The Bridesmaid

by Hailey Abbott

  Abby’s face was red and blotchy and she was sweating profusely. She could not believe this was happening. For the first two hours everything had been fine. But then Morgan Rice, the owner of the shop, said she had to leave in half an hour. And Carol had freaked out because she wasn’t going to get to try on all the ones she liked. “Sometimes girls get their bridesmaids to try on dresses too. That way you still get to see what they look like on, but you save time,” Morgan had suggested helpfully. So now here Abby was. Putting on actual wedding dresses.

  It was too horrible to be real.

  This was only the third dress she had tried on, but the process was giving her more of a workout than any soccer game she’d ever been in. Not only did these things weigh more than she did, but they were impossible to struggle into. Plus it was like every wedding gown on the planet was made with some kind of insulating material that kept her body temperature at an even 110 degrees.

  “I look like a cupcake,” Abby said. She wiped her brow and stepped in front of the three-way mirror.

  Somehow Abby had ended up with all the dresses her mother had picked out. The hoops and the five layers of skirts and the itchy, itchy lace. This was the biggest one yet with a skirt that extended about three feet out in every direction. It weighed a good four hundred pounds and had a train that went on for days. At least her athletic frame could handle it. Abby was sure Carol would buckle under the weight.

  “Carol! Come look at this!” her mother called as she and Morgan pinned the dress tightly around her waist. Lace crackled and a pin jabbed Abby in the side.

  “Ow!”

  Becky stepped out of her dressing room in a tasteful spaghetti-strap dress with a simple skirt and not a poof in sight.

  “Oh, Abby! Look at you!” she said. Her hand was over her heart like it was just overflowing.

  Abby fanned her face with her hands and blew up at her hairline, trying to move the piece of hair that was plastered to her forehead.

  “Carol!”

  “I’ll be right there!” Carol replied.

  “Please come out before I melt,” Abby pleaded.

  Finally the door opened. Carol stuck her head out, took one look at Abby and cracked up laughing. “And the Cheesiest Bride Award goes to . . .”

  “Thank you! Get me out of this thing!” Abby said, flapping her arms.

  “Carol, this dress is beautiful,” her mother said. “Don’t you think you should at least try it on yourself before you dismiss it out of hand?”

  “Mom, that dress is awful,” Carol said. “She looks like a parade float. No offense, Morgan.”

  “None taken. Everyone has different tastes,” Morgan said diplomatically.

  “That is exactly the dress I would have worn if I had had a real wedding,” Abby’s mother said wistfully.

  “Yeah, Mom. But that’s you. And I’m not you,” Carol said.

  Abby’s mother stiffened, obviously hurt. At the moment, however, Abby couldn’t think of anything other than the pin that was digging itself deeper and deeper into her side, and the fact that the heat was starting to make her dizzy.

  “Morgan, do you think you could—”

  “What about this, Mom?” Carol asked, stepping into full view for the first time.

  Becky took one look at her and gasped loudly. “Oh! That is gorgeous!” she said. Of course, her opinion didn’t hold much cred. She’d said the same thing about every single dress in the store.

  Abby pulled the lace collar away from her own neck and fanned at her skin as she studied her sister. Carol’s hair was gathered up in a messy bun and her cheeks were all flushed, but it was her grin that told the tale. Abby knew Carol well enough to realize that her sister thought she’d found the dress.

  Miraculously, it seemed that the girl had managed to find the one wearable gown in the place. The top was plain with a kind of scoop neck and the skirt was straight. A lace triangle covered only half the skirt at an asymmetrical angle. Definitely modern and semi-cool— for a bridal gown. She could see why her sister liked it.

  “Isn’t that the same one you just had on?” her mother asked.

  Carol slumped slightly, clearly perturbed. “No! The one I just had on was all lace.”

  “Well, I like it,” Abby said.

  “Yeah?” Carol turned to see the back in the mirror.

  “Yeah. Now can someone . . . help me . . . out of this thing?” Abby asked as she grasped in vain for the back clasp. No one even looked at her. The train started to gather up in a twist around her feet as she turned and turned.

