by Beth Labonte
Hold on a minute, is he threatening me?
I look over at him, trying to determine if he’s joking. He’s looking at me with the Blenderman twinkle in his eye, but there’s something else in there too. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a threat. It was more of a plea. A plea for me to return to the land of the sane before I cause any serious damage.
I know he’s right. I really do. I flipped out when I should have behaved more like the mature adult that I am, and I regret that. But come on. I’m the one receiving threats and pleas, while Francine gets to go around wreaking havoc without a single repercussion? Old people can get away with anything, I swear. Without another word, I pick my purse up off the floor and whip out my phone.
“I may have flipped out,” I say. “And I’m sorry about that. But you know what? I got proof. Look.”
I shove the phone triumphantly into his hand. He studies the photo of Francine’s garden for a few seconds, and then puts my phone down on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Did you even look? There was a missing brick! I may have acted like a lunatic, but it was justified.”
Graham sighs. “Look, Sum. Francine did call me tonight. And she told me that you and Tanya showed up at her house, and that you invited her to your bachelorette party—which was very nice, by the way—and then she told me what else you said.”
“And?”
“And I apologized for your behavior. These women are my mother’s friends. You can’t just go around pointing fingers.”
“But I—”
“But,” Graham cuts me off, “I also told her that I didn’t believe my fiancée would act that way unless she had good reason.”
I whack him in the chest. “So you do believe me!”
“I would have believed you, if the police hadn’t stopped by the house right before Francine called.”
If I thought all of the color had drained out of my face a minute ago, I was wrong. I feel the last few ounces of blood drain all the way down to my flip-flops.
“The police?”
Did Francine seriously call the police on me? I mean, all I did was yell at her a little. I didn’t even touch her. At least I don’t remember touching her. Does it even matter? It’s not like she has security cameras around the house. Still, I start frantically replaying the whole scene in my mind.
“They were following up on that report we filed,” says Graham.
Oh, right. I start breathing somewhat normally again.
“They’ve found a witness,” he continues. “A neighbor across the street was taking out her trash when she heard the glass break. It was dark, but she saw a golf cart in front of the house and she caught the vanity plate. Guess what it said?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m really not in the mood for guessing games.
“Zumba God.”
My jaw drops. “Flavio?”
Graham nods.
“Flavio is in love with me?”
“Close. Flavio is in love with me.”
I just stare at him, speechless, for a few seconds. Then I burst out laughing. “How does he even know you?” I ask. “Have you been going to secret Zumba classes without me?”
“No!” says Graham. “I only went that one time, with you and my mom. It was love at first sight, I guess. Remember when he flung his sweaty towel and you freaked? Well, he told the police that he was aiming for me.”
My eyes widen. “So now he’s stalking us?” An image of Graham and I being gunned down by a Zumba instructor in a neon spandex bodysuit flashes through my mind. What a depressing way to go.
Graham shrugs. “He’s been arrested and charged with criminal mischief, which should nip things in the bud. We’re leaving soon, anyway. If he turns up in Boston, then we’ll talk restraining orders.”
“Criminal charges?” I say, shaking my head. “Restraining orders? I can’t take you anywhere.”
Graham smiles. “So, do you think that maybe you owe Francine an apology?”
Ugh. He’s right. I acted like a total monster. Not that I’m convinced she’s innocent of everything, but I suppose I should be the bigger person.
“I’ll track her down tomorrow,” I say, “I’ll tell her I was—” I’m interrupted by my phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Summer? This is Nadine.”
“Hi, Nadine.” I give Graham a confused look. “What’s up?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was going over the binder for the other wedding that I’m planning, and I realized that—silly me—the person who called the other day, you know the one who wanted to change her colors to bubblegum?”
“You mean the same one who wanted to replace her band with a bassoon trio?”
“Yes, that’s the one! Well, it turns out that it wasn’t you after all. It was the other girl.”
“The other girl?”
“Yes. Silly me! It’s quite the juggling act planning two weddings at once! I do apologize.”
Two weddings at once? Right. Odd that she should call tonight, full of excuses about some mysterious other girl, right after my run-in with Francine. It’s almost as if she was warned that I was onto her. I can tell you one thing, that apology to Francine is off the table.
“Summer? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I sigh. “It’s fine, Nadine. Thanks for the call.” I hang up and lean back against the couch.
“She called to apologize,” I say to Graham. “She says that she changed all that stuff because she had me confused with some other girl.” I air quote the words.
“That was nice of her,” says Graham, smiling at me. “So, everything’s good now?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Everything’s good.”
Okay, maybe it’s not a total lie. I mean, Francine knows that I’m onto her and seems to be nervously attempting to cover her tracks. Maybe everything really is good now. Maybe from this point on the wedding will go off without a hitch.
Graham puts his arm around my shoulders and I let myself sink into him. “You know what I think we could use?” he says. “A break from Sunset Havens. A reality check. Every so often you need to drive through those gates and see that the rest of the world is still out there. You need to see children. You remember children, don’t you?”
