I don’t say anything.
“Is it the wedding? Because, you know, it’s weird for all of us. The thought of having a new dad…I mean, your dad’s cool and everything, it’s just…you know.”
I stare at him. This is the most he’s ever said to me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“I haven’t seen my dad in five years. Did Al tell you?”
I shake my head.
“It’s true. One day he was here, the next he was gone. Packed up all his clothes and just took off. He said the ‘parenting thing’ wasn’t for him. Direct quote.”
“Seriously?”
He nods. “He has a new wife now, in Denver. Tiffany. Who’s, like, nineteen.”
“Oh…sick.”
“Yeah. He used to call sometimes, on our birthdays. Not anymore, though. Now he sends money. Lots of money. Which is good, I guess. But it’s not…you know—”
“Not like having a real dad.”
Ajax nods. “Yeah.”
“Huh.”
For a minute we don’t say anything.
I think about Stella. I think about how things would be different if she didn’t die—if they only got divorced.
After a while I say, “At least you got to know him. I mean, you got eight years, right?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Well, that’s seven more than I got. With my mom.”
Ajax frowns. “Right. I knew that. Hey, I’m sorry, Evyn. That was…I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s okay.”
He shakes his head. “No. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Okay,” he says.
The conversation seems to be over, so I start to walk away. But then I remember something. All week I’ve been looking for clues. A snippet of phone conversation (“Andrea is so hot”). A certain name doodled on the back of a notebook (Ajax luvs Andrea, S.W.A.K.). So far, nothing.
Maybe it’s time I tried a new tactic. “Hey. Do you like anyone?”
Ajax looks at me. “What. Girls?”
“Yeah.”
“At your school?”
“Yes, girls at my school. Do you like anyone?”
He smiles. “Who wants to know?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Why? Am I annoying you?”
“Are you going to answer the question?”
“Do you want me to?”
I feel like I’m talking to the opposite of Mackey. Instead of no response I’m getting harassed. I don’t know which is worse.
“Never mind,” I say. “Forget I asked.”
Ajax laughs. “No, I’ll answer the question…Maybe.”
“Maybe you like someone?”
“Maybe I like someone.”
“Are you planning to tell me who it is?”
“Nope.”
“Are you planning to ask her to that social thing?”
“Nope.”
“Well, are you at least going?”
“Maybe.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks a lot. You’ve been incredibly helpful. Really.”
Cleanser Boy grins. “Hey, if I’m going to be your brother, I have to start acting like it, right?”
“Whatever,” I say, and start walking away. And I don’t know why, but I’m smiling.
Even though he is incredibly irritating.
CHAPTER TEN
It’s Friday morning, and I have Latin. Here are the rules when you’re the only kid in class: You can’t forget your homework; you can’t space out; you can’t draw doodles of Mr. Murray’s bald head and copious arm hair and pass them around with captions that say Mr. Furry: Lusus Naturae, which is Latin for “freak of nature.” All you can do is pay attention.
Mr. Murray is sitting on the radiator when I walk in. “Salve,” he says, raising one hand.
This is Latin for “whatsup.” There is excitement in his voice. It’s like he can’t wait to start teaching me more dead words.
“Salve,” I say, politely getting out my notebook.
I don’t know why I’m taking this class. I guess because in seventh grade, Latin was cool. At my old school, everyone signed up for it, not just the geeks. The teacher, Mr. Camp, wasn’t like most teachers. We played Latin charades, acting out sayings like In vino veritas—“In wine is truth”—and he didn’t even care that we were pretending to be drunk. Plus, he didn’t believe in quizzes; he just had us conjugate out loud, as a group.
Now I’m on my own.
When Mr. Murray asks, “Quo vadis this weekend?” I have no choice but to respond.
“Um. How do you say wedding in Latin?”
“Ah.”
Mr. Murray smiles and uncaps a dry-erase marker. Since there’s no chalkboard in the Latin closet, he uses a miniature whiteboard, which he holds in his lap at all times. He calls it his tabula rasa.
“Nuptiae, nuptiarum. Feminine. A wedding.”
Then he adds some other useless vocabulary: mustaceum, a wedding cake; fax, a wedding torch; hasta, a ceremonial wedding spear.
Yes. I am so sure that Birdie will be carrying a ceremonial wedding spear tomorrow.
“So,” Mr. Murray says, looking up, “who’s getting married? Consobrina? Consobrinus? Amita? Matertera? Avuncul—”
“Pater,” I say, before he can name every possible relative. “My pater’s getting married.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Uh-huh.” He puts the cap back on the marker.
Silence.
I guess there’s no word for stepmother.
Awkward, awkward silence.
I look down at my notebook and pretend to be studying. Mr. Murray clears his throat a few thousand times.
“Well,” he says finally. “Omnia vincit amor. Love conquers all. Yes?”
I don’t say anything. I’m trying so hard not to throw up.
I need to transfer to Spanish.
When I get to the cafeteria, the It Girls look happy to see me.
“How’s Ajax?” they say.
I put my backpack on the floor. I have to keep my lunch in its bag today, because it’s something gourmet and embarrassing and it stinks.
