by Amy Huntley
going for him. He's friendly, smart, and has these wide,
wide shoulders that fill out his tux perfectly....
I've been tormenting myself with thoughts like this all
day. Mv mom hasn't made getting Gabe off my mind any
easier, either. She's reminded me—like, seven times—about
the crush I had on Gabe back when I was in sixth grade.
Back then, every girl crushed on Gabe. He had this
eyeballs felt like they were on fire. I started wondering il I
had a fever.
Gabe was sitting next to me. "You don't look so great,
Maddy," he told me.
G e e . . . just what every girl wants some hot guy to say to
her. He realized his mistake right away, and he started stuttering",
"I mean—not that way, just, you know .. . like you
don't feel so good. You look great in that dress and all . . .
v'know. I just meant you . . . are you sick?"
The sound of concern in his voice cheered me up a little
but not much. "I don't know," I told him. "Let's hope not."
We were sitting on a dais at the head table—facing all
the other wedding guests. He glanced out at the crowd of
faces. "Yeah, let's hope not," he said. He dove into his food
with an enthusiasm that made me feel even sicker. The
sounds all around me were ringing in my head, too. All chat
cheering, and the frequent clinking of knives on champagne
glasses . . . way too much for me.
"Ummm, I think I'd better get out of here," I said to
Gabe. "Will you tell Her Highness that I think I'm going to
be sick? Otherwise, she's sure to raise hell about my leaving
right now." Her Highness was Brenda Jackson, my sister's
college roommate, maid of honor, and -Manager Extraordinaire.
I'd been bossed around by her so much in the past few
weeks that I was ready to kill her.
Gabe hadn't had as many opportunities to run aloul of
butter-blond hair that curled into perfect ringlets. He was
shorter than I was, but I had dreams of him shooting past
me in heigh:. My mother laughed the first time she saw him
and figured out how I felt about him.
But she's not laughing anymore. In the years since then,
Gabe has obliged me by growing a lot. He's a couple inches
past six fee: now. His hair has darkened some over the
years, but it's still a shade of blond. The curls are gorgeous,
too. I'd kill to have hair that beautiful. And his shoulders
have filled out.
So, last night, at the wedding rehearsal when Mom saw
him for the first time since sixth grade, she was surprised
how much he'd changed. She's been telling me ever since
how lucky E am to get to walk up the aisle with such an
"attractive" (totally her word, not mine) young man. The
job included the responsibility of being his partner during
the second dance of the evening, too. And I admit the idea
had a lot of appeal.
Until ri^ht between the wedding and the reception—
which is when I started to feel not so hot. I didn't want to say
anything about it to my mom. I mean, what could she do?
She was busy being the mother of the bride. And I wouldn't
want to ruin Kristen's wedding, either.
I thought at first that I was just tired. It'd been a long
morning and afternoon. So I just kept trying to muddle
through. By the time dinner arrived at the table, my
'i
her, but last night she'd been so bossy that even he'd commented
on it. That's when I shared with him my nickname
for her.
Gabe's mouth was full, but he nodded his head vigorously
and then started to stand up as if he were planning
to come with me. Right. Gabe in the ladies' restroom. Not
such a good idea. I held my hand up, and he stopped midmove.
Then I turned and fled off the dais and toward the
bathrooms.
Just my luck, there were, like, twenty women in there,
going to the bathroom or refreshing their makeup.
I turned and ran outside, looking for an inconspicuous
spot where I could have some privacy. I could barely stand
up.
And then Gabe was there, holding on to my arm. By that
point, I was glad he'd followed me, because I didn't think I
could stand on my own anymore. I sank onto my knees.
Now he's holding me tightly against him so I don't do
a complete nose dive into the grass. I wobble a bit and my
hair brushes against his chest. Some of it is pulled out of
its updo. The orchids from my hair tumble to the ground
between us.
He has just gotten down on his knees beside me and is
telling me to try breathing deeply. We hear Her Highness's
voice coming at us across the lawn. "What's wrong with
her, Gabe?"
43
I groan. "Does she have to yell loud enough tor the
whole world to hear?" I ask, just as my body begins to shudder.
I want to throw up, but with Gabe here, I want even
more desperately not to humiliate myself in front of him.
Unfortunately, millions of years of evolution, designed
to help humans combat viruses and food poisoning, causes
my stomach to callously disregard the needs of my selfesteem.
My stomach erupts.
The disgusting taste of bile fills my mouth, and Brenda's
voice reaches me from the background: "Hold her up,
Gabriel! Hold her up! She's going to soil her dress."
Even as I lose the contents of my stomach, a part of my
brain is capable of wondering who ever talks about soiling a
dress. Soiling? I mean, come on.
