Bounce (6 page)

In the limo, I'm squashed between Thalia and the bride, who has on a tan dress. Tan. Not that she should be wearing white; it's obvious she's no virgin, but come on. Tan?

There are no boys present, so the sweater twins feel free to say things like, “My boobs look like torpedoes in this,” and “Crap. I think I just got my period,” while Phoebe gets shifted from one lap to another, so no one will get wrinkled.

Now Thalia is breaking out the bobby pins. She wants to fix everyone's hair before we get there. I let her work on my flower crown, and she pokes me in the head a few times, trying to make it tighter. “This would be a lot easier if you had long hair,” she says.

I look at her and think,
You don't know the half of it.

For the rest of the ride, I close my eyes and pretend I'm on the beach.

At the church, we get escorted to a room with fluffy green couches and a big mirror. Eleni stands in front of it while everyone fusses over her. Thalia busts out the hairspray.
Phoebe goes to town with the hand cream. “You need to be
soft
, Mommy,” she says, “when Al puts the ring on.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

As usual, the sweater twins are fighting.

“Pink lipstick? Are you kidding me? She's wearing earth tones.”

“Well, we're not doing
orange,
Clio. We're not giving the bride
orange
lips. She'll look like a freak.”

While I sit on a fluffy green couch the whole time, watching. Because I don't belong in here. If I should be anywhere right now, it's with Birdie, helping him tie his tie or something.

Then comes a knock at the door. “Ladies?”

The sweater twins go ballistic. “Oh my God!” They scream, running to block the door. “It's Al! Hide Mom!”

“You're not allowed to see the bride, Al!” Thalia calls out. “It's bad luck!”

He laughs. “I won't come in. I promise. I just need to borrow Evyn for a minute.”

I go into the hall and lean against the door, staring at him. Birdie with no beard and no glasses, wearing a tux and shoes so shiny you can see yourself in them.

“You don't look like you,” I say.

He smiles. “You don't look like you, either.” Then, quietly, “You look like your mom.”

“No, I don't.”

“You do. With your hair pinned up like that? You look…you're beautiful, honey.” His voice cracks when he says this.

I shake my head.

Birdie nods.

We're both silent, like we can't find the words.

Then he reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you. I've been wanting to give it to you for a long time. I was just…waiting for the right…”

He clears his throat and hands me a box, blue with metallic swirls, and I feel goose bumps all over my arms as I open it and take out a necklace.

“This was hers?”

Birdie nods. He motions for me to turn around.

I do, and he fastens the clasp. The pendant rests in the hollow of my neck—a silver teardrop shape.

“She would want you to have it,” he says.

I turn again, and Birdie hugs me hard. He scruffs his chin against my scalp, and even though he's not scruffy anymore it feels good.

We stay that way for a while, until the minister comes up and puts a hand on my dad's shoulder.

“Albert,” he says. “It's time.”

Somehow, I make it through the ceremony part.

I smile. I toss petals like a pro. I stand at attention while Birdie and Eleni promise to love, honor, cherish, and blah, blah, blah. I even watch them kiss, without vomiting.

But when the minister says, “I'm delighted to introduce to
you…Mr. and Mrs. Albert Linney!” I can't fake it anymore, because I'm so mad.

Mrs. Albert Linney.

There's only one Mrs. Albert Linney, and that's my mom—the one whose picture has been hanging over the fireplace all my life, the one whose necklace I'm wearing right now. I don't care if she's dead, she's still a Linney, and Eleni's not.

Eleni Linney. It sounds ridiculous.

I watch Birdie take her hand and lift it in the air, like they just won a mixed doubles tournament. I picture a lifetime of baklava and family meetings.

I never thought I'd say this, but right now I hate my father.

At the reception, the only bright spot is Linus. Except that I can't get to him because he's surrounded by a million cousins, all flinging their boobs around, even though they're related to him and should know better.

I watch this from my seat at the kids' table, where Phoebe is trying to get me to draw something with our complimentary Crayolas. I want to draw a cliff and jump off it.

