Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy

by Allison, Jennifer

  Wendy fell silent, realizing that this was more serious than the usual Joyce household drama. “That’s not good,” she said. “I mean, going to Florida for the wedding sounds kind of cool, but you moving away—that’s not good.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Anyway, part of the reason I called is that I just came up with a brilliant solution.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your parents could adopt me.”

  “That’s definitely one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had.”

  “Why? My mom could give your parents some money for the extra expenses.”

  “They’d never go for it. For one thing, they’re already disappointed with the ‘disobedient’ kids they have. And they’d probably lock you in your bedroom until you got straight A’s or at least straight B-pluses.”

  “Maybe I could focus on helpful stuff like babysitting your little brother and assisting your mom at the nail salon. See, between the two of us, they’d finally have the perfect daughter.”

  Wendy let out a derisive laugh that was more of a snort. “So how does Stephen feel about all of this?”

  “He feels dumb.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He doesn’t even know it’s happening. When I tried to explain the whole situation to him, he didn’t even believe me at first. Then he told me that he doesn’t even care if it’s true.”

  “Huh. By the way, I was thinking of asking Stephen to the Sadie Hawkins Dance,” said Wendy, changing the subject. “Do you think he’d go with me?”

  “No, I don’t.” Gilda felt annoyed at Wendy’s nonchalant topic switch.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Stephen told me before that he only likes you ‘as a friend.’ I mean, he thinks you’re smart and nice and everything, but I doubt he’ll go on a date with you.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like a big serious date. We could just hang out and have fun at the dance.”

  “Have you ever seen Stephen dance?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. By definition: not a fun date. And by the way, I really appreciate how you’re helping me solve the problem I called you about.”

  Wendy sighed. “But there’s nothing I can do about it!”

  “I already told you my idea.”

  “Hey—instead of you moving in with me, how about me moving down to Florida with you and your mom? I would love to live on the beach. Omigod, think of the cute guys.”

  “Okay.” Gilda felt a wave of sadness, knowing that this would never happen. Her life seemed to be heading in a direction completely separate from Wendy’s much sooner than either of them had ever expected. “When the time comes for us to move, I’ll just tell Mom, ‘We’re adopting Wendy Choy as part of the deal.’”

  “Good plan,” said Wendy.

  Both girls felt a sense of foreboding as they hung up the phone.

  9

  The Journey

  Dear Dad:

  So it’s happening. I’ve argued and pleaded with Mom, and I even made one last attempt to convince Wendy’s parents to adopt me, but it didn’t work. There’s nothing I can do about it. We’re going down to St. Augustine for Mom’s wedding.

  On the other hand, I just discovered a silver lining hidden in the storm cloud of my life: I get out of school for a few days.

  “My mom’s getting married,” I explained to Mrs. Rabido (my history teacher), who looked very surprised and curious at first. Then she simply looked annoyed when she learned I’d be down in Florida just in time to miss the next unit test.

  “You’ll need to make up the work you miss,” she said. (How do teachers come up with these oh-so-original responses all the time?)

  “I’ll make it up and then some,” I said.

  Why, oh why did I have to say, “and then some”? Mrs. Rabido proceeded to give me an additional “special project.” I now have to keep a travel diary and report on the history of St. Augustine. “That city has so much history,” she said. “I’m sure the whole class could learn something from your trip. Maybe you can even interview some of the locals.”

  You’d think that becoming the stepdaughter of one of the St. Augustine locals would be punishment enough. Now I have an extra school project!

  I have just one thing to say (and I say it with intense sarcasm) :

  THANKS A LOT, MOM!!

