Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (8 page)

She gives me a tight smile. “I don't want anything—anything at all—to get in the way of my perfect wedding. You understand?” She slides a manicured hand over mine. Even though she's been gripping a steaming mug, her hand is cold.

I give her a smile I hope doesn't look frenzied. “Um, sure.”

Under her careful watch, I sign my name across the bottom with her red pen and then wince. It looks as if I've signed in blood.

“Now. What's your size? I need to order your dress, stat. It's a cappuccino tea-length with pink frost piping.”

Wait, is she talking about the cake or the dress? “I'm an eight.”

She scribbles some notes on a steno pad in handwriting that looks typeset. My inner psycho detector is jumping up and down and waving a pink frosted flag.

“Now, you'll also need these.” She hands me another two pages. The first is entitled “Alex Fact Sheet.” She's made a bullet-pointed biography of herself, starting with her birth: “Alex Hansen was born in Boston, Massachusetts, to two proud parents. She was the family's first and only child.”

The second paper is entitled “Wedding Timeline.” These are the tasks that she—uh,
we
—need to complete each week leading up to the wedding, which is a few months away. As I look over the fact sheet, I see that Alex needs to speed up the planning so she can be married on her parents' anniversary.

She smiles matter-of-factly and raises her chin as if she's about to give a speech. “You'll see it all on the fact sheet, but you'll be posing as my work colleague, the secretary at my accounting firm. We bonded over lunch and Starbucks.”

At the mention of Starbucks, my thoughts fly to Charlie. Has he e-mailed me his screenplay yet? Or is he too busy having his leg vigorously humped by Gus, the family dog?

Whoops, back to the Alex Channel: “We'll meet again Saturday morning at five for the bridal gown sale.”

I frown. I'm on B shift Saturday, so five
p.m.
won't work. But she said morning. She couldn't have said morning. “Wait, five—
a.m
.?”

She runs her fingers through her hair. “Clearly you've never been to one of these. You have to get in line early. Bring coffee if you need to, though keep in mind we'll be in line for about three hours, so make sure your bladder isn't too full.”

For a second there I thought she was going to tell me to wear a diaper.

“On the back of the fact sheet, you'll see a list of specifications for the dress and some links that'll give you an idea of the styles I like. Oh! And you might want to wear red or hot pink so I can spot you easily in the store.”

She extends a hand. My palm is sweaty as it fits into her firm grasp.

“Thank you. I know it will be a pleasure doing business with you.”

Hopefully my smile isn't as unsure as my handshake. As I watch her retreat, dark hair swinging rhythmically across her back with each spike-heeled step, I wonder if it's too late to retract my soul—er, signature.

I pull the blue notebook out of my purse and jot down my observations about Alex along with a note to incorporate a Faust reference. If I'm signing over my soul, it should be for something much more scintillating than rent money.

I turn back to my plate of French toast. I'm midbite when my phone buzzes: a text message from Charlie.

Promised Mom I'd go to Baltimore to see Great-Gran tomorrow. How's Sunday night for our rendezvous?

Sunday I'm not working, thank God. I grin, my thumbs flying before I have time to think. He used “rendezvous” in a text message. He's got my nerve endings, my heart, my thumbs.

Sunday's great. Bridal gown sale tomorrow at 5 a.m. with a new client. Wish me luck.

You need more than luck. Flask of gin?

YES.

Plan to put finishing touches on screenplay while Gran naps. Will e-mail before Sunday. Send me your stories, too—[email protected].

Can't wait.

Me neither. See you soon, bridesmaid lady.

Nine

T
he next morning, my alarm screeches me awake at four fifteen
a
.m.
On a Saturday.

This isn't worth it. Not for a thousand dollars, not for a million. I don't need a car, do I? I can take the bus to work. And I'll call that impersonator to help with the rent. I'm sure he's an upstanding guy.

It's still the middle of the night, for crying out loud! And I do feel like crying.

My reward for getting myself upright is a cup of hazelnut coffee. Lin, God bless him, has programmed the coffeepot with a four twenty brew time. His latest notebook installment says, “Steve's meeting my parents tonight! Wish me luck. You know how Mom is . . . Our game plan is to have him cook her a traditional Vietnamese dish. Keep your fingers and lady parts and toes crossed. And mine are crossed, too, for your gown sale (with the exception of lady parts). See you tonight. XOXO”

I run my fingers across his neat script. Steve meeting his parents already—I can't even process that right now; it's too early. I cross the fingers on one hand and grab a travel mug with the other. It's my only chance for making it through today. With my bridesmaid and bookstore shifts combined, I won't be back to the apartment for seventeen hours. But if I don't die in a bride stampede, I'll get to read Charlie's screenplay.

