by Ashley Lowe
The door of the limo opens and the sunlight hits my eyes. I squint and look out to see if anyone is around. Thankfully, the whole walkway is absolutely desolate. Not a single person is around to see my misery. My face feels tight with too much makeup. I can feel my entire face caked. There’s no way my skin is getting any air. I can’t breathe wearing this stupid corset. I look ridiculously fluffy from the waist down.
Is this how women really like to look for their wedding? It feels terrible.
Inside the church I have my own room waiting for me. Casually making my way to the door, a horde of women I don’t recognize rush forward on me. I can’t make out a single word they say because they’re all talking at the same time. Something about my hair isn’t right. One of the ladies pokes and prods at my head to fix it. My dress apparently isn’t fluffy enough. Another woman proceeds to further fluff me up. Another lady talks about the color of my eyes and how it doesn’t work well with the makeup.
This blob of estrogen forces me into the tiny vanity chair in the antique room. Here comes more makeup. I want to scream. I just can’t win. I knew I should have stayed in the damned limo.
It should not even come close to amazing me so far into my life but the cattiness and hatefulness of grown-ass women makes me laugh on the inside. “Give me a fucking break, ladies!” I think to myself. Oh, how I wish I had the audacity to say it out loud. They fuss and bicker at each other about what works and what doesn’t. Who cares? I don’t even want to be here anyway. Let me look like crap. Maybe Tom will let me go.
Finally, there’s a face I recognize from the corner of my eyes. Ali is the most naturally beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on even from peripheral view. She smiles and holds her arms out as she runs towards me in her shimmering, light blue gown.
“So, I guess the colors they’re going with are light blue and white?” I ask her. She’s been more part of this event than I have.
“I don’t know. I just know that I’m wearing this fabulous dress,” she says and then sticks out her rosy tongue. I have to admit, it is pretty silly looking on her. We’re not exactly dressy girls.
I have to admit, though. Ali’s bridesmaid dress is perfect. I just never thought I’d see the day where Ali would even look at a dress. She’s hates them. Thousands of tiny crystal-like sequins glisten in the sunlight coming through the barred window just behind the vanity. Her blonde tresses—held in place by similar looking crystal pins—are curled and tiered, outlining her face and neck. I can honestly say that Ali is the only girl I have ever been envious of. Her stunning features make mine look dull and drab. I’m so ordinary compared to her. My face is easily forgettable. Her gemstone eyes make my dingy, mud-colored eyes look like trash in comparison.
“You don’t look happy,” Ali says to me. Her eyes barely glisten in the lighting coming from above the vanity mirror. Those eyes can make any room dazzle, though.
“You know that I’m not happy with this, Ali,” I say as I look down at my hands folding over themselves anxiously in my lap. She knows that I’m not happy. She knows why I’m not happy, too. This shouldn’t be a surprise for anyone involved, other than Tom and his family. “This isn’t how I planned things would be.”
“Val, I know. It’s frustrating to see you this way. It makes me so sad. I feel like there’s nothing I can do to help. I just want everything to be okay.” Ali closes her eyes and puts her head in her hands. Ali has always been easy to read. She shows her exasperation by clutching her face in her palms.
Even though she’s wearing a dress, she doesn’t bother to cross her legs or her ankles like the rest of the women in the room. It is the little things that I love about her, really. Her knees are spread wide open as her elbows rest on them. She knows there’s no need to be ladylike around me. I let a small grin streak across my bright red mouth.
“I don’t mean to make you sad. You know that I don’t love him, though. My parents…” Ali nods her head in response to my statement without letting me finish my thought. It’s the unfortunate truth. She goes back to fussing over my hair and makeup and we play this game where we try to make each other laugh. We both know it’s not working, but we fake it for each other anyway. I fake it for her.
“Your lips are way to red for your skin tone,” she says, mimicking the voice of one of the older ladies that were in the room.
The rest of the bitter, old women come back in and flush me into the hallway that leads me down the aisle to the minister. Is he a minister? I don’t know what to call him. Is it even a man? It’d have to be right? I’m so new to this stuff it makes me sick.