“He’s good,” I say.
Andrea leans over and opens my milk. She sticks in a straw. Every time, she does this. I don’t know why.
“What’s the latest?” she asks as she scoots her chair closer, while everyone at the table looks at me with big mascara eyes. These girls are so different from my friends in Maine. I don’t know how to act around them.
“Well,” I say, “my Latin teacher is sort of a pita.” I still don’t know what a pita is; I can only hope I used it right.
“OhmyGod, you take Latin?” This from Chelsea Ableson, my homeroom buddy.
“Isn’t Latin, like, dead?” asks a girl with dangly earrings.
“Um,” I say. “Yeah, but I’m thinking of transfer—”
Andrea holds up her hand. “Latin helps with your S.A.T.s. We should all be taking Latin. Shouldn’t we, girls? Evelyn here will probably get into Harvard. Won’t you, Evelyn?”
Everyone nods in agreement.
It’s Evyn, I want to say. Not Evelyn. But I don’t dare correct her.
“So,” Andrea says. “Did you find out who Ajax likes yet?”
“Almost,” I tell her. “I should know for sure by Monday.”
She smiles. “Good work.”
Everyone else smiles, too.
Translation: I’m allowed to sit here until the bell rings.
The night before a wedding means you have to rehearse. Which means, in my case, tossing imaginary flower petals on the carpet as I march in time to the organ version of “Love Me Tender” by Elvis.
Phoebe is glued to my side, like we’re field-trip buddies on our way to the aquarium. Behind us is Thalia. Followed by the sweater twins. Followed by Eleni, who is holding fake flowers but shedding real tears. The acoustics in this church are faaantastic. Eve
ryone will be able to hear her crying for joy. She is just so head-over-heels in love with my father, she’s overflowing.
I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about it.
I will look straight ahead and focus on the groomsmen. On one groomsman in particular, who tomorrow will be wearing a tux and looking beyond gorgeous.
Stella? It’s me.
This time she has her head down so I can’t see her face.
Stell?
She’s never done this to me before—not responded. I give her a minute, but she doesn’t look at me, so I start right in,
Can you believe tonight? Eleni and her whole “I never thought I’d love again and then I met Al” speech? I thought I was going to barf right there at the table. Of COURSE she had to cook for the rehearsal dinner instead of us going to a nice restaurant like normal people because it’s all about HER. Have I mentioned how much I am beginning to hate hummus? I can’t believe Birdie is actually going through with this. I can’t believe I have to wake up in the morning and put on an orange dress and pretend to be happy, when—
Stella is looking at me now. Her eyes are red, but she is as beautiful as ever. Oh, honey, she says.
For a moment, all we do is look at each other.
You’ll be there tomorrow, I say finally. Right?
She gives a laugh that is more of a hiccup. You want me to come to my own husband’s wedding?
I nod. My throat is so tight I can’t talk.
Stella fishes around in the pocket of her bathrobe. She comes up with a tissue and blows her nose hard. When she’s done, she folds it and puts it back in her pocket.
You’re not going to make me dance the chicken dance, are you? she says. Because I really hate the chicken dance.
You can sit that one out, I tell her.
She gives me a tiny smile. In that case…
She means that she’ll be there tomorrow, and I’m so relieved that a million hot tears start pressing against my eyeballs, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
Luckily, the sweater twins snore so loud, an armored tank could plow through the wall and they wouldn’t wake up.
At least they won’t hear me cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the limo, I’m squashed between Thalia and the bride, who has on a tan dress. Tan. Not that she should be wearing white; it’s obvious she’s no virgin, but come on. Tan?
There are no boys present, so the sweater twins feel free to say things like, “My boobs look like torpedoes in this,” and “Crap. I think I just got my period,” while Phoebe gets shifted from one lap to another, so no one will get wrinkled.
Now Thalia is breaking out the bobby pins. She wants to fix everyone’s hair before we get there. I let her work on my flower crown, and she pokes me in the head a few times, trying to make it tighter. “This would be a lot easier if you had long hair,” she says.
I look at her and think, You don’t know the half of it.
For the rest of the ride, I close my eyes and pretend I’m on the beach.
At the church, we get escorted to a room with fluffy green couches and a big mirror. Eleni stands in front of it while everyone fusses over her. Thalia busts out the hairspray. Phoebe goes to town with the hand cream. “You need to be soft, Mommy,” she says, “when Al puts the ring on.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
As usual, the sweater twins are fighting.
“Pink lipstick? Are you kidding me? She’s wearing earth tones.”
“Well, we’re not doing orange, Clio. We’re not giving the bride orange lips. She’ll look like a freak.”
While I sit on a fluffy green couch the whole time, watching. Because I don’t belong in here. If I should be anywhere right now, it’s with Birdie, helping him tie his tie or something.
Then comes a knock at the door. “Ladies?”
The sweater twins go ballistic. “Oh my God!” They scream, running to block the door. “It’s Al! Hide Mom!”
“You’re not allowed to see the bride, Al!” Thalia calls out. “It’s bad luck!”
He laughs. “I won’t come in. I promise. I just need to borrow Evyn for a minute.”