I'm out the door by four thirty-five. The June wind yawns hot morning breath on my face.

Outside Filene's Basement, a line is already snaking across the front of the store and growing by the minute. The brides radiate an adrenalized energy that's mildly terrifying. All colors, shapes, and sizes of women surround us, Goth chicks next to women who look like they stepped off a runway. Groups in matching shirts huddle together, strategizing: “Sarah's Magnificent Maids” mingle next to “Andrea's Bustle Bitches.”

I imagine the field day we'd have with this in gender studies class. Our desks in a circle, we'd huddle forward and rant: So this is the baseline of femininity. The place where being bestowed certain chromosomes will ultimately take you. This is the dream that's been pounded into us. Find the guy. Find the dress. Or hell, maybe the other way around. The Disney Princesses told us so.

But this isn't college. This is my job.

I join Alex in line. “You're right on time,” she says with more dry observation than gratitude. She's sporting a pair of stilettos and looks way too damn perky for just before five in the morning. I glimpse the binder under her arm and realize I've completely forgotten to bring my own binder. I've also forgotten to memorize her dress specs.

“So,” I begin, clutching my thermos and trying to sound eager, “could you go over again what you're looking for? I meant to bring my binder but wasn't fully awake when I left.”

Alex nods but doesn't look pleased. She puts her hands on her hips, and that's when I see it: a silk fanny pack. I didn't think anyone—much less beautiful women—wore those horrid things anymore. Though Alex's version looks like it cost an arm and an ovary. Am I dreaming? What's she got in there—pincushions? Duct tape? A gun?

Until now, I couldn't decipher why Alex would go through the chaos of a department store sale. But as I take in the whole picture, from the fanny pack to the hawklike determination in her eyes, I understand. This is about the dress, yes, but it's also about Winning. With a capital W.

I gulp and try not to ogle the fanny pack as she hands me a bulleted list of specs. “Here you go—you've got three hours to review it.”

I am in
no way prepared for what happens at eight
a.m
. For the past three hours I've been creating a mnemonic device to memorize details about Alex's dream dress. I've just settled on “The 12 Days of Christmas”—inserting “scalloped neckline” in place of “five golden rings”—when the momentum of hundreds of women pushes me smack against Alex's back, forced to inhale her floral perfume. For a moment, I enjoy this strange permitted intimacy, drinking in her perfect femininity. I always feel clunky and awkward around women like Alex.

The momentum heaves me forward and then backward, accordion-style. A few women are shrieking with excitement. Others seem oddly quiet. It's as if each woman has a little translucent image of the perfect dress floating above her head in a bubble. Now that we're melded together, the translucent dresses sway, skirts brushing each other as bodies press together. I'm the exception: Above my head is an image of my bed, the comforter turned down, ready for me to jump in. Charlie's in there, too.

Without warning, the line heaves forward. This time, there's no backward thrust. Under her breath, Alex says, “Here we go.” I try to visualize Alex's perfect dress, but Charlie's still in my bubble. I superimpose the dress on him, and he sashays. “Does this make my butt look big?” he jokes. Oh, Lord—I forgot how nice his butt is. Slightly perky, not too flat, not too big. Just enough for a girl to get herself one nice handful per cheek.

We pitch forward into the store. The shrieking intensifies, forming an aural rainbow, from guttural grunts to pitches approaching the range only dogs can hear. I have not had nearly enough coffee for this. The brides swarm, pulling dresses from the racks without discrimination. Zeus help me, I'm in the zombie bride apocalypse.

I look up for a dressing room sign—Alex wanted me to stake one out while she took a first cruise of the shelves—but the whizzing chiffon mars my vision. It's as if I'm underwater, unsure which way is the surface. A strapless bra flies through the air, followed by a beaded gown. One of Sarah's Magnificent Maids intercepts the dress and is promptly tackled by a half-naked bride who shouts “Mine!” The bra lands on my shoulder and I shimmy away from it, ducking between two dresses into the center of a display rack.

Two seconds of delicious dark quiet pass before manicured hands pluck the dresses off the rack, exposing me. I clamp my eyes shut and press my fingers against my ears until Charlie, still in my mental bubble, nudges me with the blue notebook. “Open your eyes. You can't document this until you immerse yourself in it.”

So I do. I surrender to the mayhem and start running, pushing and fighting to get through. I make it to the far wall, where a row of narrow dressing rooms bursts with gowns. Multiple pairs of feet are visible below each door, shimmying out of clothes and into dresses.

When I see a door pop open, I bolt for it. A bride and her mother emerge, both crying: They've found The Dress. The bride hugs the oversize bag to her chest.

