Save the Date (11 page)

When I open my eyes the next morning, there is someone hovering over me. At first I hope it’s Leo, and then I think it’s a nurse, and then my eyes focus and I realize that it’s Paris. Who…is not exactly the number one person I’m hoping to see right now.

“You’re awake!” she says brightly. “Good. I thought since you’re not doing anything else, you could help me with something.”

“Nice to see you, too, Paris,” I say.

“Everything’s fine, thanks for asking.”

She empties a giant bag of stationery and stickers onto the covers. “Invitations!” she says gaily. “Won’t this be fun?”

So, yes, I spend the next two days, after they let me go home, sitting in my bed folding Paris’s handmade invitations, affixing stickers to them, dropping pressed flowers into the envelopes, sealing them, and stamping them. Luckily my hands are too wrapped in bandages for me to write out all the addresses for her as well.

“What on earth is this?” Leo asks, coming into my room to find me covered in flat flowers and bits of bright yellow tissue paper.

“You’ll never guess,” I say, accidentally scattering half the flowers to the floor, which has nothing to do with the nervous way my heart jumps when I see him, of course. “Oops.”

“Here.” He gathers everything off the floor and sits down on the bed beside me, rearranging the piles. I scan my room surreptitiously, but Sofia seems to have done a good job of hiding everything embarrassing, since we both figured Leo would be showing up soon.

“Leo—”

“Uh-oh,” he says. “That’s a serious voice.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry. You’re so great, and I like you so much, and I know you think I’m being really stupid, but I can’t do this. I can’t date you right now.”

“Jack, you’re just being superstitious,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say.
Or maybe I don’t want my heart broken like Sofia’s just was.
“But it amounts to the same thing. I’m serious about this.”

Leo sighs heavily. He sits next to me for a moment, turning one of the invitations over in his hands and staring down at it as if his mind is somewhere far away. Finally he looks at me again and says, “Can I still help you with the invitations?”

“Really?” I say. “Even though I just rejected you?”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing one hand to his heart. “I’d rather think of it as a postponement than a rejection.”

“If you want to, of course you can help,” I say. “But you’ll have to sit over there.” I point to the chair. Having the side of his body pressed
against mine is already making me have all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about things that really shouldn’t happen in places where my dad can walk in at any moment.

Leo gathers some of the invitation materials and sits down in the chair. The task goes a lot faster with him there, and soon we have a neat stack of stuffed, sealed envelopes. It’s baffling how nice he is to me, considering how much I don’t deserve it. And when we’re finished, he bows gallantly and leaves without even stroking my hair or trying to kiss me. Which is good…right? That’s what I want him to do.

I lean back on the pillows and sigh. I really hope life gets less complicated after high school.

Mom and Dad throw a celebratory dinner for me when I get the bandages taken off my hands, which is sweet but really unnecessary, since it’s my own idiocy that got them put on in the first place.

“Wow—all my favorite foods,” I say, sitting
down at the table. “If you’re not careful, I’ll start throwing myself on open flames more often.”

Victoria is off on her honeymoon with Kevin, flitting around England and Scotland. Mom has talked to her a few times, and it sounds like the honeymoon is going much better than the wedding did, but Vicky’s still pretty upset about it.

“Carolina was so distraught,” Mom says.

“She waived her fee for Vicky’s wedding and gave us a discount for Paris’s, even though I told her it clearly wasn’t her fault.”

“It’s not like anyone could have predicted that,” Sofia says. She’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell she’s still really shaken up about Ben.

“Vicky did say she never trusted that clarinet player,” I point out.

“True, but it was the violist who was shady,” Sofia says. “The clarinet player just has anger management issues.”

“The good news,” Paris says brightly from
her seat, “is that now we can all focus on
my
wedding.”

“That
is
good news,” I agree, but she is the only one at the table who doesn’t catch the sarcasm.

“Of course, the important place to start is with your outfits,” Paris says. A warning bell goes off in my head. It’s definitely a bad sign that she’s calling them “outfits” instead of dresses.

“Maybe we should have one night of not talking about weddings,” Sofia suggests. “Since we’re celebrating Jack’s recovery and everything.”

“What
ever
,” Paris says. “Jack doesn’t mind. Right, Jack?”

“Um…okay,” I say, sticking to my “path of least resistance” strategy.

“Great,” Paris says contentedly. “So, my vision for this wedding is SUNFLOWERS. Got that? Everything yellow! And sunny! And bright! In fact, I’ve made up my mind,” she says to me with earnest enthusiasm, as if I’ve
been worrying about this for
weeks
. “I’m going to dye my hair bright yellow for the wedding, just like the sunflowers.”