  Packing List for the Reluctant Southern Belle:

  • Fancy hat with wide brim and plume

  • Historic “Southern belle” Halloween costume: nineteenth-century-style skirt with petticoats, corseted bodice, and wig with ringlets

  • Makeup (because a true Southern belle wouldn’t be caught dead without lipstick)

  • Map of St. Augustine, Florida

  • Mosquito netting for bed

  • “Gator-B-Gone” perfume (ha-ha)

  • Dainty Confederate flag handkerchief (just kidding)

  • Investigation tools (flashlight, Master Psychic’s Handbook)

  • Guidebooks: Florida Ghost Stories and Haunted Houses of the South

  • Southern belle handbooks, including: The Tender Magnolia: A Primer for Young Ladies of the Sunshine State; The Devil Is in the Details: A Handbook for the Wannabe Southern Belle; Becoming a Southern Belle: A Guide for the Northerner; and Southern Weddings

  • Ugly bridesmaid dress and dyed-to-match shoes for participation in wedding ceremony and/or use as “freaky bridesmaid” Halloween costume (with fake fangs, cobwebs, and Bride-of-Frankenstein wig)

  • Tiara (why not?)

  • My typewriter (because my baby comes with me when I travel)

  Dear Dad:

  I’m not sure why, but I feel better after packing my suitcase for the trip down to Florida. It’s like seeing all my clothes and costumes reminds me that I can decide to look at this whole experience as an adventure. Maybe it will even be material for a new novel. No matter what happens, I’m still Gilda Joyce: Psychic Investigator (pen name: Gilda Angelista-Flashbottom). No matter where I end up, I still have my typewriter, my notebooks, and my disguises, and I still have you to talk to, Dad. Wish me luck in the Sunshine State!

  Love,

  Gilda

  10

  Wedding Planner and Spy

  To: WENDY CHOY

  From: GILDA JOYCE

  RE: COUNTDOWN TO HALLOWEEN NUPTIALS IN ST. AUGUSTINE

  Hey Wendy!

  I promised you hourly updates during the countdown to my mom’s Halloween wedding, and I plan to deliver on my promise. (Well, at least daily updates.)

  So right now I’m sitting next to Mom on the airplane. I was wearing my plumed Southern belle hat, but the lady next to me asked me to take it off because she’s allergic to feathers. I know you’re wondering where Stephen is, what he’s wearing, and what he’s thinking, so I’ll tell you right away that he isn’t even with us. Why, you ask? He had to finish a special group presentation for his advanced-placement English class, so he convinced Mom to let him fly down on Halloween—just a day before the wedding. (Like I told you before, “What Stephen wants, Stephen gets.”) And no, I don’t think Stephen might need your help to make his morning coffee and butter his toast while his mom is out of town, so stop asking.

  I thought Mom and I should use the time on the plane to educate ourselves about life in the South, so I brought a few books along, such as Becoming a Southern Belle: A Guide for the Northerner and Southern Weddings. Mom definitely needs help in both of these departments because she doesn’t look or act like a Southern bride-to-be. If you can believe it, she doesn’t even know what she’s going to wear at her own wedding! SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HOW SHE’S GOING TO STYLE HER HAIR!!

  If we’re going all the way down to Florida for Mom’s spur-of-the-moment wedding, I’d at least like to avoid becoming the laughingstock of the St. Augustine community. Clearly, Mom needs my help with this wedding!

  ME: Wearing white will be out of the question, of course.

  MOM: Gilda, lots of people getti
ng married for the second time wear a white wedding dress if they want to.

  ME: But it’s kind of pushing things in the case of a shotgun wedding like this one.

  MOM: This is not a “shotgun” wedding. You really are something, Gilda. Anyway, the wedding ceremony is going to be very small and simple—just a few friends and family. Nothing fancy.

  MOM HAS A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT BEING A SOUTHERN BELLE.

  I helped Mom by creating a helpful list of all the tasks we’d need to complete in just a few days.

