Okay.” Lucy tilts her head. “That’s a different idea, but it’s kind of cool. I think Hope is calm enough that if you kept her in a box for the wedding, she’d do alright.”
“Yeah, that’s the favor I wanted to ask. I can’t watch Hope for the whole wedding, and I’d hate it if someone got into her box or if she got scared.”
Lucy glances at Mary. “And?”
“So I thought maybe you could come to the wedding, which my aunt says is fine, and kind of keep an eye on Hope. The food is going to be really good, I promise. Aunt Trudy said they’ll even have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches if you don’t like the weird kinds of food.”
“You’re sure there will be normal food?” Lucy asks. “Because I really like peanut butter and jelly.”
I nod.
“Well, that’s a nice thought, but—”
“You don’t want to go without a date?” I scrunch my nose. “Yeah, I wondered about that.” I tap my lip. “Gosh. I wish I knew another old guy who wasn’t married who could go with you. To help make my aunt’s dreams for her perfect wedding come true, I mean.”
Mary snorts, which does not help. And dumb old Coach Brian doesn’t say a word. He stands like a complete dummy, totally quiet. Even singing the tooty-tot song would be more helpful than standing there like that. It’s a miracle people get married at all.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey, what about you, Coach Brian? Maybe you could be her date?” I beam. “Just so that my aunt and I can have Hope with us.”
He still says nothing.
“As the ring bearer,” I say, widening my eyes. Get with it, man.
Coach Brian smiles, finally, and says, “Sure. I don’t have any other plans. I think I could do that, if Lucy needs a date.”
Lucy clears her throat. “I was going to say that I’m working this weekend.”
And just like that, I want to cry. I got so close.
“But my friend Shawna owes me a favor. I bet she’d switch shifts with me.”
Yes!
“Anything to celebrate true love, right?” Mary asks.
“Right,” I say. “Thank you both, so much.”
Ha, gotcha.
7
Anica
I hate when I forget to turn off the ringer on my phone. Although, it’s my own fault for picking such an obnoxious ringtone. I finally roll over and answer.
“Hello, is this Miss Anica Maggard?”
I wipe my eyes. Asking for me by my full name is never a good sign. “Uh, yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Katie.”
She’s way, way too perky for. . .I blink and rub at my eyes until I can make out the bedside clock. Ten-forty. Huh. I guess it’s not that early to most people. “Hi Katie. What do you want?”
“Oh, I hope I didn’t call at an inconvenient time.”
That’s a lie. She doesn’t care whether it’s a bad time for me. Calls are always inconvenient, so I don’t bother easing her mind about it. People react oddly to silence.
“Are you still there?”
I grunt.
“Okay, well, I’m currently a student at Princeton.”
I groan. It’s some idiotic student my alma mater has tasked with trying to pry money out of me. Which is a complete waste of time as, even if I cared to donate to an institution with a twenty-five billion dollar endowment, I have nothing to give. “Well, you’ve got some bad luck. Because you managed to find probably the only alumnus from your esteemed institution without a penny to her name.”
“Oh.”
Ha. I’ve made her feel uncomfortable. Good. Shiny new pennies need to know the feeling every now and then. “And let me give you some free advice while I have you on the phone.”
“Um, okay.”
“Don’t major in English and don’t try and write the great American novel, or you might end up just as pathetic as me.” I hang up. I try to go back to sleep, but someone’s vacuuming outside my door. Even with a pillow over my head, I can’t quite drown it out.
I guess it’s my own fault. I’m stuck in this house with two little kids and a manic pregnant lady for seven more days until my parents get back. Even when I told them I was in town, they didn’t offer me a key. What kind of parents don’t let their daughter stay in— Well, if it’s not my childhood home since they sold that, at least it’s my parents’ current home.
Finally, I wake up, take a shower, and brush my teeth. Before I’ve even finished drying my hair, someone’s knocking at the door, probably wondering when she can clean it. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute.” Although, Luke’s cleaning lady might not understand English. “Un minuto,” I say. “Muy pronto.”
“Excuse me?” Mary’s voice is even more annoyed than usual.
I close my eyes. I can’t catch a break. “Um, sorry. I heard the vacuum. I thought you might be the cleaning lady.”
“I don’t have a cleaning lady.”
Of course she doesn’t. Why would superwoman need a cleaning lady when she’s two weeks away from having a baby? “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize that. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I was about to meet Amy for lunch at the school, but it occurred to me that you might want to go.”
Sit next to a dozen little munchkins eating ding dongs and Lunchables? Pass. I open my mouth to tell her thanks but no thanks when memories from last night hammer into me. Amy, laughing at the idea of setting me up with a hot, formerly professional athlete whom she really likes.
Why was the idea so funny?
Am I really such a big loser that she’d rather set her PE coach up with some wacky chicken lady nurse? Maybe I should go. Maybe I’ll meet this coach while I’m there. Then Amy will realize that her Aunt Anica isn’t such an embarrassment.
“When would we need to leave?”
“I assumed that if you were going, you’d prefer I stay home,” Mary says.