Dad visibly winces.

“So…yellow dresses?” Sofia says hopefully.

“Even better,” Paris says. “I mean, we’re on a beach, right? So I’m thinking—overalls! With sunflower flip-flops and sunflower hair clips and bright yellow leotards underneath. Oh my goodness, it’s going to be SO ADORABLE.”

Now it’s my turn to wince. Bright yellow leotards?

“Paris, are you sure?” Mom asks. “That’s a little…unusual, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!” Paris trills. “It all came to me, like in a VISION, like with my glassblowing. I know exactly how the whole thing should look. It’ll be
perfect
.”

Not if I bring a date, it won’t. I’m half-tempted to do it, just as vengeance for making us wear leotards and overalls. If anyone deserves to fall into a cake and be set on fire, it’s probably Paris. But nobody really deserves that. And I’m not a
vengeful person. I’m a bridesmaid. I smile at Paris as sweetly as I can.

“Whatever you want, Paris,” I say. “It’s your wedding.”

“Yes, it is,” she says with satisfaction.

True to her word, Sofia plans the whole bachelorette party for Paris. I offer to help, but I’m very glad she turns me down, because finding a weekend when all ten of Paris’s MOST IMPORTANT FRIENDS can be there is hard enough, and that’s just the beginning.

“Do you think she wants to go out drinking?” Sofia worries. We’re walking Dublin through the woods behind our house, trying to catch a moment away from Paris to talk about the plans, which Paris has decided
must
be a surprise. “Because you and I aren’t getting into any bars that she would approve of.”

“I think as long as there’s a stripper, she’ll
be happy,” I say.

Sofia pales. “A
stripper
?” she cries. “Are you serious? Do I have to hire a stripper?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure that won’t come up when they’re debating your Supreme Court nomination.”

Sofia smacks my arm. “I’m thinking no on strippers,” she says. “Agreed?”

“You don’t have to convince
me
.”

“Maybe we can go to that pottery-making place in town,” Sofia says. “We can all make cute pots and then go out for dinner.”

“Sure, that’s artsy,” I say. “Paris would like that. You know, as long as there’s a stripper for dessert.”

“Stop with the stripper talk!” Sofia squeals, covering her ears.

“I’m just kidding,” I say. “I think it sounds like fun.”

But we haven’t counted on Paris’s crazy artist friends. Someone named Yolanda (screen name Monet666, whatever
that
means) insists that “our Paris” needs more than that for her
“one and only bachelorette party” and then she and someone called Ivy (screen name PlathHead, which is almost more worrisome) assure us that they’ll “take care of the rest of the night.”

“All right,” Sofia e-mails her back. “But Jack and I are under 21, and no strippers, please.”

They don’t write back to this, so there’s not much we can do but cross our fingers and hope.

Paris does seem to think the pottery-making is “
adorable
,” although she looks around a few times like she’s expecting naked men to come swarming in. In broad daylight. In the middle of Main Street in our tiny, quiet town.

Afterwards we go to a cute Italian place in the next town for dinner. Yolanda suggested this instead of the Thai place my family likes. It turns out she picked it because they have a drinks menu with funny, scandalously named drinks just for bachelorettes, plus a wholly-inappropriate-for-innocent-minds-like-mine scavenger hunt you can play in the dimly lit bar at the back if you want to pay an extra fee for it.

A grim-looking bouncer stamps my hand and Sofia’s hand so everyone knows we’re underage, but he doesn’t have to worry. Neither of us has any interest in drinking, especially with this crowd, and we both know we’ll be driving them all home.

Yolanda, who turns out to be a curvy, tattooed girl with heavy eyeliner and big teeth, lets out a loud shriek of laughter when she sees the drinks list. Ivy—a tiny purple-haired sprite—is equally excited by the scavenger hunt. They all immediately order a round of the “Naked Fireman,” a bright red drink with apparently gallons of rum in it, and it’s at this stage that it becomes pretty clear to me and Sofia what the rest of the night is going to be like.

Indeed, it only takes Paris about two drinks to triple her decibel level and start throwing herself at random guys in the bar, demanding their boxers and phone numbers and other things that I’m pretty sure are not on the scavenger hunt list. Yolanda, Ivy, and the others think this is absolutely hysterical. Sofia and I try to focus
on our gnocchi and pretend like we’re not actually with them.

“I can’t believe I’m getting MARRIED!” Paris shouts.

“BOOOO!” shout some of the more delightful bar guys.

“It’s okay!” she yells back. “You can hook up with one of my sisters instead! See? They’re both single!” She points helpfully at the two of us.