But that thought is quickly replaced by* the realization
that something horrendous—even more horrendous than
barfing in front of a hot guy—is happening; Gabriel is trying
to hold me up enough to keep me from "soiling" my
dress, but he has forgotten a key law of physics:
The force exerted on Object One (my shoulders) + the
force exerted on Object Two (my strapless dress, which is
trapped beneath my knees) = mortification (when my dress
does not follow my shoulders upward, but my breasts do).
• • •
Her Highness has arrived and seems to realize this
44
"She thinks she has the flu," Brenda tells her. "She said
she hasn't felt well all day."
"You should have said something. I would have tigured
out how to get you out of this situation," Mom tells me,
but not like she's angry or frustrated with me. Just like she
wants me to know it would have been okay for me to ask for
help.
She guides me to my feet and then encourages me to
lean against her as we start to move. "I'm taking you home
right now. Brenda, tell Kristen and John where I've gone,
and that I'll be back as soon as possible. They'll just have to
hold up the bridal dance until I manage to get back."
Mom leads me carefully toward the c a r . . . .
•
Now I know.... It's getting too far from a lost object, leaving
it behind, that launches me back to Is. I can't remain
indefinitely in my life. The Universe only lets me stay there
> until I've found the object or moved a certain distance from
it.
But, thankfully, it lets me return as many times as I want
to a moment if I never find the object.
This makes me glad the flowers have been left behind,
I'm able to return and return and return to this moment.
The nausea, the vomiting, the humiliation, all of it's worth
it to reexperience the feel of Gabriel's grip on my arm when
46
situation requires the Maneuvering of an Expert (this is the
first time I have ever been thankful for Brenda's bossiness).
She pushes Gabe away from me (So what if I fall face-forward
into my own barf? Way less embarrassing than leaving
my chest exposed) and starts stuffing me back into my dress
while yelling at Gabe, "Get out of here! Go! Go get her
mother!"
Gabe disappears, my stomach stops ejecting its contents,
and Brenda is ripping up pieces of grass. She uses them to
try to wipe mv face and mouth. I'd prefer to "soil" the hem
of my dress, but Brenda sees what I'm trying to do and manhandles
me into submission. Then she pulls me away from
the barf and gently rests me on my side.
"Madison, have you been drinking?"
The very thought makes my stomach revolt all over
again. I groan. "Nooo . . . I think I've got the flu. I haven't
been feeling so great all day."
She kneels down beside me. "Poor kid," she says, and—
as we wait for my mother—pets my hair like I'm a dog.
Mom runs up to us, her violet mother-of-the-bride dress
(Why do they make those out of such awful material?) fanning
out behind her in the breeze.
"Oh, sweetie, what's wrong?" she asks. She takes over
petting my hair, but she's had lots of practice at it, so it feels
like a mother comforting a daughter. None of that pet-thedog
stuff.
45
I'm falling, and of Mom's hand gently brushing my hair
away from my face when I most need her.
And by the time I've gone through this experience
several times, I discover that as long as I'm not trying to
change anything while I'm there, the living me doesn't feel
that creepy sense of being watched.
Strange, huh?
But here's something even stranger: After about my
fourth time visiting this moment, I actually begin to like
Brenda.
4]
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HwpCTG>lllns.PubHdTera
random acts o( existtence
oqe I)
I'm digging through a little plastic bag looking for a purple
rubber band to attach to my braces. I'm hoping there's one
more. I've already put one on the right side. The colors of
my rubber bands have to match, right? Green, yellow, red.
I'm standing at the end of a row of lockers, and Sandra,
who's supposed to be blocking me from everyone's view,
starts to move away. "Hey, get back here," I say. I don't want
the whole world to see me digging around in my mouth for
the after-lunch-rubber-band-replacement session. What if
Paul walks by?
I find a purple rubber band. I reach for it and start to
48
loop it around the hook on my bottom row of braces.
"Ooohhh . . . Oh, nooo!" The disappointment in Sandra's
voice distracts me. I pull a little too hard on the rubber
band. It snaps and flies out of my mouth.
How humiliating.
Then I see what Sandra's just seen.
Incredible. Awful.
Paul's walking down the hallway with Mary Kramer.
And they're holding hands.
Sandra sees the look on mv face and reaches out to
touch my arm. "I can't believe he'd do that, back to his exgirlfriend
that way."
Sandra might not be able to believe it, but I can. Mar}'
Kramer is about a million times prettier than I am. She
never needs to worry about whether the rubber bands on
her braces match because she has the world's most perfect
teeth and will never need orthodontics.
Sandra's going on. "Besides, you didn't really like him
all that much , did you?"