When it's time to cut the cake, the bride feeds the groom a sweet little bite and everyone claps politely. Personally, I prefer the tradition of smashing it in the other person's face. If the groom would do that right now, this could be the best wedding
ever. But Birdie is too nice of a guy. There's not a cake-smashing gene in his body.

Out on the patio, I find Mackey. He is eating four-hour-old shrimp off some forgotten tray.

“Eleni Linney,” I say. “Could there be a stupider name?”

“Lynn.” Mackey dribbles cocktail sauce down his chin.

“What?”

“Lynn Linney. Lynnie Linney. That would be stupider.”

“Okay, fine. But I still can't believe she took our name.”

“Mmf.”

“This has to be one of the all-time worst days of my life,” I tell him.

Mackey shrugs. He grabs three shrimp and jams them all in his mouth.

“What. You don't think it bites?”

He shrugs again.

“You actually
like
her?”

Big swallow. “Eleni?”

“Yes,
Eleni.
She doesn't drive you crazy with her cooking and her smiling and her little comments? And the way she's all over Birdie all the time? That doesn't make you want to rip off your own fingernails?”

“Hrmp.”

I stare at my brother. “Could you use some
words
for once? Some English?”

I can't look at him anymore. I can't watch him stuff his face or shrug like a moron. I can't try to figure out what he thinks about anything that matters.

I feel like my head is going to explode. I feel like if I don't
get out of here I'll do something crazy, like smash cake in someone's face.

On my way out I pass the dance floor, where everyone is bouncing and sweating all over one another.

It's a combination of Eleni's friends (Roger? Clive! Petunia, yoo-hoo!) and her Greek relatives. Nobody from our side, unless you count Birdie's carpenter friend, Greg, or my great-aunt Janice, which I don't.

A slow song comes on, and I can't move fast enough. The last thing I need to see right now is the bride and groom making out.

I pick up the pace, weaving in and out of bodies, toward the door.

And then something amazing happens.

“Evyn?” There's a hand on my back. Big, warm.

I turn around. “Yeah?”

It's Him. With the tux. And the curls. And the shoulders. And the dream teeth.

And he

is asking

me

to dance.

Stella?

StellaStellaStella, are you watching this?

He told me to take off my shoes so I could stand on his feet. And we're so close, my stomach is touching his stomach and I
can smell him, and he smells so good, Stell, can you smell that? It's like the sandalwood Birdie uses. I don't want this song to be over. Is this what it was like, the first time you danced with Birdie? Did you never, ever, ever want the song to end? Ever?

Stella smiles at me. And for the first time all day, I smile back.

On Monday morning, Birdie leaves for his honeymoon. They are going to Vermont, to a bed-and-breakfast. I can picture them eating breakfast just fine (fresh-squeezed orange juice and buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup), but the other part—the
bed
part—is too disgusting to contemplate.

So I won't think about it.

Instead, I will think about the fact that for an entire week there will be no parents in this house. For an entire week, I can do whatever I want.

“Emergency numbers on the fridge,” Eleni says. “Al's cell, my cell, the B and B, fire department, poison control…Food money here, in this envelope. That's
food
money, not
shoe
money, understand?”

Thalia nods. “Of course.”

In loco parentis,
Thalia is in charge. Which is a joke, because there's no way the sweater twins are going to listen to her.

But this morning everyone pretends. There are instructions about bedtime (reasonable) and TV watching (limited). Suggestions for outings we might take (How ‘bout the zoo!), to foster stepsibling bonding. Reminders that the usual rules of the house apply.

Sure they do.

“And if there are any problems,” Eleni says, going down the line, hugging everyone, “any problems at all…call Linus.”

She is directly in front of me when she says this, so when I smile she thinks I'm smiling at her.

“Evyn, honey.” She sandwiches my cheeks with her hands. “I hope you have a wonderful week.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Love you.” She's looking me straight in the eyes and still has me in a cheek-wich, so there's no pretending I didn't hear her.

But I will not say it.

I mutter
Okay
and wait for her to move on to Phoebe, who jumps into her arms and starts planting wet ones all over her face. “Muh! I love you, Mommy! Muh! Muh! I love you and love you and love you and miss you and miss you! Muh!”

