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Authors: Christina Meredith
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will drive me.”
“What about his two-a-days?” my dad asks, needing to be sure that all bases are covered before he signs off on this plan.
“They’re done by then,” Freddie says.
I know that Freddie knows the summer practice schedule because Evan played football even though he was only the kicker, but I think she is really just trying to make up for her car comment.
“Okay then,” my dad says, rubbing his hands together briskly and giving a little clap. He seems pleased. “Okay?” he asks, looking at each one of us expectantly.
“Okay.” Yorke agrees with a nod.
Freddie nods, too, but we know it all hangs on my mother.
She agrees reluctantly, pointing her fork at me, punctuating each word. “Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Sharp,” she says.
I nod. It seems that this meal, like everything else in my life, starts and ends with her approval.
Yorke is looking for something princessy with an empire waist. “Not too ornate, but definitely with beading,” she says, lifting the silk skirt of a sample dress limply between her fingers. “And white. Definitely white,” she adds. The bridal shop ladies scatter in every direction, hell-bent on being the one to find the perfect dress for the perfect bride, and make the commission, too.
My mother and I are sitting on a cream-colored chintz love seat kind of thing with a bony, curved spine made of wood that presses into your back right where you want to lean in and get comfortable.
The entire bridal shop is white, ivory, and cream. The walls are covered in a white-on-white flowered fabric, or maybe it’s velvet wallpaper, if there is such a thing.
There are no sharp edges or harsh angles, everything is curved or soft or poufed. An ornate coffee table, loaded with lilies and every other kind of white flower imaginable, sits between us and the dresses that Freddie and Yorke are flicking through indiscriminately.
“Explain to me please, Leah,” my mother says, smoothing her hand lightly across my back and lowering her voice, “why you are wearing a bathing suit under your dress?”
She fingers the lump between my shoulder blades where I twisted the straps of my red suit together with an elastic band to make it shorter, less boy cut, and more user-friendly.
“I don’t like to change at the pool,” I say, sliding out from under her grasp and developing a sudden interest in wedding dresses. “All those girls stare.”
“Get used to it,” Freddie says, her head poking out of a slinky, long, super-low-cut satin dress.
“Why aren’t you used to it?’ Yorke asks.
She is standing on a raised dais that is covered in thick creamy shag and sits in front of three gilded full-length mirrors. She rotates slowly, checking her reflection in each mirror before she looks at me.
“You do have a lot to stare at,” she says.
Freddie laughs from somewhere behind yards of tulle, and Yorke turns back to the mirrors. I look at her double A chest reflecting back at me. Even in triplicate it still doesn’t amount to much.
“I’m not trying on dresses today anyway,” I say. “You are.”
“But if we find a bridesmaid dress that I like, you’ll need to try it on,” Yorke says, her eyes searching the mirrors for my mother. They nod together.
“Freddie can do it,” I say, inspecting the lace on a hideously ugly dress with a hoop skirt and some kind of boning inside. “You can just pretend it’s me, but, you know, without any boobs.” I grin.
Freddie drops the dress she is holding and stalks past me.
“Besides,” I say to Yorke, watching the assistants marching down the hall toward us, their arms laden with white gowns zippered away in clear plastic bags, “it is going to take you a hundred years to find your dress.”
Freddie turns to me. “She doesn’t have a hundred years,” she says.
“Girls, girls.” My mother shushes us in a low voice. She clears her throat and sits up straight on the little love seat, tucking her feet primly underneath her.
“What about his two-a-days?” my dad asks, needing to be sure that all bases are covered before he signs off on this plan.
“They’re done by then,” Freddie says.
I know that Freddie knows the summer practice schedule because Evan played football even though he was only the kicker, but I think she is really just trying to make up for her car comment.
“Okay then,” my dad says, rubbing his hands together briskly and giving a little clap. He seems pleased. “Okay?” he asks, looking at each one of us expectantly.
“Okay.” Yorke agrees with a nod.
Freddie nods, too, but we know it all hangs on my mother.
She agrees reluctantly, pointing her fork at me, punctuating each word. “Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Sharp,” she says.
I nod. It seems that this meal, like everything else in my life, starts and ends with her approval.
Yorke is looking for something princessy with an empire waist. “Not too ornate, but definitely with beading,” she says, lifting the silk skirt of a sample dress limply between her fingers. “And white. Definitely white,” she adds. The bridal shop ladies scatter in every direction, hell-bent on being the one to find the perfect dress for the perfect bride, and make the commission, too.
My mother and I are sitting on a cream-colored chintz love seat kind of thing with a bony, curved spine made of wood that presses into your back right where you want to lean in and get comfortable.
The entire bridal shop is white, ivory, and cream. The walls are covered in a white-on-white flowered fabric, or maybe it’s velvet wallpaper, if there is such a thing.
There are no sharp edges or harsh angles, everything is curved or soft or poufed. An ornate coffee table, loaded with lilies and every other kind of white flower imaginable, sits between us and the dresses that Freddie and Yorke are flicking through indiscriminately.
“Explain to me please, Leah,” my mother says, smoothing her hand lightly across my back and lowering her voice, “why you are wearing a bathing suit under your dress?”
She fingers the lump between my shoulder blades where I twisted the straps of my red suit together with an elastic band to make it shorter, less boy cut, and more user-friendly.
“I don’t like to change at the pool,” I say, sliding out from under her grasp and developing a sudden interest in wedding dresses. “All those girls stare.”
“Get used to it,” Freddie says, her head poking out of a slinky, long, super-low-cut satin dress.
“Why aren’t you used to it?’ Yorke asks.
She is standing on a raised dais that is covered in thick creamy shag and sits in front of three gilded full-length mirrors. She rotates slowly, checking her reflection in each mirror before she looks at me.
“You do have a lot to stare at,” she says.
Freddie laughs from somewhere behind yards of tulle, and Yorke turns back to the mirrors. I look at her double A chest reflecting back at me. Even in triplicate it still doesn’t amount to much.
“I’m not trying on dresses today anyway,” I say. “You are.”
“But if we find a bridesmaid dress that I like, you’ll need to try it on,” Yorke says, her eyes searching the mirrors for my mother. They nod together.
“Freddie can do it,” I say, inspecting the lace on a hideously ugly dress with a hoop skirt and some kind of boning inside. “You can just pretend it’s me, but, you know, without any boobs.” I grin.
Freddie drops the dress she is holding and stalks past me.
“Besides,” I say to Yorke, watching the assistants marching down the hall toward us, their arms laden with white gowns zippered away in clear plastic bags, “it is going to take you a hundred years to find your dress.”
Freddie turns to me. “She doesn’t have a hundred years,” she says.
“Girls, girls.” My mother shushes us in a low voice. She clears her throat and sits up straight on the little love seat, tucking her feet primly underneath her.
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