Tremendously Classy
by
Jessica Cripps
She had agonized
over her outfit
for the past week.
The night before,
she had tried
on every possible
combination of
skirts, blouses,
and pumps, finally
settling on the
olive green pencil
skirt with an
off-white blouse
that fastened
at the throat.
Modest, yet flattering.
The cut of the
skirt accentuated
her trim waist
and kept her hips
in check, and
the blouse fit
just snugly enough
to complement
her figure without
looking trashy.
Class, that's
what she was going
for, tremendous
class. Gracious.
Demure. Yes.
Still, the color
of the blouse
troubled her.
Oh, it suited
her complexion
perfectly, and
it coordinated
exceptionally
well with the
skirt; that was
a nonissue. But,
was it acceptable
to wear off-white
to another woman's
wedding? Of course,
she knew better
than to wear white,
but how close
to white was too
close? It was
awful enough that
she had even agreed
to attend Jake's
wedding, but in
no way could she
appear to upstage
the bride. This
was her opportunity
to publicly write
herself out of
the story, to
bow out gracefully.
She elegantly
smoothed her stockings
over her ankles,
one at a time.
The ones with
the backseam made
her legs look
longer, and they
added an element
of vintage couture
to her ensemble.
Just as she was
about to step
into her chocolate
suede pumps, she
thought better
of it: save those
for last. There
was no call torture
her feet any longer
than necessary.
A limp made tremendous
class an impossibility.
Okay, now, hair.
Neatly pinned
and coiffed, or
rough-and-tumble
sexy? The copper-tinged
golden cloud was
by far her most
striking feature,
and she hated
to downplay it.
Classy. Sophisticated
and simple and,
above all, classy.
Fine. Neatly pinned
and coiffed, it
was. She compromised
by artfully selecting
a few wispy tendrils
to frame her face,
as though they
couldn't possibly
be coaxed into
submission. Perfect.
Mascara: the volumizing
or the waterproof?
She felt that
the fifties look
called for as
much lash volume
as possible, but
the thought of
her destination
made her reconsider.
You're an
adult, damn it.
You will not cry
at Jake's wedding.
Why should you,
anyway? He was
never yours to
begin with. He's
been Maddie's
from the start,
and you know that.
You know. Crying
will just make
you look weak
and guilty.
She sighed. Waterproof,
then.
Jacket, check.
Gift from the
registry with
a tasteful card,
check. Wallet,
check. Car keys,
check. Nerves
of steel, check.
Confidence, check.
Tissues, check.
Out the door,
then. Today was
no day to be fashionably
late.
She pulled into
the church parking
lot at one thirty-five.
The ceremony was
due to start at
two. A shell pink-clad
bridesmaid scurried
over to the side
entrance, covertly
clutching a pack
of cigarettes.
For Maddie,
no doubt. She
says she quit,
but honestly,
who ever quits?
And it's her day.
If the bride wants
a damn cigarette,
she gets a damn
cigarette. Actually,
that doesn't seem
like a bad idea.
She fished through
her handbag, feeling
victorious when
her fingers finally
closed around
the small rectangle
of cardboard and
cellophane. Success.
As she drew the
lighter close
to her face, she
noticed that the
flame was quivering.
No, strike that,
not just the flame;
both hands were
trembling, unwelcomely
displaying the
apprehension she
had commanded
herself not to
feel. Oh,
Jesus, already?
She sucked greedily
on the end of
the cigarette,
trying to extract
every trace of
the tranquility
it surely contained.
When she had siphoned
out the absolute
last shred of
nicotine, she
exhaled in a determined
stream and performed
a quick once-over
on herself. Lipstick
touch-up, check.
Breath mint, check.
Cologne spritz,
check. Deep breath.
Showtime.
The inside of
the church was
decorated with
breathtaking elegance.
A single slender
calla lily graced
the end of every
pew. Real lilies,
not silk. Sunlight
poured through
the stained glass
windows, just
softly enough
to suggest romance,
but bright enough
to refute the
idea of intimacy.
Even the air smelled
fresh and virginal.
Talk about
tremendous class.
Well, that's what
you get when the
bride has rich
parents and a
sharp eye for
aesthetics, I
suppose.
"Bride
or groom?"
"Pardon?"
"Miss,
should I seat
you on the side
of the bride or
the groom?"
The young man
couldn't have
been much older
than twenty, and
something in the
shape of his jaw
seemed almost
unsettlingly familiar.
That must
be Carson, she
realized. I've
only ever seen
him in pictures.
"I'm
sorry, groom,
please."
Oh, come on,
don't make an
idiot of yourself
already.
"Oh,
you know Jake?
I'm his brother,
Carson."
I know.
"How do you
two know each
other?" Carson
smiled amiably
and offered an
elbow.
"We're.
. . friends."
She faltered slightly.
"We graduated
together. I think
I might have met
you then, but
that was. . .
wow, eight years
ago. I'm Angela."
"It's
a pleasure to
meet you. Right
here's fine."
He gestured for
her to be seated
in the fifth pew
back.
"Thank
you," she
managed, doing
her best not to
appear frantic.
I don't know
anyone here. I
should have brought
a date. Any date.
Hell, even Travis
would have been
better than no
one. Damn it.
Don't panic.
She sat down and
crossed her legs,
smoothing her
skirt over her
thighs. After
a few seconds
of deliberation,
she uncrossed
her legs, making
sure to keep her
ankles neatly
together. Proper.