I get a sick feeling in my stomach, watching them.

I look at Birdie. He opens his arms.

“Have a good trip,
Al,
” I say, walking out before he can try to hug me.

On the bus, I think about the kinds of “problems” that might arise that would necessitate a call to Linus.

A clogged drain. A small stove-top fire. Clam getting his fat face stuck between the slats of the fence.

“Linus,” I will say, “this is Evyn. You know, from the wedding? We danced to ‘She's Always a Woman' by Billy Joel?
Anyway, we're having this little problem here at the house, and I was wondering…”

And he will say, “Of course, I'll be right over.” Even though it might mean missing his poli-sci class. Or coming straight from the gym, in his shorts, with that good kind of guy smell wafting off him.

There is so much I want to learn about Linus, but I have to find it out carefully, bit by bit, because I can't be too obvious. If I reveal my true feelings too soon, I'll ruin everything.

It's like this. I know we're related, but we're not
really
related. We're not actual blood relatives. Our children wouldn't be born with webbed fingers or with an extra foot growing out of their back or anything like that. And I know we're six years apart, and that seems like a lot now, but what about when I'm twenty and he's twenty-six? Or eighty and eighty-six? We'll both have dentures by then, and applesauce running down our chins, so what would it matter?

For now, the trick is to show him that although I'm thirteen, there is more to me than just a number.

Much more.

As soon as I walk into homeroom, I am attacked.

“So?” Chelsea says. “Who is it?”

Crap.

“We've been waiting for, like,
ever
for you to get here!” says Jaime. “You found out, right?”

Double crap.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to say right now. But I can't let them know this. I have to give them something.

“Of course.” Mysterious smile. “…I'll tell everyone at lunch.”

“No
way,
you're going to make us wait?”

“But E-vyn, we're dying here.”

Well, at least someone got my name right.

“Good things come to those who wait,” I say, unzipping my backpack oh-so-casually. Meanwhile, every cell in my body is sweating.

I have exactly four periods to think of an answer.

At high noon, the It Girls are waiting.

Andrea has already laid out my napkin and utensils. There are a few extra chairs at the table as well, for the Almost-But-Not-Quite-It Girls, invited for the occasion.

Andrea waits for me to sit before she speaks.

“I understand you have some information for us.”

The smile is laid-back. The voice is friendly. But there is absolutely no question as to what I'm supposed to say.

I look at Andrea and nod.

“And you're sure this information is correct?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Well?” says a girl with bangle bracelets. “Who is it?”

I have no choice. I have. No choice. I wish I had a choice, but I don't.

“Um,” I say. “Andrea. He likes Andrea.”

Please God, let Cleanser Boy like Andrea.

“Me?” Andrea says, pointing to her chest with one finger. “He likes me?”

Like she's surprised.

“Yes,” I say. “He likes you.” I open my brown bag and take out the sandwich I packed for myself this morning. Baloney. Which, right now, I am full of.

The squeals are ear-piercing.

“No
way
!”

“I
so
bet he kisses you at the social.”

“You are sooo lucky, Drey!”

“Well,” Andrea says, lowering her gaze just a bit, “it could have been any one of us, girls. You know that…Now, what's everyone
wearing
? Evelyn?” She smiles at me, kindly, like a queen might smile at her gnarled, hunchbacked lady-in-waiting. “What are you wearing to the social?”

What am I wearing to the social? I know one thing: I cannot possibly answer this question correctly.

“Um,” I say. “I'm between outfits.”

All around me, girls nod. They understand this dilemma.

Andrea pats my shoulder. Is this for sympathy or pity? I can't tell. Either way, she's moved on.

“I'm thinking of getting lowlights,” she says, turning her back to me. “Lowlights are the new highlights.”

A dozen headbands and ponytails bob up and down in agreement.

I find myself nodding, too. “You totally should,” I say.

Andrea looks at me. “You think?”

“Totally.”

I don't know who I am right now. Yes, I do. I am one of those annoying girls who say
totally.

“Well, Evelyn,” Andrea says, “I think I just might.”

“Ajax will like that,” I say.

She smiles. I smile.

