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But that’s pretty much it.
Except for Chaz. Chaz is gri
I grin back at him.
“Thank you,” I say demurely to the parishioners. And then I step down from the lectern.
“That was quite an interesting reading you gave,” my former gynecologist, Dr. Lee, says an hour later, once we’ve all returned to my parents’ house for refreshments after the funeral.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m holding a plastic plate, on which I’ve piled as many different kinds of cookies as I could find. Thanks to the number of concerned friends and neighbors who’ve dropped off baked goods in the past couple of days, this turns out to be quite a lot of cookies.
I am not sharing these cookies with others. I am eating them all myself.
“Was that the Kinks?” Dr. Lee wants to know.
“AC/DC,” I say.
“Oh, of course,” Dr. Lee says. “How silly of me.”
She drifts away, and Chaz ambles over to take her place. He’s holding a plastic plate containing two different kinds of samosas, Korean barbecue, chicken satay, and cold sesame noodles. I can tell he’s been visiting the table where my dad’s grad students have plopped down their offerings.
“How’s it going?” he wants to know.
“Great,” I say. “My gynecologist liked it.”
“That’s two,” he says.
“Two?”
“I liked it,” he says, gnawing on chicken satay.
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Dad liked it too. And Chuck and Angelo. And Sarah, I think.”
“So five,” Chaz says. “Out of two hundred. Not bad.”
“So when do you think we can get out of here?”
“I was going to ask you the exact same question.”
“Give it another fifteen minutes,” I say. “Mom hasn’t had a chance to really ream me out yet.”
“Okay. And we’re sticking around for that why?”
“To make her feel better?”
“You’re a really good daughter,” Chaz says. “Have I told you that you look hot in that skirt?”
“About twenty times.”
“You look hot in that skirt.”
“Twenty-one.”
“You’d look hotter with it off. You know what you’d look hottest in? One of those really tiny Knight’s I
“Make that ten minutes,” I say to him.
“I’ll go make sure no one’s blocked in the rental car,” he says and abandons his plastic plate.
Not ten seconds after he’s gone, Sarah and Rose corner me by the piano that all three of us loathed being forced to learn to play (and none of us succeeded in learning to play well).
“All right, spill,” Rose says. “What’s the deal with Shari’s ex? And don’t try to deny there’s something going on. You reek of cheap motel shampoo.”
“He can’t take his eyes off you” is Sarah’s more charitable contribution to the conversation.
“I don’t know,” I say to them. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to go get reamed out by Mom.”
“Mom’s got a migraine,” Rose says. “She’s in her room with a wet washcloth over her face. You already killed her. So just give it up. What are you going to do about that Luke guy? Isn’t he, like, Chaz’s best friend?”
“Are they going to fight over you?” Sarah wants to know. It’s been her dream since seeing West Side Story that two guys might one day fight over her.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, stuffing a whole chocolate chip cookie into my mouth so that, no matter what they say next, I won’t be able to talk about it.
“Does this mean you’re not getting married in France?” Sarah wants to know. “Because I was going to take some French lessons over at the Y. But if I don’t have to, let me know. Because there are way cuter guys in the Italian class.”
“If you think Mom’s dead now,” Rose says, “wait until she finds out you’re not marrying this Luke guy. She’s already told everybody in her scrapbooking class that you’re engaged to a prince. This will totally finish her off. What AC/DC lyrics are you going to read out loud at her funeral, I wonder?”
I ca
“Lizzie?” I turn my head and see Shari standing there. My heart sinks. Not that I’m not happy to see her. I’m just not looking forward to what I know is about to follow.
I swallow. “Hi, Share,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine,” Shari says, eyeing my sisters with distaste. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you—alone—for a moment.”
“No problem,” I say. But of course it’s a problem. I can tell from the expression on Shari’s face that I’m not going to like whatever she’s got to say.
I follow her up the stairs to my old room—which has been turned into a guest room—nonetheless, and sink down onto my old bed, trying to avoid the accusing stares of the Madame Alexander dolls my mom’s parents sent me over the years. Jo March looks particularly disappointed in me as she glares down at me from my childhood bookshelf.
“Lizzie,” Shari says, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, keeping my gaze on my feet.
“Yes, you do,” Shari says. “Are you on those drugs my dad prescribed you? Because if you are, I want you to stop taking them. I thought they’d help, not send you into a complete break with reality. I mean, sleeping with Chaz? Have you lost your mind? What about Luke?”
Tears fill my eyes. I look up, only to find that Jo’s mom, Marmee, is staring down at me with an even more accusing look than her daughter. Why, oh, why, had Grandma and Grandpa insisted on sending me a Madame Alexander doll for every birthday and Christmas until I turned sixteen? There are just so many of them, all looking down at us.
“It’s… it’s not like that,” I say, my voice catching. “I never even took any of those pills.”
“Then what the hell is going on, Lizzie?” Shari demands. She crosses the room in a single step and sinks down on the bed beside me. “Because this isn’t like you. And don’t try to deny it’s going on, because it’s written all over both your faces—beard burn not withstanding. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought you and Chaz would make a great couple. I’ll admit the whole Mae Lin thing was to make you jealous. I knew you’d never realize how great Chaz was until you saw him with another girl—a real girl, not a fembot like Valencia. I knew how he felt about you—it was totally obvious. He couldn’t talk about anything but you. It’s true you were the one thing he and I still had in common, but no guy talks about a girl that much unless he’s crazy about her. Which he all but admitted to me. You were the one I wasn’t too sure about.”
I shake my head. “What do you mean, Mae Lin was to make me jealous? What are you talking about?”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? You were jealous, right? I couldn’t believe how you stomped over there and picked a fight with the poor guy the minute Mae Lin and Valencia went downstairs. He had no idea what was going on. Oh my God, I nearly wet my pants I was laughing so hard.”
Now I’m a little mad. Also a little stu
“Shari,” I say. “That’s so mean. You were plotting all along to fix me up with your ex, when you knew perfectly well I’m engaged? To his best friend? And you used some poor girl from your office to do it?”
“Oh, whatever,” Shari says, making a pooh-poohing gesture. “Mae Lin’s dating a hot paramedic. She was willing to play along. But I never thought you’d actually fall into bed with the guy before breaking up with your fiancé. At your grandmother’s funeral. What are you doing? Have you completely lost it?”
I glare at her. I’m pretty sure I look every bit as accusing—and disapproving—as the Madame Alexander dolls above our heads.
“For your information,” I say, “I was not jealous of Mae Lin. And who I sleep with behind my fiancé’s back at my grandmother’s funeral is my business.”