THE JUNIOR BRIDESMAID Read online

  The Junior Bridesmaid

  By Amy Baker

  The Junior Bridesmaid

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Amy Baker

  Published by Amy Baker

  Copyright ã 2014 Amy Baker

  All Rights Reserved

  Prologue

  I looked in the dressing mirror with my bottom lip sucked in as far as it would go. There was no two ways about it. I looked ridiculous. And not just because of the lip action, although admittedly it didn’t help my overall appearance. No, I looked ridiculous because of what I was wearing. What the hell was a Junior Bridesmaid anyway? Maybe this was just one more way for Darcy Strong to torment me.

  Conservatively speaking, there were about a hundred million other things I would rather be doing at that exact moment in time. Including the horrifying responsibility of clipping great grandpa Willis’ toenails, which experience had taught me was an absolute nightmare. You needed a hacksaw to get through those suckers. The last time I cut them a toenail clipping simulated a shard of shrapnel and stuck in my brother’s neck clear across the room. After he stopped screaming “I’m hit! I’m hit!” we had to take him to the emergency room for stitches and a Tetanus shot where we sat waiting for the ER Doctor for five long hours. Given a choice between potentially contracting Staph in the emergency room and the bridal shop where I currently stood, I think the emergency room still held more appeal. Yet, there I was, at my mother’s insistence, parked approximately six inches off the ground on a mint green, carpet covered platform waiting for Angela, the bridal shop owner. She had disappeared behind a curtain at the rear of the store what felt like an hour ago. She said something about accessorizing before she began her journey waddling more left and right than she did forward. It was a wonder that the woman ever got anywhere. I was hoping her unusually long absence was due to her desperate search for an invisibility cloak that would cover the heinous dress I was wearing but that was just wishful thinking on my part. While I waited, lower lip still neatly tucked, my head tilted from side to side trying to decide which part of the purple dress was more hideous. Was it the drop waist that landed just above my knees, the large poufy sleeves, which could double as headrests if I was suddenly stricken with a bout of exhaustion or the bow the size of Kansas that was parked strategically in front of my vagina?

  Hmm.

  Hard to say.

  But I definitely had to go with the bow.

  Once my mother received the exciting news of Darcy’s engagement and the even more exciting news (to her anyway) that I was being asked to be in the bridal party, her enthusiasm was difficult to contain. Actually, it was off the charts.

  Impossible to measure.

  But despite her euphoria, I still protested fervently. I really didn’t want to be a part of Darcy’s wedding party. But my mother became insistent.

  “Oh, my dear, Delilah. You need to be more…pliable. This is one of those opportunities you just can not refuse,” she sang the last word.

  This was an opportunity? What opportunity would that be? The opportunity to be tortured by the biggest bitch in the county? No matter how hard I tried and I put in quite an effort, I still couldn’t see my mother’s point of view. So I continued to dig in my heels. But after days of presenting my case from various different angles outlining the reasons why I shouldn’t be a part of Darcy’s wedding, my mother still hadn’t budged. I even stooped so low as to insinuate that it would take away from my studies which she must have known was bullshit because she responded with a nonchalant ‘Oh Delilah, don’t be silly.’ It finally occurred to me that I had no choice but to be in Darcy’s wedding.

  Not for Darcy but for my mother.

  Clearly it meant more to her than I could comprehend or she wouldn’t be so adamant about my participation. So I stopped resisting and became more, as she put it, pliable. I even swore that I would embrace my duties as a Junior Bridesmaid even though I still had not a single clue what those might be. I just couldn’t fathom what services a Junior Bridesmaid could possibly provide that the bridesmaids, maid of honor and flower girl didn’t already have covered. With my luck I was supposed to wipe her ass when she was unable to locate it herself under all that tulle and shiny material. But, come what may, with my fingers crossed that it wouldn’t be Darcy’s ass, I decided I would look at the bright side.

  And, boy-oh-boy was there ever a bright side. His name was Matthew Rowen. Otherwise known as, Hugh, the groom. There was nothing in the world brighter than Hugh Rowen. At least not for me. And I had been in love with him for as long as I could remember.

  Seeing him on a regular basis would be far from a hardship. So I planned on participating in the festivities with a smile on my face and a hint of eyeliner on my upper lids. Knowing the man of my dreams would be there was a good enough reason for me to show up and look (okay maybe stare) at the bright side.

  But as luck would have it and I would eventually learn, it turned out the groom didn’t partake in quite as many bridal activities as I would have thought. So, it didn’t take long for my positive outlook to wane. Once again I found myself dealing with Darcy, her attitude, and her circle of wenches with not a whole lot of bright side after all. Actually the experience on a whole was turning into a virtual nightmare. Even the eyeliner was becoming irritating.