I stumble a little, tripping over my over-flowing gown. I regain my balance and stare ahead at the massive and ornate mahogany door that is the portal to my future. I hear the organ begin to play a melody that sounds all too frightening and familiar. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. I haven’t eaten in days and I still feel like I could vomit. Oh, how joyful.
I look around to see if there are any doors or open windows I can run to. At the end of the hallway to my left is a window. There’s no promise of it being unlocked, though. To my right, there’s a different door. Again, there’s no promise of it being open, but it’s worth a shot. Something has to give. There’s no way in Hell I could make it back out the front door where I originally came from.
Ali is just a few steps in front of me waiting for the door to open so she can begin the procession. Her foot taps in the silver high heels the ladies picked out for all to wear. The spike of the heel looks like it may be made of diamonds or crystal. My shoes are similar, but why did I get stuck with the highest heels of them all? I think I got hosed on this decision. I’d rather be barefoot.
That’s another thing I never expected her to wear. Ali is known for only wearing her pink and black Converse shoes-- the ones with no laces. Every now and then she wears some black flats or flip flops. Seeing her in heels is just so weird.
The rest of the ancient women are all lined up behind me. My mom is holding the train of my wedding gown. She admires the intricate lace and patterns of crystal beads. I can see her smoothing the fabric beneath her fingers, loving every square inch of the wedding dress she picked out. She probably secretly wants it for herself. That’s completely okay with me, too. She can have it. I hate the dress with the passion of a thousand fiery suns at this very moment.
And, just then, in that moment, I get a great idea.
“Mom, can you spread the lace out on the floor? I want to see it again before I walk down the aisle,” I ask her as casually as I can manage. I don’t want to make a scene just yet. She lowers herself to the floor, softly patting and spreading out the train. I leisurely turn to my right as if I’m going to look down at it. “No sudden movements, Val,” I say to myself under my breath.
“What’s that dear?” my mother asks, looking at me with slanted eyes.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how pretty the pattern is.” Yeah, right. Don’t get me wrong, the pattern is beautiful. It looks like vines and leaves and petals and flowers woven into a web of fabric. But, it’s really not my style. I definitely don’t do silk or lace, let alone the color white.
Under the dress I carefully lower myself out of the too-high heels, instantly making myself about three inches shorter. Grabbing as much of the dress as I can in two fists, I rush and make a break towards the closed door down the hallway. Running as fast as this stupid, fluffy dress will allow, I slam face-first into the door. Thankfully I couldn’t run too fast.
I’m not sure if, or for how long, I was unconscious. The next thing I know I’m shouting various obscenities when I look up to see the ladies gathering around me. There’s a little bit of sparkle around them in my peripheral vision. I can see the stars that everyone always talks about. My forehead throbbed with pain. The damned door was locked. There will be no escaping this day. Just lovely.
It’s just my luck, too.
“I have to use the restroom,” I tell them firmly in order to sway them from believing I was trying to run off. I’m not sure how I’m keeping up this confident, cool act. Everyone that knows me knows that I am not the gutsy one of the group. My childhood goldfish had more guts than I ever have. Don’t even get me started on how clumsy I am.
My mother shot me a glare that meant I was dead if I tried anything funny like that again. She’s on to me. She knows. That woman scares the shit out of me. I think she may kick puppies and eat kittens in her spare time.
I’m telling you, she has some of the most sinister looking, deep brown eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been able to distinguish her pupils from her irises. Mom’s eyes are so dark they look like they’re completely black. Her eyes almost look like they are the same shade of tiny onyx marbles. She’s always terrified me with those looks. I’m honestly not sure what my dad has ever seen in her.
When I returned to my place in line from my faux-bathroom break, the organ was still playing and the doors just began to crack open. After scrutinizing my face and slapping powder on my cheeks and forehead, everyone rushes to their places behind me all over again. It’s time to begin my descent into my own personal hell.
CHAPTER 4
The Worst Day and the Best Day All in One -- Is That Even Possible?