Aloof. Tremendously
classy. She inspected
her manicured
nails with feigned
interest. Don't
bite them. Don't
bite them. Do
not bite them.
Glancing casually
around the room,
she scanned the
crowd of faces
for a familiar
one. No dice.
She returned her
attention to her
hands, examining
them with a critical
eye. At least
they weren't sweaty.
Jake's really
getting married.
This is really
happening. I can't
believe this is
really happening.
She closed her
eyes and struggled
to quell the wave
of vivid memory
that flooded her
consciousness.
Everything returned
with startling
clarity.
"I'm
closer to you
than anyone, Ange."
Nose kiss. "Nobody
knows me like
you do. You just,
I don't know,
you get me."
Neck kiss. "Why
didn't we ever
talk in high school?
I'd be engaged
to you right now,
I know I would."
Neck kiss.
Sharp inhale,
turn away. "Jake,
don't. You're
my best friend.
I would drop whatever
I was doing, no
matter how important
it was, if you
needed anything.
Ever. I care about
you so much. I
mean that. So
much." Turn
back. Face in
shoulder. Shudder.
Sigh.
Chin lift. Eye
contact. Glisten.
Spill. "Ange,
I love you."
Mouth kiss.
"Jake,
I. . . I mean,
I think I--"
Mouth kiss.
A chord sounded
from the organ
at the front of
the room, jolting
her into the present.
Her eyes flew
open and she turned
instinctively
to face the aisle.
The flower girl,
probably somebody's
niece, drifted
shyly toward the
altar, occasionally
remembering to
strew a handful
of petals from
her delicate pink
basket.
"Oh,
how precious,"
a nearby voice
whispered.
The bridesmaids
paraded down the
aisle next, each
with impeccable
posture and each
escorted by a
debonair-looking
groomsman. Doesn't
she even have
one ugly friend?
No, no, I suppose
she doesn't, and
even if she did,
that friend would
ruin the pictures.
Everything is
perfect. Of course
everything is
perfect.
The music shifted,
and the only sound
was a collective
intake of breath
as all eyes were
magnetically drawn
to the back of
the room. Look
at her. You have
to look at her.
You owe her that
much. She
looked. Maddie
was positively
radiant, the very
picture of elegance
and poise. Everything
about her was
immaculate. She
could have been
a paper doll.
That dress
must have cost
a fortune. And
are those real
diamonds? I bet
they are. Of course
they are.
Maddie glided
down the aisle
on the arm of
a man who looked
too old to be
her father, but
who undoubtedly
was. Don't
cry. Do not cry.
Don't, don't,
don't.
"We
are gathered here
today, in the
sight of God,
and in the presence
of family and
friends, to celebrate
the joining together
of Jacob Dalton
Mackenzie and
Madeleine Grace
Lydon." Oh,
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it
stop it.
"The
bride has selected
the following
poem to be read
at the ceremony."
Sonnet Eighteen.
Sonnet Eighteen.
I bet it's Sonnet
Eighteen.
"Shall
I compare thee
to a summer's
day?" Score.
I knew it. Jake
always told me
how predictably
bland her taste
in literature
was. I would have
chosen. . . well,
it's so hard to
choose. Definitely
not Sonnet Eighteen.
Jake and I would
have chosen something
together. It would
be our day, not
my day. When do
they get to the
part where they
ask if anyone
objects? Do they
even still do
that? Probably
not. No! Stop
it stop it stop
it!
"Do
you, Jacob, take
Madeleine to be
your lawfully
wedded wife. .
."
You don't.
You can't! Look
over here! Just
once, look! Please!
You can't!
"I
do."
No. Nonononono!
Deep breath. Composure.
It's a beautiful
wedding. People
cry at beautiful
weddings. Breathe.
Thank God I went
with the waterproof.
"You
may kiss the bride."
Like it's
your job. Because
everyone's watching.
Because it's expected.
That's not how
you kiss me. You
kiss me because
you mean it. You
don't mean this.
You can't. Like
it's your job.
"I
present to you,
for the first
time, Mr. and
Mrs. Jacob Dalton
Mackenzie."
She stood in line
to be received
by the newlyweds,
brushing her eyes
and fervently
hoping that her
foundation hid
what was surely
her tomato-red
complexion. She
felt lightheaded
and feverish.
She was burning
up.
"You
look so beautiful.
Congratulations."
She kissed the
air next to Maddie's
cheek. You win.
"Ange,
I'm so glad you
came. It means
a lot. Really."
Eye contact. She
lifted her own
chin this time,
making a valiant
effort to maintain
a respectable
distance.
"Are
you kidding, Jake?
I wouldn't have
missed it for
the world. Take
care of this one.
She's a keeper."
Wink. Handshake.
Deep breath.
"Thanks,
Ange. I'll see
you at the reception?"
"Sure,
Jake. Open bar?
I'm so there."
She forced a grin
and moved toward
the exit. Once
outside, she shakily
lit another cigarette.
Inhaling luxuriously,
she let the breeze
caress her face.
Her cheeks and
forehead felt
sunburned, and
her eyes were
dry and prickly.
She checked to
be sure no one
was paying attention,
and strode decisively
over to her car.
Reception? She
could just as
easily drink at
home, where there
was no chance
of making a spectacle
of herself. What
this day called
for was a bottle
of wine all to
herself, a bubble
bath, and a good
read. Maybe Chopin
or Millay. She
would apologize
later. Jake would
understand.
©
2010 by Jessica
Cripps
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