I sprint to the open door, my heart galloping in place, but as I clutch the side of the door, one of Andrea's Bustle Bitches throws her entire body weight against the door, slamming it closed and almost taking my fingertips off. Where did she come from? I swear she dropped from the ceiling on a web of stealth.

A blast of adrenaline makes me clench my teeth. I grasp the door handle and position my body in front of the doorjamb, on the off chance that I'll be able to pry my way in. But my attempts to pull the door open are futile. Her biceps flare at me, showcasing their superior strength and willpower. If she's going to use her body, I'll have to use my mind.

Keeping my hand on the door handle, I turn my head a little to the left and gasp. “Oh my God, it's a Vera Wang original!”

She bares her teeth at me. “Nice try. My bride hates Vera.”

What now? She elbows me in the side, and the pain is so sharp that I slump over. She's about to wedge me out completely and take over the handle when a flash of inspiration sends me pancake-flat to the floor, belly to carpet. I grab the legs of the changing stool and pull myself into the stall. It's not exactly
Entrapment
—halfway through, my butt nearly gets stuck—but I make it. I stay crouched until I see the Bustle Bitch's ballet flats disappear from the other side of the door. “Ha!” I say out loud.

I slide the lock into place and collapse on the tiny stool. The sounds of rustling plastic bags, flopping breasts, shrieks, and, below all that, generic department store music, float into the room. I close my eyes, almost, almost wishing I were at the airport.

As I recover my breath and debate whether to text Alex my coordinates, the handle rattles. My butt pops off the stool and I yelp. Bustle Bitch strikes again!

“Piper! Let me in!”

Alex. I pull the door open and she tosses a few dresses at me—they feel like they weigh about twenty pounds each. After I hang them up, pressing them tight against each other, there's not much space to maneuver. Wordlessly, she's de-fanny-packing, stripping off her jeans. My face flushes. I turn away, grabbing the closest dress and unzipping it. My fingers brush the tag.

“Size fourteen?” I eye Alex surreptitiously in the mirror.

“Well, I'm a six, but you have to grab what you can. You can always get the dress altered.”

“Ah.” I don't understand the point of trying on a dress that could fit three Alexes in it, but I help her step into it, flushing again as I notice her fancy underwear. Of course her underwear is pink and lacy and perfectly feminine. The corset makes her look like she's covered in delicate pink fondant, the kind that makes you want to peel it off. I wince as I remember my underwear has a giant frog on it. They're probably on inside out, since I dressed in the dark.

Surprise, surprise: The size 14 “isn't quite right.” An hour and no perfect dresses later, I'm scouring the shelves and becoming increasingly frustrated. The racks were stripped completely bare after the opening chaos. Now most of the dresses are back on the racks helter-skelter, sassy purple size 20s next to prim white size 2s. I heave a huge sigh.

“Hang in there,” says a nearby voice with a slight Southern accent. A tiny blonde smiles at me.

“Thanks. It's my first time.”

“You've got it written all over you, honey. Are you a bride?”

I catch myself before disclosing I'm the hired help. “Bridesmaid.”

“Do you have a dressing room?”

Wait, is this subterfuge? Maybe she's trying to weasel her way into our stall! I give her the most intimidating look I can muster, given that I'm wearing inside-out froggy panties.

But the blonde's smile doesn't falter. This event is drawing me into its madness. Relieved for what seems to be a kindred spirit, I return the smile. “Yes, thank goodness.”

“Then you're golden.” She nods to a bride a few feet away who's changing in an aisle while her friends stand in a semicircle around her. “The key is persistence. And don't forget about the alteration staff—their booth is over by the front door. They worked wonders for my best friend last year.”

“Thanks, good to know. Godspeed.” I give her a relieved smile as I turn back to the racks. I spot a scalloped neckline and reach for it, fumbling under the plastic to grope for the tag. An 8—close enough.

I grab a few more options and return to the dressing room, feeling as if I'm wrestling a baby whale made of fabric and plastic. Alex opens the door in her lingerie and shoos me in. I begin to strip the first dress from its bag, trying not to look at her boobs, which, according to my peripheral vision, are basically perfect and flatteringly large on her tiny frame. My friend's mom once referred to mine as “mini-muffins.”

Alex lifts her hands up expectantly as I struggle to hoist the next contender over her head, smoothing it out as it settles around her subtle curves.

“Ooh!” she croons, catching her reflection. It's the 8 with the scalloped neckline. She fluffs it out around her stilettos (which I discovered are the exact height, to the centimeter, of her wedding shoes).

“Alex, that looks great!”

She turns, admiring it from each angle. And then she bursts into tears.

“Whoa,” I mutter under my breath. Emotional support is not in the contract. I crouch down to where she's sunken into the dress. I tentatively put my hand on her shoulder.

“We're having problems,” she says.