  “Mom?” Carol said, holding her arms out. “I really think this is it.”

  Her mother tilted her head to one side. Abby was sweating so much from the exertion that she was starting to smell.

  “Really, anyone. Just a little help here,” she said, stretching her arms behind her. She felt the clasp beneath her fingers, but it slipped right through them thanks to all the perspiration.

  “I just don’t understand why you want to wear something with no shape,” her mother said. She walked behind Carol and turned her to face the mirror, then stood behind her. “Don’t you want to look like a bride?”

  “Mom, we’re in a bridal store. All the dresses in here are wedding dresses,” Carol said. “I look like a bride.”

  “That design is all the rage, Phoebe,” Morgan said, coming to Carol’s rescue. “There are a lot more modern dresses out there these days.”

  “Becky, maybe?” Abby said desperately as she continued to spin, trying to find the back clasp in the mirror. “All I need is—”

  “I know, I know,” Abby’s mom said. “Believe me, I’ve seen them. But Carol, just look at Abby! Now she looks like a bri—”

  Everyone turned to look at Abby as directed and at that moment the train tightened around her feet, binding them together mummy style. As Abby made one last grab for the clasp, her knees knocked into each other, her ankles strained, and before she knew it, she was going down.

  “Help!” she called out, arms flailing.

  “Omigod!”

  Slam! Abby turned her face just in time before her nose broke her fall.

  “Ooooow.” Abby lifted her chin and moved her bruised jaw around. She looked up, paralyzed by taffeta from the waist down as Becky, Carol, her mother and Morgan all gazed at her in a circle. “Um . . . do you think someone could help me now?”

  • 7 •

  The Icing on the Cake

  Abby walked into her room that night, exhausted. “They should have an exercise class called cardio-dress-trying-on,” she mumbled to herself. “It’d be bigger than Pilates.”

  At least Carol had made a decision about her dress, placing an order for her first choice. Once everyone had been assured that Abby was okay after her big fall, they had all had a good laugh and Abby’s mom had realized she didn’t want to be a contender for the Most Horrendous MOB list. She had agreed that Carol’s choice was perfect for her and they had all gone to the Watertown Diner for celebratory milk shakes.

  Abby smiled as she sat down at her computer. It had turned out to be a fun night in the end. Even if her cheek still hurt. Now she just had to IM Delila and let her know that she had, in fact, lived to tell the tale.

  Abby turned on the computer. As the desktop whirred to life, the speakers suddenly blared the classic wedding march, loud enough to wake Wagner himself. Scared out of her skin, Abby grabbed the right speaker and turned down the volume.

  “She’s got to be kidding me,” Abby said. Carol had replaced the pleasant, welcoming bing-bonging sound her computer usually made with that? Was the girl on drugs?

  Abby shifted in her chair and something sharp stabbed her in the butt. She reached back and pulled out a stack of fabric swatches, all shimmering plaids in an array of colors. The card at the top read “Jim Hjelm Bridesmaids” and the staple that held it all together was bent thanks to the interference of Abby’s posterior. Abby grimaced as she flipped through the fabrics. Shimmering plaid? She thought she w
as going to pick out her own dress.

  Okay, the girl is still your sister, Abby thought. If you freak out, you will only live to regret it. She tossed the swatches on her bed and turned back to her computer. Her mouth dropped open in horror.

  Her desktop—previously a black screen with a picture of the U.S. Women’s World Cup soccer team in the center—was now a light blue background with little white hearts all over it. Wedding bells blinked all around the edges of the screen and there, right smack in the middle, were two cartoon kids with huge wide eyes, dressed up in wedding garb, smiling out at her. Clenching her jaw, Abby grabbed the mouse and clicked on the preferences tab to change the whole thing back, but nowhere in her files could she find the World Cup photo. It was gone. Erased. Replaced by cherubic wedding gnomes.

  “Carol!” she shouted. She whirled around just as the culprit herself walked right into the room with a cardboard box in her hands. No knock. No nothing.