  Gretchen Welling, also known as my mama, was what others might consider to be a simple woman. She never had the opportunity to go to college, as Great Grandpa Willis who raised her didn’t see the point in “investing” in a female’s future. Needless to say, his ideas were as dense as his toenails. Plus she was insanely in love with my father in high school and they eloped the day after graduation. But that didn’t mean that my mama wasn’t smart. She was. And she was always one to share her sage advice. Granted, sometimes it would seem to come out of left field but that didn’t make it any less significant or noteworthy.

  For example, we would be in the middle of the produce section at the local supermarket and she would say something to the effect of, “Always remember when you’re older to call your grandparents.” I would look around trying to figure out what triggered the remark. Had she spotted my father’s parents somewhere in the store? Or were the grapefruits she was squeezing somehow reminiscent of her grandmother? Usually I was unable to figure it out.

  But then there were other times where Mama’s advice was not only poignant but timely as well. She had the uncanny ability to seemingly hone in on exactly what was weighing on my mind. I don’t know how she did it, either she sensed it or knew me so well that she could feel my mood change. But she could pinpoint my concern or worry with unparalleled accuracy without my having said a single word. It was remarkable. One specific incident in particular we were sitting at a red traffic light in town and she hit the nail right on the head. Walking by, directly in front of our car in the crosswalk, was Darcy Strong. Had my eyes narrowed in disgust? I don’t think so. I was fairly certain I had remained purposefully expressionless. But at that very moment was when my mother chose to share a bit of her wisdom.

  “Hate,” she said the word crisply, “is a strong word.” Maybe her pun was intended since Darcy’s last name was Strong. Or maybe she had that sixth sense that mothers always profess to have. But her chosen words couldn’t have been more accurate. I hated Darcy Strong. And it was blatantly clear that Darcy hated me. My guess was because I had the audacity to draw breath. Contrarily, my hatred for Darcy wasn’t unjustifiable. She gave me countless reasons to despise her over the years.

  The most recent incident involved
the premature death of my short-lived bridal party thrill. She had timed her attack perfectly to achieve maximum humiliation. She probably caught me ogling her soon to be husband and was hell bent on retaliation. But in my defense it was impossible to avoid staring at the man. He was that beautiful.

  I wasn’t shocked when she did it. It was more like an anticipated eventuality. But truthfully it didn’t hurt any less. We had all been asked to gather at the Strong home for a mini engagement celebration. When my mother and I arrived we walked into the living room where we found all of Darcy’s cronies, Hugh, and, of course, Aunt Dody and her husband, Earl. Aunt Dody was beaming. She had even dressed for the occasion even though she had downplayed the evening calling it an ‘informal gathering.’ We all knew as soon as we walked in that the event was a big deal because Aunt Dody had pulled out the fresh water pearls that her mother had handed down to her. Between that and the crab salad we quickly realized she was putting on the dog.

  After we had toasted the couple with pink champagne (I had apple juice, uck) we all sat around discussing the options for their honeymoon destination. Sand, sun, Hugh’s shirtless chest in front of a setting Hawaiian sun. I was down with that conversation. It was all good. Until, of course, the conversation drifted into what lingerie Darcy was considering for her wedding night. Then the entire conversation became unbearably uncomfortable. Even Hugh shifted in his seat and tried to change the subject. Always having the ability to escape into the recesses of my creative mind, I chose instead to allow my thoughts to drift back to Hugh’s naked chest. (Oh yes, much more pleasant territory.) Maybe Darcy witnessed my eyes lower to his perfectly muscled pecs, which were easily admired through his tight, navy blue, t-shirt because that was when she chose to deliver her unnecessary and venomous insult. She quickly dropped the lingerie topic, which way-too-descriptively shared her choice of white lace, La Perla and began complaining to her friends and not all that discreetly (meaning she wanted me to know she was coerced into including me in the bridal party) that she had no idea who I was supposed to walk down the aisle with. Maybe she could spiff up her mama’s ironing board. Needless to say, that was a dig. One in a string of many that had been getting more and more deliberately hurtful over the course of time.

  This specific insult was referring to the difficulty in finding a perfect match to my figureless body. It’s not like she was bringing something to my attention that I hadn’t been acutely aware of already. I was completely self-conscious of my flat chest and curve less body without her pointing it out every time she saw me. Seriously? What teenage female would want to be as flat as a pancake? But there wasn’t all that much I could do about it at sixteen. Some of my friends were there but not me. My mother just said that I was a late bloomer. Just like her sister, Isabeau. When I looked at Aunt Isabeau I saw a woman with beautiful curves. It was hard to believe that she was ever flat anywhere.