She pats my arm. And I leave the cafeteria with a giant wrecking ball in my stomach.

When I get home from school, I call Jules.

“I don't know what to do,” I say. “If Ajax doesn't like Andrea, I'm dead.”

Jules snorts. “On-DREY-a? What kind of a name is On-DREY-a?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, she sounds like a jerk. Why do you care what she thinks? There have to be better people to hang out with.”

I don't say anything. Jules isn't here. There's no way she can understand what I'm going through.

“I tried calling yesterday,” I say, changing the subject. “Where were you?”

“Oh!” Her whole tone changes. “I was at the ortho. I got my braces off! Finally!”

She goes on to tell me all about her teeth, how incredible they look, and how this changes everything. Right now she is ninety-nine percent positive that Jordan Meyerhoff is going to ask her out.

“Jordan Meyerhoff?” I say. “Jordan
Meyerhoff
?”

“Yes!”

“But we hate Jordan Meyerhoff.”

“I don't
hate
anyone.” There is a little edge to her voice.

“He locked Jason Perry in a locker.”

“Yeah, in
sixth grade.
”

“He laughed when you got your period in gym class. He used to call you Snaggle Tooth.”

“Well, now he calls me hot. People change, Evyn.”

Yeah,
I think.
They sure do.

For dinner, Thalia orders pizza and chicken wings. I could kiss her for not cooking.

The one thing I don't like is how she makes us sit together in the dining room. I would much rather eat in the yard, with Clam.

“If everyone could look at me for a sec,” Thalia says, “I have an important announcement.”

I'm not interested in her announcements, important or otherwise, so I keep eating.

“Someone at this table is too modest to tell you himself, therefore I will have to tell you for him.”

Everyone is quiet, and I have no choice but to listen. Even though I don't give a hairy hoot what incredible thing Ajax did on the soccer field today.

“Let us all raise a glass,” Thalia says, “to Mackey…”

Huh?

“Or should I say
Joseph
?” Huge smile. “And his amazing technicolor dreamcoat!”

The sweater twins scream. They run around the table to hug my brother.

“No
way
!”

“Mackey, you got it? Oh my God!”

Phoebe jumps up and down, clapping.

“Way to go, man,” Ajax says, thumping Mackey on the back. “That's really awesome.”

I'm racking my brain, but I have no idea what they're talking about. Mackey's face is bright red, probably because the sweater twins are mashed up against him on both sides.

I must look confused because Thalia says, “He got the part. The
lead.
He's Joseph!”

“Oh,” I say.

Now I remember. The dorky play audition.

I stare at Mackey. “You tried out? For a
play
?”

He shrugs. “Thalia can be very convincing.”

“It's not actually a play,” Thalia says. “It's a musical.”

“
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,
” says one twin. “It's famous.”

And the other one says, “You didn't tell us your brother had such an amazing voice, Evyn.”

Amazing voice? Mackey?

The truth is, I've never thought about it. I hear him singing sometimes, in his room, or when he's taking a shower, but it's always been like Birdie's whistling habit—annoying.

I don't think he's ever seen a musical in his life.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Broadway has always been Mackey's
dream. Ever since he was a small child, he's had only one true love. The stage.”

I stare at my brother, but before he can say anything, the phone rings. It's the honeymooners, checking in. As soon as they hear the big news, they're fit to bust.

Mackey has a look on his face I've never seen before. It's like he's trying not to smile but can't help himself.

“I know,” he says to Birdie. “I can't believe it, either.”

Here is my brother. On the phone. Speaking actual English and showing joy like a normal person.

All I can think is,
Who are you?

Stella?

It's me, Evyn.

What is it with everyone around here? First Birdie, then Jules, and now Mackey. Nobody wants to be who they used to be anymore. They're all changing, and I hate it.

Why can't we go back to the way things were, when Birdie was Birdie, and Jules had the snaggletooth, and Mackey was just my dweeb brother, not Mr. Joe Broadway?

Stella half smiles, half sighs.

I can tell she doesn't have any answers for me tonight.

Her eyes say,
I'm sorry, honey.

It's okay,
I tell her.

Even though it's not.