Past tense. As if I have already slopped liking him.
The irony is that Paul was only my boyfriend for two
weeks. My first boyfriend. And that's more because he
picked me than because I picked him. I didn't even like
him two weeks ago when the rumors started going around
that he liked me. But I wanted a boyfriend, so I gave him
a chance, got to know—and really like—him at Amber's
party a week ago. We even kissed in her basement.
And, wow, I guess that was a huge mistake. It was my
first kiss and I failed at it. Paul laughed at me and said,
"That's not what you do," ri^ht before trying to teach me
the "right" way to kiss—which had something to do with
sharing his gum.
I bet Mary Kramer's a better kisser than I am. That's
probably the number one reason he's back with her.
And now I'm stuck liking him. Probably forever.
Sandra puts her arm around my shoulders. "He's a jerk.
Forget about him. You'll find someone better."
I don't think so. I'm a failure. I'm never going to like a
guy again.
Except—of course—Paul.
Tammy walks by. She sees the look on my face and does
a double take. Almost like she wants to say something to
me. That would be the first time since the slumber party
last month. Maybe she realizes I wasn't trying to make fun
of her when we were playing with the Ouija board. I'm
hopeful for a second.
Then she's gone.
Lately, it seems like I'm losing everyone I care about.
Sandra leads me away from the lockers and toward our
fifth-hour class.
age 6
"Kristen, stop hittintr your sister," Mom says. We are driving
co Florida. I am six, and my parents have promised me a
trip to Disney World for spring break. Kristen is too old to
enjoy the trip. At thirteen, she'd rather be going somewhere
exciting with her friends, but my parents keep reminding
her that she got to go to Disney World when she was little
and now it's my turn.
I grin in satisfaction and say in my head, Yo-it got in trouble,
you got in trouble. I know better than to say it aloud. That
will get me in trouble with Dad, who is already annoyed.
But Kristen can tell I'm making fun of her with my eyes.
She knocks a package of Life Savers out of my hand so hard
that some of them roll along the floor and under the seat. I
start scavenging for them. When I think I have them all, I
stick my tongue out at Kristen. She just glares back.
'Turn on the air-conditioning," Kristen moans for at
least the twentieth time.
It's not all that hot in the car. We're only in southern
Ohio, and it's just the beginning of April. 'Til turn it on
when we get farther south and it's hotter," Dad says.
Kristen makes a nasty snorting sound. Dad likes to have
the windows of the car open, but the wind whipping through
them is mes
sing up Kristen's hair. I just don't see the big
deal. Now getting to see Aurora and Belle and Ariel—that
will be a big deal. I can't think about anything else. I have
all my princess books stacked in my lap.
I flip one open and start reading it. "Want to read with
me?" I offer Kristen. I can think of no greater peace offering.
She glares at me.
"Please. They're good books."
She rolls her eyes at me and pulls out a pillow, then hides
her face underneath it.
Mom sees the hurt look on my face. "Don't worry about
it, Maddy," she tells me. "Just enjoy your books."
"Will you read along with me?" I ask. I want company.
Mom smiles at me. "Next rest stop I'll change places
with Kristen. She can sit up here, and I'll sit back there with
you so we can read the stories together."
"Thank God," Kristen emerges from under the pillow
long enough to say. Then she hides back underneath it. The
next few minutes are peaceful until Dad stops at the rest
area. When we all get out of the car . . .
age II
I'm in Sandra's bedroom. I'm trying to get dressed and pack
my clothes, but I'm missinq a pair of socks.
It's Sandra's eleventh birthday, and we were planning to
have a sleepover. Were is the most important word here.
Sandra's mother hasn't been feeling well lately, so every
time in the past few months we've asked if I could stay
over, we've been told no. Sandra's mother suffers from bad
migraines. Noise makes them worse. So it makes sense to
me that I shouldn't spend the night at her house.
But why Sandra hasn't been able to stay the night at my
house .. - that I just don't get. Every time we bring the subject
up with her mother, she starts saying things like, "If you
really feel you must go, darlin', I understand." Her mother
was raised in the South, and she has this honeyed way of
speaking the word darlin that drives me crazy; maybe that's
because Sandra melts whenever her mother says it. And to
make things worse, her mother adds something like, "I*m
feeling so sick, darlin', that I can understand why you'd
rather be at a friend's house than here keeping me company.
But I'll miss you so much while you're gone. Who will bring
me my cup of tea when I don't even think I can make it out
of bed?"
That just sort of kills any desire Sandra has to stay at
my house.
Sandra and I have been fighting about this stuff a Lot
lately. I keep saying she should stay at my house even though