“Um, yeah, but I’m not legal!” I offer loudly—the loudest I will get tonight.

“You are so throwing me to the wolves,” Sofia says, giving me a dirty look as one of the guys switches his leer from me to her.

“Don’t you think they ought to know?” I say innocently. “I’m just performing a public service.”

Eventually we make it out of the bar without being manhandled by barbarians, and we pile the screaming drunk girls into the two minivans we’ve borrowed for the night. Yolanda gives us muddled directions, and I nervously follow
Sofia’s van as we make our way through dark streets to an apartment building, where, it turns out, Yolanda lives.

Her apartment is mysteriously covered in shredded newspaper and sound equipment. Yolanda stumbles around clearing space for us all to pile onto the two couches. I take one look at the stains on the upholstery and drag out a bar stool to perch on instead.

“Yolanda is an ARTIST,” Paris announces.

“Just like ME!”

“I work with paper collage and music,” Yolanda says, nodding deeply.

“That is SO SEXY,” Paris declares woozily.

“You know what else is sexy?” Yolanda says.

“STRIPPERS!” She flings open the door and reveals two burly men in flimsy-looking policeman costumes. They sashay through the door and do a spin, pulling their shirts aside to give us a peek at their smooth chests.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Paris screeches.

I bolt for the stairs. I’m sorry, I know this is
typical bachelorette party stuff, and I know I’m fully seventeen and shouldn’t have a problem with naked men and should probably think this is hilarious and fun, but no, seriously, I really, really don’t want strange guys shaking their booties anywhere near me, especially when those strange guys have mustaches and remind me of my uncle Stan, who is a real cop with an outfit that doesn’t tear off (at least, I hope not, although thanks very much for that brain-scarring image, YOLANDA).

I make it all the way to the street before Sofia catches up with me.

“Ack!” she yelps, wriggling in disgust. “It’s like she didn’t even
read
my e-mail!”

“To be fair, she’s probably right that this is what Paris would want,” I point out. “But I would rather wear a bright yellow leotard every day for the rest of my life than go back up there right now.”

“I know, I know,” Sofia frets, chewing on a fingernail. “But we can’t leave. We’re the designated drivers. I shudder to think how they’d get
home otherwise. I mean, they might throw themselves at guys on the street for a ride, and that’s the best case scenario.”

“Can we just sit out in the cars until they’re done?” I offer hopefully.

“It could be
hours
,” Sofia points out.

“I don’t mind,” I say stoutly, climbing into the driver’s seat of my minivan. “You can go back upstairs if you want. I’ll just nap right here.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Sofia says, but she looks torn.

“We both know someone sober should probably be keeping an eye on Paris up there,” I say, shutting the door and rolling down the window to talk to her. “You go ahead. Don’t worry about me.”

“Could we call someone?” she suggests. “To come sit with you?”

Of course, the same person occurs to us both simultaneously. “No,” I say, pointing sternly at her. “I told him we can’t date. I can’t then call him and ask him to come sit in a parked car on
a dark street with me for, like, five hours. That’s weird and confusing and it sends a mixed message and…bad, Sofia, bad!”

“Not if we explain what’s happening,” Sofia says. She already has her cell phone out. “We’ll tell Carolina to pay him for it, and add it to Paris’s fee. It’s the least Paris can do.”

“So now we’re paying him to come hang out with me?” I rest my head on my elbows in the window frame as she dials. “That’s really pretty pathetic.”

“But it makes it a professional interaction,” Sofia points out, lifting the phone to her ear. “So I’m sure he’ll behave himself. Hello? Carolina? We have a tiny problem, and we were wondering if you could help, since you’re so lovely.”

She paces beside the car as she explains the situation, and finally she hangs up with a smile. “All taken care of,” she says. “He’ll be here in five minutes.”

Don’t be excited. Stop being excited. Heart, shut the heck up.

“All right,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“You can go back upstairs.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Have fun with the strippers. And try not to think of Uncle Stan.”

“Oh, thanks very much!” Sofia cries, pressing her fists into her eyes. “Jack! Gross!” She reluctantly heads back to the apartment. I’m still giggling a few minutes later when Leo’s hybrid car pulls up in front of mine and parks. He swings out of the driver’s seat and saunters to my window.

“Hey there,” he says in a saucy voice. “How much for an hour?”

“At least two thousand bucks,” I joke.

He whistles. “Okay, what if I just want you to paint my nails and let me wear your heels?”

“Oh, in that case it’s three thousand,” I say, thinking with amusement that I’m glad I have proof that he’s not gay.