  “Hey! I was just coming to talk to you about gifts—”

  “What did you do to my computer?”

  “Oh, I know. Isn’t it totally adorable?” Carol said with a grin. She placed the box down on Abby’s bed.

  Totally adorable? Since when does Carol use the word adorable ?

  “Are you kidding me? Carol, has it escaped your mind that this is my computer? My room?”

  Carol’s face changed from repentant to irritated. “I think you’re overreacting a little, Ab.”

  “Look, I said I would help you with the wedding stuff, but this is getting ridiculous.”

  “Come on—”

  “No! Look at my room! And today? Trying on wedding dresses?”

  “Okay, okay! I’m sorry,” Carol said. “I promise I won’t ask you to do anything else above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Abby eyed her sister, unconvinced. She had a feeling that brides had a different definition of “call of duty” than most rational people.

  “Now, I was wondering if you would mind keeping track of the engagement gifts as they come in,” Carol said cautiously. “It just means keeping a list of each present and who it’s from so I can write thank-you cards later. Is that cool?”

  “Yeah. I guess I can do that,” Abby said.

  “Great,” Carol said. “That would be a huge help.”

  Abby smiled. List keeping was simple and straightforward and sounded much more like a traditional maid of honor duty than the bridal gown torture of that afternoon. Maybe Carol hadn’t completely gone over the edge.

  “Good. So . . . what’s in there?” she asked, looking warily at the box on her bed.

  “Oh! I narrowed it down to one of these ten bottles of bubbles,” Carol said, picking up the box and holding it out to Abby. “Could you test all of them and let me know which ones bubble the best? That’d be great.”

  Abby looked down at the box of little plastic bottles. “Which ones—”

  “Make the best bubbles, you know,” Carol said, lifting one shoulder. “It all varies based on the bubble formula and the size of the wand. I mean, what’s the point of ordering bubbles if they’re just going to pop the second you blow on them, right? I need to order them tomorrow, so let me know. Thanks, Ab!”

  Carol twirled out of the room with a grin, closing the door behind her. Abby stared after her for a moment, totally baffled. Just when she thought her sister was on the rational train, she took a detour right into Cuckooville.

  Abby stalked over to her closet and chucked the whole box in on top of her sneakers and shoes, then slammed the door and slapped her hands together with satisfaction.

  Abby: 1

  Bubbles: 0

  “The invitation is a first impression for your wedding,” Abby’s father said sagely. “It tells your guests what kind of party to expect the moment they open the envelope. It’s one of the most important elements.”

  Carol, Abby and Tucker sat on a hard bench on one side of a huge table, looking up at him with big, blank stares. The stationery store’s main table was covered with hulking binders, each one packed with invitation examples ranging from the elegant to the kitschy to the just plain corny.

  “You have an important decision to make here today, you two,” he said, his brow furrows deepening as he looked from Carol to Tucker. “Make no mistake about it.”

  “He couldn’t be barbecue-obsessed like other dads,” Abby said under her breath when her father turned away to request a specific sample book. “No. Our dad has to have adamant views on card stock and vellum finishes.”

  Carol snorted a laugh and she and Abby shared a smile.

  “Yeah, our dads are definitely different breeds,” Tucker put in. “Clint Robb would probably break out in hives if he even walked into this place.”

  Carol slipped her arm through Tucker’s and gave him a squeeze. Abby swallowed hard. Whenever Abby was around Tucker her stomach started hurting and she started obsessing about the conversation she had overheard. What was she supposed to do? Abby’s uncertainty only irritated her and that irritation, coupled with her ire toward Tucker, conspired to make her entirely miserable, angry, guilty and anxious whenever he was in the room. But she couldn’t look upset or Carol would get upset. And Abby didn’t want to make Carol any crazier than she already was until she was sure there was something Carol needed to be crazy about. It was all so complicated it made Abby’s upcoming U.S. Government final look like a cake-walk.

  “Take a look at these,” Abby’s father said, placing a large red book in front of them. “This is my favorite designer. Her stuff is really original.”

