The Everafter Page 4

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