“Those must be some heels,” he says. “What about just talking?”

“That’s free,” I say, patting the passenger seat beside me. He walks around and climbs in.

“So you’re having a crazy night, huh?” he says. There are a few hideously white streetlights lighting up the road, so we’re not totally in the dark, but it’s still hard not to think about the kiss at the wedding. Leo stays politely in his corner, though, not even reaching over to smooth back my hair like he sometimes does.

“Yeah,” I say. “I wasn’t invited to this part of Alex’s and Sydney’s bachelorette parties, what with being only fourteen and fifteen and all. I’m pretty sure neither of them had strippers, either.”

“Well, if any of your sisters were going to, I’d guess Paris…” he says.

“I know. I’m sure she’s having a great time. But I’m pretty glad I’m down here.”
With you,
I almost add.

“Me too,” he says. “I mean, we wouldn’t want your purity sullied or anything. That might drop your price under two thousand.”

“Shut up,” I say, punching his shoulder. “It’s gross, and you know it.”

“They’re just working guys trying to make a
living,” he says with a grin.

“Have you ever been to a strip club?” I ask.

“Nope. One of the grooms this summer invited me along to his bachelor party, but I said no.”

“Wow. You’re so civilized,” I say, tipping my seat back. “David would have gone in a heartbeat. I think he managed to get into a strip club when he was fourteen.” The moon roof on the minivan is open so we can see the stars—at least, the few that are bright enough to battle the streetlights. Leo leans back in his seat, too, and we both look up at the sky.

“Jack,” he says after a minute, “is your Wedding Curse thing really about seagulls crashing your sister’s wedding?”

“And hotels burning down,” I point out.

“And mumps and lightning. And flower allergies.”

“But is that really it?” he says. “Or was it the guys you took to those weddings? I mean—no offense, but they don’t sound like the best two first boyfriends.”

I haven’t even told him that much about
Patrick and David. I mean, Patrick was one thing…he was just a gawky teenage boy with acne who got overwhelmed by the whole wedding thing and my big insane family. But I thought David was real. I told him I loved him. I thought he loved me. At Sydney’s wedding, when he got really drunk and tried to convince me to sneak off and lose my virginity to him in a broom closet, I nearly did it. I thought it would be the only way to keep him…but luckily that thought stopped me from doing it. That, and him vomiting in the museum fountain. Which, incidentally, didn’t stop him from going back in and trying to hook up with my cousin Wendy, who was twenty-two at the time.

As I’ve mentioned before, David broke up with me the next day—at the post-wedding brunch, no less. Maybe he wouldn’t have done that if I’d slept with him, but I still think it was probably the best decision I ever made. Besides, can you imagine? Sleeping with my date at a wedding? The Wedding Curse would probably have made the museum collapse into a sinkhole.
The whole state might have ended up underwater.

“Jack?” Leo says, and I realize I haven’t said anything in a long time.

“Yeah, Patrick and David were pretty lame,” I say.

“Maybe if you took a decent date to a wedding, the Wedding Curse would be lifted,” Leo suggests.

“You mean like you?” I say, turning my head to smile at him. “Perhaps I should remind you that I
did
take you to Vicky’s wedding, and look how that turned out.”

“But that was under duress,” he says mischievously. “Maybe the Wedding Curse wants you to make the wise choice yourself.”

“Oh, you’re the
wise
choice,” I say. “I think the Wedding Curse might need to be a little clearer about what it wants, then. Like by not setting me on fire. That’d be a great start.”

“My mom told me about a bride who set her stripper on fire at a bachelorette party like this,” Leo says, nodding at Yolanda’s apartment building.
We can see her window from here, and although the shades are closed, there are alarming silhouettes gyrating around behind them.

“She set her stripper on fire?” I echo. “Are you kidding? And it wasn’t Paris? That sounds exactly like her. Maybe I should go back up there.”

“I’m sure Sofia has hidden the matches and lighters,” Leo says.

“And
I’m
sure Paris has some sort of flame-shooting glassblowing implement hidden in her purse,” I say. “But somehow I can’t bring myself to rush up there and rescue a couple of naked mustachioed men. Maybe I’m not a superhero after all.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Leo says comfortingly. “And if anything does happen, we’ll see the flames from here. And then we can call someone else to rescue them.”

“Knowing Yolanda, there are probably some ‘firemen’ lined up for later anyway,” I joke. Leo has steered us back into safe conversational waters, and I’m glad he didn’t press for more
information about David. I haven’t told anyone but Sofia the whole story, and I don’t think I ever will. That was probably the point when I decided that my family might be insane, but they still deserve my loyalty more than any guy.