“Vaguely,” I say. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that we should all take a little day trip tomorrow to have some fun and clear our heads.”
“That is a good idea,” I say. “And my parents would probably like to see more of Florida than just golf courses. Maybe we could take them to the beach?”
“The beach is nice,” says Graham. “But there are beaches everywhere. No, I’m thinking about the one place that is unique to Florida.”
My eyes widen and I suck in my breath. He can’t mean—
“I’m just so excited,” he whispers.
And he is. That’s the thing that I both love and hate about Graham—that he really, truly is.
22
The Hartwells are going to Disney World!
The Blendermans are going too, of course, but they’ve already been about a billion times so I didn’t think it warranted an exclamation point. Graham is manic over Disney. It’s not like he wears Donald Duck sweatshirts or anything, but he loves the whole magical theme park vibe. So do his parents. The three of them could have their own show on the Travel Channel where they go on all the rides wearing Go-Pro cameras and give each other high-fives. They actually spent a few minutes discussing the idea before we got on the highway.
Eric and I never got to go to Disney when we were kids. I have a feeling that Dad would have liked to, but Mom always seemed to have some personal vendetta against it. When asked why we couldn’t go, she always said that Disney World was full of “man-made crap.” Fair enough, if we were seasoned travelers who spent their summers at the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone. But, typically, we spent our vacations in New Hampshire, at the same motel Dad used to go to when he was a kid. For fun, w
e would hike out to this big rock in the woods. Boise Rock, it was called. A man hid under it during a snowstorm about three hundred years ago, after killing his horse and wrapping himself in its hide—kind of like Luke Skywalker with the Tauntaun, but in reality, nothing at all like that. Anyway, the point is that while my friends were going down Splash Mountain, I was having my picture taken in front of a rock.
Mom always liked to tell me that when I grew up and had kids of my own, I could take them on vacation wherever I wanted—a cheering thought for a six year old who can’t envision life beyond the next five minutes. To be honest, we probably just couldn’t afford to go to Disney World. My mother, feeling badly about that, probably converted her emotions into bitterness and rage against the happiest place on Earth. It makes perfect sense, if you know my mother.
Shortly after we started dating, Graham found out about this transgression of my youth and had tickets to Orlando booked the next day. Eric still hadn’t been either, so we brought him and Tanya along too. It was the most amazing week of man-made crap that I’ve ever experienced. After the trip, Graham vowed that we would someday return with the entire family in tow.
I also made a vow, which was for that day to never, ever come.
But my luck has run out—made evident by the eight of us crammed into Eric’s Escalade, headed straight for Orlando like a guided missile. John and Babette are seated in the back row wearing fluorescent yellow t-shirts that say Blenderman Family Magical Reunion 2012 (don’t ask) across the front. John’s also wearing a baseball hat with Goofy ears flopping out the sides. I point this out for descriptive purposes only, and not to poke fun, since Graham and I are wearing a matching set of bride and groom mouse ears. Mine are white with a little tiara on top and a short veil in the back. His are black with a tiny little top hat between the ears. Tanya’s wearing Little Mermaid themed mouse ears complete with dinglehopper, and I won’t even tell you what Eric’s wearing because it’s just that lame. Okay, fine. It’s a full-on Captain Jack Sparrow hat with braids. I’ve been staring at the back of it the entire time we’ve been driving, and it hasn’t gotten any less weird.
Ironically, the only normal looking people in the car right now are Mom and Dad.
Dad is completely giddy over this trip. Ever since Graham pounded on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door at five o’clock this morning, announcing that we were hitting the road in exactly one hour, he’s been totally onboard. He’s already agreed to go on Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, and have his picture taken with Cinderella. So far, Mom’s mentioned heatstroke, sunburn, and diarrhea. The only ride she’s picked out of the brochure is—insert eye roll—the Hall of Presidents. Graham has this delusion that by the end of the day he’ll have converted my mother into a Disney fanatic. I think he’d have better luck getting her to attend Comic Con dressed as Darth Maul.
Time will tell.
Eric parks the car, and we all walk to the bus stop where a tram will pick us up to drive us to the transportation center. Once we’re at the transportation center, we can take either the monorail or the ferry to the main gate of the Magic Kingdom. I haven’t conveyed any of this information to Mom and Dad yet. They know that a tram is coming, but that’s it. I have a feeling that the words “transportation center” might throw them into a tailspin. So, one thing at a time.
There are kids everywhere. We’re at Disney World during school vacation, so I knew what we were in for. But still, it’s shocking to the system to actually witness it for myself. I try not to laugh as a child, standing directly behind Mom, lets out an ear-piercing shriek. She doesn’t even have time to give the child a dirty look before another one plows into her calf with a baby stroller. She steadies herself on Dad’s arm. Poor Dad. He’s carrying the backpack equivalent of The Duffle. It’s filled with bottles of sunscreen and water and basically the same supplies needed to colonize Jupiter.