  WEDDING TO-DO LIST FOR THE SOUTHERN BRIDE: 1. Purchase fun and elegant Maid of Honor dress for Gilda

  2. Invite additional bridesmaids (suggestion #1: Wendy Choy)

  3. Find tasteful bridal gown for the bride (demure, matronly style; avoid “fashion don’ts!”)

  4. Tie for Stephen (match Gilda’s dress)

  5. Prepare lengthy guest list and print invitations

  6. Advertise wedding in the local paper and church bulletin

  7. Order limousines or horses & carriages for wedding transportation

  8. Order sky-high wedding cake with pink roses

  9. Order special cake for the children of the bride

  10. Order special cake for the groom (optional)

  11. Plan buffet-style meal

  12. Hire wedding band

  13. Take dancing lessons—a must!

  14. Plan and host special luncheon or tea party for bridesmaids

  15. Prepare mint juleps and giant bowl of wedding punch for reception

  16. Bake special homemade desserts for reception guests (Grandma McDoogle’s peach pie is one option)

  17. Write thank-you notes before reception ends

  I showed Mom some pictures of Southern weddings from my books. I explained how “big hair is best!” and how the bridesmaids’ shoes should be dyed to match their dresses and the color of the punch bowl. I showed her down-home recipes for flaky biscuits, fried chicken, and Jell-O with floating marshmallows (something I plan to make as soon as possible).

  She only laughed.

  ME: Mom, you have to realize that the South is full of these old, cherished traditions. We’re coming in as outsiders from the Motor City up north, so people are going to be suspicious of us and our alien ways. We might have a tough time fitting in down there. (To be honest, Wendy, now that I’ve read these books, I’m worried. What in the world will my life be like if we actually move there for good?)

  MOM: I think those books are exaggerating, Gilda. St. Augustine has a deep local history, but it’s also a college town where people come from all over. They’ve actually seen people from Michigan before.

  Nevertheless, Mom said she might take me up on my offer to be the official wedding planner, as long as I cut a few items from the to-do list.

  WHY would I want to be the wedding planner, you ask? Because I figure this will give me a lot of opportunities to snoop around and dig up some local gossip about Mr. Pook! Besides, you know how I love the theater, and let’s face it—a wedding is like a big show followed by a cast party. Of course, the bride and groom have to stay together for the rest of their lives after everyone else goes home to recover from the big day. (That’s the serious part.)

  On impulse, I asked my mom a very personal question.

  ME: Can I ask you a personal question, Mom?

  MOM: That depends.

  ME: Do you love Mr. Pook?

  Wendy, remember how we watched that soap opera during the last week of summer vacation and the characters were always asking each other, “Do you love him?” or “Do you love her?” and we kept laughing because it always sounded so cheesy? Well, I now know that it feels even cheesier to say it aloud, especially when the name “Mr. Pook” is in the same sentence. In fact, I think any actor who can deliver that line without bursting into laughter should be handed an Oscar.

  Still, there’s just ONE answer to that question that makes sense for someone who’s planning to get married in a matter of days, and MY MOM DIDN’T SAY IT. (The answer is “yes,” just in case you’re clueless.)

  Mom pressed her hands against her cheeks. She was actually blushing like a schoolgirl.

  “He’s a very interesting man,” my mom said. “And he believes we’re meant for each other.”

  Okay, Wendy, you better not be thinking that sounded “so romantic,” or this is going to be my last letter.

  STATION BREAK: Time to pause for an airplane snack of cheese sandwiches wrapped in cellophane.

  To: WENDY CHOY

  From: GILDA JOYCE

  I’m now writing to you in secret—from the backseat of Eugene Pook’s car!! The car is very tidy, but it smells like old wood in here.

  INTRODUCING: EUGENE POOK!

  Just one word: mustache. I’m not talking about a regular old mustache; I’m talking about a very unique, showstopping mustache with old-world personality. A mustache that looks as if it has been pampered and spoiled. A mustache that has been shampooed, fluffed, and possibly even blown dry and styled with a curling iron or tiny rollers before it was thoroughly waxed into position. As you can tell, I was so amazed when I first saw the mustache, I almost forgot to take in the other details, which could be summed up as follows: older, plump, walruslike. Definitely NOT the kind of guy you want to see in a bikini on the beach. In short, he’s no looker, although he had made some attempt with the old-fashioned mustache wax and a shiny new tie that sloped over his belly.