I go into the hall and lean against the door, staring at him. Birdie with no beard and no glasses, wearing a tux and shoes so shiny you can see yourself in them.
“You don’t look like you,” I say.
He smiles. “You don’t look like you, either.” Then, quietly, “You look like your mom.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do. With your hair pinned up like that? You look…you’re beautiful, honey.” His voice cracks when he says this.
I shake my head.
Birdie nods.
We’re both silent, like we can’t find the words.
Then he reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you. I’ve been wanting to give it to you for a long time. I was just…waiting for the right…”
He clears his throat and hands me a box, blue with metallic swirls, and I feel goose bumps all over my arms as I open it and take out a necklace.
“This was hers?”
Birdie nods. He motions for me to turn around.
I do, and he fastens the clasp. The pendant rests in the hollow of my neck—a silver teardrop shape.
“She would want you to have it,” he says.
I turn again, and Birdie hugs me hard. He scruffs his chin against my scalp, and even though he’s not scruffy anymore it feels good.
We stay that way for a while, until the minister comes up and puts a hand on my dad’s shoulder.
“Albert,” he says. “It’s time.”
Somehow, I make it through the ceremony part.
I smile. I toss petals like a pro. I stand at attention while Birdie and Eleni promise to love, honor, cherish, and blah, blah, blah. I even watch them kiss, without vomiting.
But when the minister says, “I’m delighted to introduce to you…Mr. and Mrs. Albert Linney!” I can’t fake it anymore, because I’m so mad.
Mrs. Albert Linney.
There’s only one Mrs. Albert Linney, and that’s my mom—the one whose picture has been hanging over the fireplace all my life, the one whose necklace I’m wearing right now. I don’t care if she’s dead, she’s still a Linney, and Eleni’s not.
Eleni Linney. It sounds ridiculous.
I watch Birdie take her hand and lift it in the air, like they just won a mixed doubles tournament. I picture a lifetime of baklava and family meetings.
I never thought I’d say this, but right now I hate my father.
At the reception, the only bright spot is Linus. Except that I can’t get to him because he’s surrounded by a million cousins, all flinging their boobs around, even though they’re related to him and should know better.
I watch this from my seat at the kids’ table, where Phoebe is trying to get me to draw something with our complimentary Crayolas. I want to draw a cliff and jump off it.
When it’s time to cut the cake, the bride feeds the groom a sweet little bite and everyone claps politely. Personally, I prefer the tradition of smashing it in the other person’s face. If the groom would do that right now, this could be the best wedding ever. But Birdie is too nice of a guy. There’s not a cake-smashing gene in his body.
Out on the patio, I find Mackey. He is eating four-hour-old shrimp off some forgotten tray.
“Eleni Linney,” I say. “Could there be a stupider name?”
“Lynn.” Mackey dribbles cocktail sauce down his chin.
“What?”
“Lynn Linney. Lynnie Linney. That would be stupider.”
“Okay, fine. But I still can’t believe she took our name.”
“Mmf.”
“This has to be one of the all-time worst days of my life,” I tell him.
Mackey shrugs. He grabs three shrimp and jams them all in his mouth.
“What. You don’t think it bites?”
He shrugs again.
“You
actually like her?”
Big swallow. “Eleni?”
“Yes, Eleni. She doesn’t drive you crazy with her cooking and her smiling and her little comments? And the way she’s all over Birdie all the time? That doesn’t make you want to rip off your own fingernails?”
“Hrmp.”
I stare at my brother. “Could you use some words for once? Some English?”
I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t watch him stuff his face or shrug like a moron. I can’t try to figure out what he thinks about anything that matters.
I feel like my head is going to explode. I feel like if I don’t get out of here I’ll do something crazy, like smash cake in someone’s face.
On my way out I pass the dance floor, where everyone is bouncing and sweating all over one another.
It’s a combination of Eleni’s friends (Roger? Clive! Petunia, yoo-hoo!) and her Greek relatives. Nobody from our side, unless you count Birdie’s carpenter friend, Greg, or my great-aunt Janice, which I don’t.
A slow song comes on, and I can’t move fast enough. The last thing I need to see right now is the bride and groom making out.
I pick up the pace, weaving in and out of bodies, toward the door.
And then something amazing happens.
“Evyn?” There’s a hand on my back. Big, warm.
I turn around. “Yeah?”
It’s Him. With the tux. And the curls. And the shoulders. And the dream teeth.
And he
is asking
me
to dance.
Stella?
StellaStellaStella, are you watching this?
He told me to take off my shoes so I could stand on his feet. And we’re so close, my stomach is touching his stomach and I can smell him, and he smells so good, Stell, can you smell that? It’s like the sandalwood Birdie uses. I don’t want this song to be over. Is this what it was like, the first time you danced with Birdie? Did you never, ever, ever want the song to end? Ever?
Stella smiles at me. And for the first time all day, I smile back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On Monday morning, Birdie leaves for his honeymoon. They are going to Vermont, to a bed-and-breakfast. I can picture them eating breakfast just fine (fresh-squeezed orange juice and buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup), but the other part—the bed part—is too disgusting to contemplate.
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