My Sister’s Maid of Honor
“Fine,” I say. I hate this chick. I walk up to her and slam my lips against hers and squirm my tongue between her teeth. “What’s wrong with you?” she screams, spitting and stepping back. And my sister laughs. God, my heart might explode, hearing my sister laugh. It’s the same laugh as when she was four and I was six. When she was eight and I was ten. We spent so many summers rolling on our backs in giggle storms, playing pranks on the neighbor boys or spying on my mother and her boyfriends. We’d lay in the backyard and watch rollie pollies move from one strand of grass to another, wondering who we would grow up to be. My turn. I ask my sister: Truth or dare? “Truth,” she says. My sister leans on Jane for support. Even when she loses her balance, she looks poised. My sister was a dancer in high school, and she still moves like one. Effortlessly. I want to ask her what she thinks of me. If she thinks there is any hope. I know I can’t, so instead I ask: “What, in your mind, was the best part of my wedding?” She pauses and looks down. The other girls raise their eyebrows and look like owls again. “You just seemed so happy,” she says. “You smiled like when we were kids, walking down the aisle.” “I was excited.” “And you looked bangin’ in your satin dress,” Carrie says. “That’s how I want my day to be.” “Thank you,” I whisper. I want to sit down but there is no place besides the sticky floor. “Should we head out soon?” “It’s only midnight,” she says, frowning. “Maybe I just need water.” I head to the bar.
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