Page 4 of Bookish Boys Don't Date Social Girls
“Mom, no one dresses up for stufflike this.”
She arches an eyebrow and I know I will never win this argument. If, by some miracle, I was to make it out of the house in this outfit, she would play the guilt card the entire time we were at the dress shop and all through lunch.
I curl my lip at her before I stomp up the arching staircase to my room. Truth be told, I have an adorable new dress that I’m excited to have an excuse to wear, but I’m not going to let Mom know that.
When I come back down, Mom is waiting with her purse over her shoulder and her car keys in hand. I do a dramatic model walk across the entryway, stop, turn, and model walk over to the entry hall table where I always toss my clutch. I strike a dramatic pose and look at Mom over my shoulder. “Better?”
“Perfect. That dress is adorable!”
I follow her into the five-car garage. I hang back because I’m never sure which car Mom will choose. She presses the button on the key fob she’s holding and the old baby-blue, two-seater, convertible Mercedes chirps. I smile. My favorite of her cars. She and Dad are total car junkies. They have a separate storage facility where they keep the rest of their cars and cycle through them every few months.
I pat Sunny’s hood as I stroll past. I imagine him frowning that we’re taking one of Mom’s cars and leaving him in the dingy garage on such a bright, balmy day. Sliding into the passenger seat, I pluck two scarves from the glove box, while Mom puts the top down. We both tie one over our heads to keep our hair in place. I slide my oversized sunglasses on and buckle my seatbelt as Mom pulls into the summer sunshine. My skin immediately warms, and I draw a deep breath of clean, fresh air. I love my Sunny with a passion, but I do wish he was convertible.
The bridal shop is downtown on the upper level of a five-story building. We tuck our scarves intothe glove box when Mom pulls up to the valet station in the parking garage about a block down from the shop. We stroll the sidewalks, admiring the window displays we pass. Every display sparks a new idea Mom wants to suggest to Ines for either the wedding or the reception. My pulse starts to accelerate imagining the months to come and the battle of the wills that is sure to take place between Mom and Ines. They are way too much alike and always end up verbally sparring over who is right.
When we step off the elevator, we find Ines and her best friend Gayle have already arrived. They hold champagne flutes filled with a bubbly golden liquid. White tulle poofs out from behind my sister’s head, marking her as the bride. Mom hugs both girls and I tease Ines over her bridal style. The veil is in direct opposition to her ripped white denim capris and pink, cap-sleeved blouse. I turn to Mom with an arched eyebrow and point to Ines’s outfit.
Mom sniffs snootily. “Because she’s the bride, she doesn’t need to respect the event. But it is good for you too.”
Understanding dawns on my sister’s face and she laughs. “If it’s any consolation, sis, I had a moment of dress envy when you walked off the elevator.”
I shrug with false modesty. Her compliment does make me feel better though.
Our store concierge hands Mom a glass of champagne and then hands me a flute as well. By the darker hue, I can tell it’s sparkling cider. I frown at it.
The elevator slides open behind us and Bridget stumbles into the shop, looking disheveled and harried, as usual. And definitely not respecting the occasion with the appropriate attire.
“There you are, darling.” Mom hugs her last daughter to arrive before my sister has a chance to straighten herself. “How’s my girl of fire?”
Our names were chosen by our parents based on what was goingon in their lives when we came to be. They were in Spain when they conceived Ines. Ew. And Mom had raging heartburn during her entire pregnancy with Bridget. They did a nationwide tour of motivational speakers the year I was conceived. Ew, again. I hate thinking about my parents doing the nasty. So gross. Anyway, Mom and Dad often use the motivation behind our names as little pet phrases for us. Mine usually only comes up when I’m doing the exact opposite, such as, “Now, Sam, you’re supposed to be the one who listens,” or “Pay attention, Samantha. You’re not living up to your name.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Bridget’s voice is muffled against Mom’s shoulder. “I got caught up in a sculpture.”
I don’t know why she bothers to apologize anymore. We all know she’s going to be late and that it will be because of her latest art project. She isn’t a professional artist, yet, but she’s good enough to one day be one. She made a bust of me a couple of years ago. It looks nothing like me, but somehow captures the very essence of me at the same time. It’s my favorite thing in my room.
“It’s fine, dear. We haven’t even started yet.” Mom replies first, though I see Ines snap her mouth shut to stifle whatever her response would have been.
An employee hands Bridget her own flute of suspiciously dark liquid and she and I clink our glasses together. She’s nineteen, a year and a half older than me, so she’s still underage as well. Ines is the oldest of the five of us siblings and at twenty-five, seems like an old maid to me. That might just be her serious personality, though. Her husband-to-be, Lincoln, is super fun. Very outgoing. Pulls everyone into whatever he’s doing. Whether it be a card game or a DIY project, he wants anyone around to be involved. He’s always smiling and laughing and trying to get Ines to relax and be happy too. He’s good for her and I’m glad she found him.
“Let’s start with the bridesmaid dresses,” Mom says to the attendant.
Ines clears her throat. “I’ve already given Kyla the dresses I want the girls to try on as well as the gowns I want to try on after that.”
Bridget and I arch eyebrows at each other. Preventative strike by Ines.
Mom smiles but raises her nose in the air as she follows Kyla back to the dressing rooms.
There are long gowns in varying shades of blush hanging outside two of the dressing rooms and moss-colored gowns outside a third. The green dresses must be for Gayle who is my sister’s maid-of-honor, so I pull open the door to a room with the blush-colored gowns, and Bridget steps to the room next to it.
Kyla hurries over to hand us the first dress to try on. I enjoy dressing up, so I’m excited about the fashion show we are about to give, but I know Bridget hates anything that isn’t leggings and an oversized t-shirt.
“Don’t come out until everyone is ready!” Ines says, as we disappear into our changing rooms. She and Mom sit on chairs at the edge of a stage that the changing rooms are on, sipping their champagne.
When I get the first dress on, I curl a lip at my reflection in the mirror. The dress clings to my hips more than I like. The material pulls across the front of me, making my hips and thighs look larger than they are. The draping neckline is flattering but the color washes out on me, giving the illusion that I’m naked at first glance.
I turn to the door and wait for permission to exit the room. Then I realize no one knows I’m dressed and waiting, so I call out, “Ready?”
When a chorus of “ready” rings out, I swing the dressing room door open and step out.