Once we’re on the tram, Graham puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. I smile up at him. We look like absolute fools, but I couldn’t be happier. After last night, I’ve come to realize that no matter what anybody says or does, they’re not going to stop me and Graham from getting married this weekend. They can change my colors and cancel my band. They can even burn down the venue if they want to—we’ll just get married out on the town common. After a good night’s sleep, everything just seemed so much simpler this morning. There are logical explanations for all the bad things that have happened, so there’s no reason for me to keep obsessing over these old women. I’m going to stop assuming the worst about everybody, and I’m going to try my hardest to be a better person. And I’m doing all of that starting right—
Hang on a second.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“What?”
“I’m not putting on a sweater!”
“But your arms are bare!”
“Because it’s ninety degrees outside!” I push the cardigan roughly back into my mother’s lap.
Starting right now.
***
Well, here we are. The Hartwells, together as a family unit, on Main Street USA. I never thought I’d see the day.
Mom and Dad are staring slack-jawed up at Cinderella’s castle like it was dropped out of the sky by extraterrestrials. I think that despite all of her complaining about Disney and its “man-made crap,” Mom’s actually impressed by the place. I had no question that Dad would be. I mean, as soon as we walked through the gates he was blown away by a group of guys dressed as maintenance workers who spontaneously broke into song and dance. He kept saying, “I thought they were janitors! I thought they were taking out the trash!” about a hundred times. It was adorable.
“Let’s get a photo!” says Babette, dragging all of us into the middle of the road where a Disney photographer is waiting with a camera. We all cram into an awkward clump with Cinderella’s castle in the background.
“Where are you guys from?” asks the photographer.
“Boston,” answers Graham.
“They’re from Boston,” clarifies John. “My wife and I live down here now, at Sunset Havens.”
The photographer moves the camera away from his face. “Sunset Havens, huh? I hear that’s the second happiest place on Earth!”
“Damn right it is,” says John, with pride. “Twelve championship golf courses, thirty-two executive courses—”
Here we go.
“—and as a resident you receive free lifetime membership at all of the country clubs.”
“I hear you guys have a huge problem with sexually transmitted diseases. That true?”
My jaw drops and several families turn to look at us. Are employees allowed to ask that kind of thing at the Magic Kingdom? I glance over at John. He looks irate.
“That is absolutely not—”
“Stellar,” interrupts the photographer, no longer listening. “Okay, everybody say mouse ears!”
“Mouse ears!”
We take one more picture in which all of us are forced to give a thumbs-up sign, before dispersing back to the sidewalk. I have a feeling John made a slightly different gesture at the camera.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “That photographer should be fired. I’m filing a complaint as soon as we get home. Ridiculous. One study by the Department of Health and Human Services and the whole place gets a bad reputation.”
“What’s he talking about?” asks Mom. “Sexually transmitted what?”
“Diseases, Mom,” says Eric. “You know—the clap, the herp, cra—”
“Eric!” I shoot him a look, willing him to shut up. But it’s too late.
“Oy! Richard! They have sexually transmitted diseases where we’re staying!”
“Where?” asks Dad. “Here? There are sexually transmitted diseases here?” He says the words in the world’s loudest voice, and starts looking wildly up and down Main Street. A woman standing about twenty feet away quickly leads her daughter in the opposite direction.
“Sshhh!!” I say. “Will you keep yo
ur voices down? He was talking about Sunset Havens. But it’s not even true. Is it, John?”
“Absolutely not,” says John. “People just make those thing up because...because they’re jealous. That’s all.”
“The Department of Health and Human Services makes up statistics because they’re jealous?” asks Mom.
“Well, no,” says John. “Not exactly. I just meant that—”
“I really wish you had disclosed this information to us before we came down here, Summer,” says Mom, giving me an accusatory look.
“Why would this even matter to you? Aren’t you and Dad in a monogamous relationship? Or is there something I should know?” I cough the name Roger into my hand.
“Of course we are,” says Mom. “But what if we catch something from a toilet seat?”
“You’ve never sat on a public toilet seat in your life, Mom.”
I really can’t believe we’re having this conversation right now. In the Magic Kingdom.
Mom, unable to come up with a rebuttal to my point about the public toilet seats, digs a large bottle of hand sanitizer out of the backpack. Her and Dad start applying it liberally, slathering it on all the way up to their elbows. There will be, without a doubt, some seriously offensive Lysoling of the Blenderman’s toilet seats when we get back to The Havens tonight.
“So,” says Graham, unfolding and shaking out a park map. “Where to first?”
23
We’re slowly working our way counterclockwise around the park. There’s zero chance that we’ll make it all the way to Adventureland before one of us murders the other and/or collapses from heat exhaustion, but we’re making a noble effort. Even Mom.
We’ve temporarily split up the group so that Graham, John, and Eric can take Dad on Space Mountain, while Tanya, Babette, and I take Mom on some of the tamer rides. Basically, we bought her coffee and a muffin at Starbucks, force-fed her a few motion sickness pills, and then dragged her on Dumbo. And you know what? She loved it. She said she felt like she was flying! Seriously, has Mom never gone on an amusement ride before?