  Carol opened the book as their dad hovered over her with an expectant smile. The first invitation was square with a pink-and-white-striped border and a white card in the center that held all the wedding information. The flap of the envelope was striped as well and the RSVP card was circular and looked like a peppermint candy.

  “These are wedding invitations?” Tucker asked. “They’re so cool.”

  Carol flipped the page. The next invite was a sunflower theme, just as over-the-top with the invite cut out along the edges in the shape of petals. As Carol continued to flip, Abby’s heart continued to sink. There were starfish, sailboats, flip-flops, hearts, top hats, and champagne glasses. The invitations were adorable—if you liked that kind of thing.

  Tucker did. “Oh, sweet! A cowboy boot!” he said excitedly.

  “I knew you’d like them,” Abby’s father said, beaming.

  “Can we get the cowboy boot? How cool is that?” Tucker asked, looking at Carol with a childlike hope in his eyes. Suddenly Abby was able to picture exactly how Tucker looked at age five. Abby couldn’t believe he was suggesting to Carol that they use cowboy boot invitations for their wedding. Didn’t he know her sister at all?

  Maybe Melissa would be down with cutesy invites, Abby thought. But not Carol.

  “Tucker, I let you have those Save the Date cards . . . ,” Carol began.

  “I thought you liked those,” Tucker said.

  “I did. They were cute. But this is the actual invitation,” Carol said patiently. “We’re not having a kid’s birthday party. We’re having a wedding.”

  “You want something more sophisticated. I get it,” Tucker said, nodding. “Okay.”

  “Wait a minute,” Abby’s dad said. “A wedding invitation doesn’t have to be—”

  “Actually, Dad, I kind of already found one I like,” Carol interrupted, handing the big red book over to Abby. Carol pulled another book over to her—a standard gray one—and flipped to a page toward the back. “See?” she said, tilting the book up.

  Her father put on his glasses and bent over the page. The invitation was ivory-colored and square with a single satin ribbon tied in a small and tasteful bow at the top. The wording was printed in a simple, classic font in the center and all the other pieces were just as plain and elegant.

  Abby was not surprised. Carol had picked an invitation that was very her.

  “I like it,” Tucker said.

  �
��It’s kind of boring, isn’t it?” her father asked, standing up straight.

  “No,” Carol said, looking down at the book. “I think it’s pretty.”

  The front door opened and Abby’s mother walked in, all flustered. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I just spent two hours at the synagogue trying to get Rabbi Schaer to co-officiate the Wentworth–Schwartz wedding and that man can really talk.” She paused for breath. “Did you pick something already?” She sounded disappointed.

  Carol turned the book toward her mother with a hopeful smile and Abby crossed her fingers. But her mom glanced down at Carol’s selection and made a dubious face. “Square, Carol? Really?”

  Carol sighed. “What’s wrong with square?”

  “I was thinking something more traditional,” her mother said. “You know, a four-by-six card.” She reached out, grabbed a book and opened it right to a page with seriously boring, white, oblong cards.

  “Oh, Phoebe, come on,” Abby’s father scoffed.

  Here we go, Abby thought.

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “I suppose you want her to get something shaped like a martini glass or a high heel.”

  “If that’s what she wants,” her father said.

  Carol attempted to interject. “Actually I—”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake. That’s not what Carol wants!” her mother said, her voice rising. “Do you want our daughter’s wedding to look like a carnival?”

  “Do you want our daughter’s wedding to look like a funeral?” her father shot back. “Actually, it may as well be a funeral with your boring relatives showing up.”

  Abby’s mother slapped the book of invites closed. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about my family using the chandeliers as swings!”

  Abby’s father turned purple. “That happened one time,” he said, lifting a finger. “And you were the one who ordered the good scotch.”

  “Like it really mattered to those lushes?”

  “Um . . . you guys?” Abby said, glancing around at the dozen or so people who were staring at them, slack-jawed.

  “Not now, Abby,” they said in unison.