God, she’s smug. And I hate that she’s always right. “Oh, okay. Well, when do I need to leave, then?”
“Probably in the next twenty minutes. Did you want to go?”
“Sure, yeah. I’ll go.”
“Wonderful. She’ll be so delighted.”
Right. Even I know that Amy dramatically prefers her pregnant stepmother to me. Which is another reason why I probably ought to go. I rush to finish my hair and sprint to my room to dress in something presentable. I need an outfit that screams New York Times Bestseller instead of Totally Washed Up Loser. I toss sweaters and dresses over my shoulder into a pile while I rummage through my suitcase.
But then I find it—my blue cashmere sweater. The one I wore when I went on the Tonight Show. The one that makes me feel like a billion bucks. I tug on some black slacks with it, and I jog out to the kitchen. Mary has drawn a detailed map to get me to the school, a mile away, and then a smaller one of the school with an ‘x’ over the cafeteria.
“You’ll want to take your drivers’ license with you,” she says, “so the office can print you a name tag.”
“Is this a school or a prison?” I ask.
Mary blinks.
“It’s a joke, right?” I ask. “Because to most kids, school basically is a prison.”
She frowns. “They go to an excellent school, and mostly Chase and Amy love it.”
“Right,” I say. “No, I mean. Okay. Well, I’ll see you later, then.”
As I walk to my car, I realize it must have been Mary vacuuming and a pang of guilt sideswipes me. I’m loafing around, sleeping all hours, assuming that since Luke is loaded, his wife has an army of people running her house. Meanwhile she’s taking care of my niece admirably and cleaning up after both kids and me.
I might really suck.
I’ll have to in
spect that in a little more depth later, when I’m fortified with more than a bag of stale mini-muffins I find underneath my seat.
Of course Mary’s map is to scale and crystal clear, and thanks to the detail, I have zero problems finding the school and then the cafeteria. And I may not have wanted to wake up quite so early or hoof it to an elementary school, but the beaming smile on Amy’s face when she sees me, well.
That makes it more than worth it.
I had no idea it would make her so happy to have me show up for lunch. Geez. That pang of guilt swells up to sucker punch me.
I’m a horrible aunt.
Mary’s a pretty decent mother.
And I’m beginning to worry that Lizzie would be heartily ashamed of me.
“Hey, girlfriend,” I say enthusiastically.
Amy stands up, abandoning her lunchbox, and races down the aisle between the tiny tables. Her arms wrap around me ridiculously tight. “I’m so glad you came to lunch.”
“Of course.” And I resolve then and there to come at least once a week while I’m here, however long that is. I bet Chase would like to see me too. “Where should we sit?”
“Oh, you can sit by me.” Amy walks toward her My Little Pony lunchbox. “You can have half my sandwich, too. Actually, I’m not that hungry if you want all of it.”
“Or you could have one of her carrots,” a little girl with shiny, russet hair giggles.
I hate her.
“Who are you?” I sit next to Amy, the kids on either side of her scootching down to make room without being asked, all of them staring at me a little starry-eyed.
“I’m Piper,” she says, her head cocked sideways, like I should know what that means.
“So are Amy’s carrots really good?” I look to Piper’s left and right, my mean-girl senses tingling.
“Well, I hope they are,” Piper says with a smug smile.
“Why’s that?” I arch my eyebrow for maximum intimidation.
“She only ever has about three of them,” the blonde girl next to Piper says.
“Did it occur to any of you that perhaps Amy isn’t a fan of carrots, but her parents send them because they’re healthy and they brokered a sophisticated deal that she would eat exactly three—no more, no less?”
Piper’s eyes widen.
“I’m guessing you don’t bargain with your parents. You look like the kind of kid who gets whatever she wants all the time.” I lean forward. “The danger in being a spoiled brat, you see, is that your mother has to put up with you. But as you get older, no one wants to be friends with someone like that.”
Her devoted friends laugh just as hard at my joke as they did at her jabs earlier. They’re some real winners. Not even loyal.
“My recommendation?”
The three of them look at me, wide-eyed, nervous.
“If I were you, I’d start watching what Amy here does. You see, she’s perfect at home and at school. And you might find that a little intimidating right now, but when you’re older, you’ll realize that’s the kind of person you want to be. Not the person who makes fun of other people to feel better about themselves.”
Piper swallows hard and then stands up. “We’d rather sit somewhere else, thanks.”
I smile at her. “I think everyone here would appreciate that. We’re all tired of the smell, frankly.”
Every little kid on either side of us has been terrorized by this kid, I realize. Because their laughter is far louder than my somewhat ridiculous taunts warrant.
When I look down at Amy, she’s practically hero-worshipping me. Well, at least I’ve still got my second grade slam-mojo. “That was amazing,” Amy says.
“It wasn’t,” I say. “In fact, I should be apologizing to you right now.”
“All Mary does is tell me to be nice to Piper. She says Piper is probably really sad and hurting.”
For the love. How is Mary so stinking perfect all the time? I groan inwardly. “She might actually be right,” I say.
“But no one has ever told Piper off like that. I think she’ll be scared of me now.”
