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    The Everafter

    Page 4
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    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

     


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