  One question: Did Eugene grow his mustache before or after his first engagement ended? Clearly, that mustache could have been a deal-breaker for his fiancée: “Eugene, either your mustache goes or I go!” Maybe Eugene thought about it for a very long time and decided to keep the mustache. After all, he had finally figured out how to style it. Maybe Mom is the first woman who has really liked the mustache. Or does she think she’ll convince him to shave it off after they’re married?

  NOTE TO SELF: Ask Mom what she thinks of Eugene’s mustache.

  FIRST MEETING:

  Eugene beamed at my mom when he spotted us waiting for him at the airport baggage claim. I mean, he really looked entranced, which made me wonder whether he and Mom see each other through what my dad used to call “beer goggles.” Granted, Mom looks cute for her age, and she even had some makeup on for once. But still.

  For the first time I could understand how Mom must feel: It must be nice to have someone stare at you as if they’re gazing at a gorgeous painting. Especially for someone like Mom, who’s always thought of herself as a “Plain Jane” (which is mostly her own fault due to her learning disabilities in the area of fashion).

  “Hey, beautiful!” Mr. Pook kissed my mom on the cheek, then grabbed her hand and held it up to examine the engagement ring (which she had finally decided to wear). “It’s a beauty! I love seeing that ring on you,” he said.

  Interesting observation: Mr. Pook did NOT try to butter me up or attempt to win me over as I suspected he might. He didn’t try to act like my new stepdad. If anything, I got the feeling that he secretly wishes Mom didn’t have kids at all.

  He gave me a swift once-over. “Nice hat,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

  “My favorite vintage clothing shop in Detroit.”

  “Looks like a good find.”

  “Gilda, you and Eugene have something in common,” said Mom, who was clearly eager for us to hit it off. “He has quite a collection of vintage clothing along with all those antiques in his shop.”

  I CAN’T BELIEVE MOM DIDN’T TELL ME ABOUT EUGENE’S VINTAGE CLOTHES! I did my best to act nonchalant, but I was pretty intrigued. As you know, I love old clothes from the 1920s and 1940s and dressing up in general, and it sounded like old Eugene actually had some fun stuff in that shop of his. As we loaded our suitcases into the car, Eugene told me all about his Charlotte’s Attic antiques shop and how he spends a lot of his time appraising the value of old pieces of furniture, art, china, toys, and even old tools—kind of like the guy on that Antiques Road Show we sometimes end up w
atching when there’s nothing else on television.

  Mr. Pook is also quite the history buff, and as he gave us a driving tour of the city, he also provided a little history lesson that was way more interesting than Mrs. Rabido’s worksheets.

  Okay, I admit it. Despite the mustache, Mr. Pook may have a couple good points.

  More info to come: I’d better start my “special homework” assignment for lovely Mrs. Rabido now.

  To: MRS. RABIDO, HISTORY TEACHER EXTRAORDINAIRE From: GILDA JOYCE, FAITHFUL STUDENT ORDINAIRE RE: TRAVELOGUE ASSIGNMENT ENTRY #1:

  THE ROAD TO ST. AUGUSTINE

  On the road to the historic city of St. Augustine, my chauffeur drives past miles of green forest, his waxed mustache flapping gently in the wind. Here and there, I spot a few businesses through the car window—a lonely antiques shop, an auto repair shop, a funeral parlor. I must admit feeling VERY disturbed by a billboard that announces: IF YOU MOVE DOWN HERE, YOU’LL HAVE MORE FUN THAN YOUR KIDS!

  Why, you ask, do I feel disturbed by this sign? Well, Mrs. Rabido, as I tried to inform you, the reason for my little trip is that my mom is getting remarried, which means that we might actually move down here. The idea that someone feels that it’s a good idea to encourage parents to have more fun than their kids in Florida does not bode well for my life or for that of kids in general here. (And incidentally, Mrs. Rabido, I sincerely hope that you aren’t pointing out this last paragraph to a group of cackling colleagues in the teachers’ lounge.)