Actually, she’ll probably come down on poor, sweet Amy even worse once I’m gone. I’m a fifty-pound grenade and she’s afraid of me, but I can’t be here all the time. I might have sentenced Amy to her doom. “Look, the thing is. . .” How do I get her out of this situation I’ve now potentially worsened? I’m an idiot.
Amy takes a bite of her sandwich and the movement distracts me.
“What the heck kind of sandwich is that?”
“Oh.” Amy scrunches her nose. “It’s apple slices, cheese, and mayonnaise.”
“That sounds so nasty,” I say. “You were offering me half of that?”
Amy shrugs. “Piper’s allergic to peanut butter, and I’m not a fan of almond butter or sandwich meat, so me and Mary had to get creative.”
Her little voice saying the word ‘Mom’ on the night I arrived taunts me. She’s said ‘Mary’ ever since that night. I broke things between her and Mary, and I shouldn’t have.
I’m like the proverbial bull in Luke’s delicately balanced china shop life.
Oh, Lizzie. I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to come here and just poop all over everything.
“Wait.” Some of the snatches of conversation I’ve heard over the past ten days start to penetrate and mesh. “Is this the girl who took your part? She’s playing Annie?”
Amy gulps. So that’s a yes.
“What happens if she eats peanut butter? Because that sandwich she was eating looked a lot like peanut butter.”
“She doesn’t stop breathing,” a little boy next to Amy says. “She just gets a rash. My mom thinks it’s dumb that none of us can have peanut butter cause it makes her itchy, but the teachers agreed it’s still a good idea.”
A thought hatches in my evil brain, but with all these kids listening in on my every word, I can’t explain it now. “Well, listen, Amy, I need to clarify something. I know you think it was cool that I set Piper back. But the problem is that she’s scared of me, but I don’t go to school here.”
My poor little niece is wicked smart. Her eyes go round. “You think—”
“Yeah, what I did might have been dumb. She might be worse when I leave.”
Amy sets her sandwich down and puts her hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry. If that happens, if I made things worse, I’m really, really sorry. Because Mary was probably right.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “If Piper is hurting, if her life is hard or her mom is mean, she’s not going to necessarily leave you alone because I scared her off. She might already be used to keeping her head down around the big meanies, and then terrorizing the little guys.” Like sweet Amy.
I want to punch Piper in her snooty nose.
“It’s fine,” Amy says.
“It’s fine?”
“If she gets worse, well, it’s fine. Because I’ll just think about the things you said and how shocked she was, and it’ll be easier to ignore her than ever before.”
Stupid guilt keeps smacking me over the head harder and harder. Lizzie’s daughter is a freaking angel. “Good idea,” I say.
When they release the kids to the playground, I ask, “Can I come?”
The tremendous smile that nearly cracks her face in two is enough of an answer for me. There are two sets of swings and for some odd reason she heads straight for the ones at the far end of the playground. Probably because I’m with her, no one else even follows us. We have the entire set of swings to ourselves.
“So kiddo, I had an idea.”
“Yeah?” Amy looks almost too eager as she plops into a swing and starts to rock back and forth.
“Your tyrannical overlord is allergic to peanuts, but her reaction’s not too bad. A rash, right?”
Amy’s face immediately falls. “I guess so.”
“What if, on the day of the play, we switch her sandwich out for a peanut butter one? She wouldn’t really be in danger, but if she got a rash, she’d probab
ly be out of commission for the play.” I smile. That little brat deserves it.
“I’m not sure Gregory really knows what happens to Piper,” Amy says. “And—”
I roll my eyes. “But if she’s really allergic, she’ll have an EpiPen or whatever. They always keep that stuff on hand.”
Amy hops off the swing, her hands flying to her hips. “Are you kidding right now? Because I can’t tell, but I don’t think it’s very funny.”
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “With my help, we could totally pull it off.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Amy shakes her head. “You may think my real mom would be upset at me for calling Mary ‘Mom,’ but I’m beginning to think that you don’t know anything. Maybe you need a new mom if Grandma didn’t teach you right from wrong.” She huffs and starts walking back to the main playground.
I sink down onto the swing and drop my face in my hands.
Because my darling little niece is right.
I probably need a good paddle on the bum, and losing Lizzie isn’t really a good excuse for my behavior, not anymore.
No, at this point, my idiocy is all on me.
8
Luke
Paul’s backyard looks even better than it did when he hosted my wedding to Mary. I can’t help smile, thinking about that day. It was as perfect as any day could be.
Mary wraps one arm around my waist. “What was I thinking, saying yes to Trudy?”
“To holding her wedding ten days before you have a baby?”
“And right at the end of tax season.”
“You aren’t currently employed.” I turn my gorgeous wife’s face upward and kiss her. “And I couldn’t be more pleased about that.”
“Umm, it cost you $200,000. Care to rethink your position?”
“Clarification,” I say. “It cost LitUp that amount. Half that loss will be borne by my brother, who wouldn’t have even realized there was an error or that we’d overpaid on our taxes if you hadn’t insisted on telling him.”