  Hearing Darcy’s derogatory remark and the chorus of chuckles that accompanied Hugh became visibly enraged. His eyes squinted and his nostrils flared in response to Darcy’s deliberate jab as if hearing it pained him personally. Then he instantly came to my defense, “Leave her alone, Darcy!” His tone was unyielding.

  I wasn’t sure why he did it but he truthfully was the nicest guy I had ever met. What he was doing with Darcy was one of those mysteries that would never be solved. Darcy rolled her eyes but thankfully stopped the onslaught. She certainly had the capability of continuing. She had done it an innumerable number of times before.

  Hugh quickly showed up by my side. He bumped my shoulder with his and gave me a tight smile. “Don’t pay Darcy any mind. She’s just jealous,” he murmured so only I could hear.

  I was so mortified Hugh had heard what Darcy said that I couldn’t respond to his reasoning. But, obviously Hugh had no idea what he was talking about. Why the hell would Darcy be jealous of me? She was pretty, popular, stacked and had the most wonderful fiancé in the world. As complete embarrassment consumed me, I crossed my arms over my flat chest hoping to hide what wasn’t there and did my best to exercise my ability to evaporate into thin air. It didn’t matter that it never worked before. Given the circumstances, it couldn’t hurt to try.

  As my vision focused on the image coming toward me, I awoke from my reminiscent nightmare. I watched in the mirror as Angela emerged from the back room waddling in my direction holding a hideous purple cap in her clutches. My eyes squinted unable to believe what I was seeing. It looked like it belonged on a circus monkey.

  “Holy shit, is that a parrot?” I breathed as I was figuring the entire saga was about to take a turn for the unbelievably god-awful. That dreadful hat was about to find a home on the top of my head. Parrot and all.

  “It’s a blue bird,” the woman answered still coming toward me.

  Junior bridesmaid, my ass. I was slowly being turned into a chump. Or maybe it was a chimp.

  “God help me,” I closed my eyes and prayed.

  This wedding was going to be the death of me.

  Chapter 1

  Darcy Strong, the bride-to-be, and her bridesmaids were very well known in our community. I guess one could say that they had a reputation. They had many actually. The one that spread like wildfire was the one announcing that they were easily ‘accessed.’

  Even I knew what that meant.

  The other which didn’t take much longer to get around was that they were a bunch of bitches.

  That I knew first hand.

  So being in her bridal party was something I could definitely do without. But her mother and my mother had been friends since they were kids. I even called her mother Aunt Dody even though she was not related by blood. So when news came that Darcy was getting married, my mother was Aunt Dody’s first phone call. I remember the squeals like they were still ringing in my ears. Darcy’s would be the first wedding between our families. It would probably be the only wedding for Aunt Dody. Aunt Dody had one other child, a son named Derwood, but he moved out to California as soon as he graduated high school and had officially declared that he was asexual.

  That one I had to look up.

  So Darcy’s wedding was a big deal between the Strong and Welling households. If I never grew breasts Darcy’s might be the last.

  My mother had picked me up straight from school and dropped me off at Angela’s Bridal Emporium. That was over two very long hours ago. After taking a few moments trying to figure out what made a little shop into an emporium, I was bored and starving. The flower girl had been fitted. She went first because she was young and impatient. I was young and impatient but since I didn’t start playing hide and seek under all of the expensive wedding dresses upon entering the boutique, they didn’t care. The bridesmaids went next. There were four of them. Only one took up a lot of time. Apparently she had insisted on them ordering a size four dress because that would give her incentive to lose the weight that she had put on her first year at college. Something about a freshman fifteen. All I know is that she didn’t look any thinner than the last time I saw her and the seamstresses were in a full-blown sweat by the time they were done with her. I heard the silver haired seamstress, who I was guessing was Angela’s sister, say ‘Madonna me’ about a thousand times. By the time they got to me they looked downright haggard. At the sight of me they both threw their arms out to the sides as if someone had delivered a fresh tuna to their door and they had the impossible task of fitting it for a beauty pageant. The older one actually rolled up her sleeves with agitated jerky movements. That was when my lip retreated inside my mouth for the first time. It had made many trips since then.

  They had me try on several dresses after the purple episode. Luckily Angela had come to her senses soon after the ridiculous pill-cap was placed on my head. But it didn’t get much better. Next came a larger version of the flower girl’s dress but thankfully it was quickly dismissed. The older seamstress told me to take it off that all I needed was the pinwheel lollipop, pigtails and white ruffled socks. Then they brought out a dark blue
gown with a bronze sequined bodice. Those were the bridesmaids’ dresses. The older seamstress and Angela crossed their arms simultaneously shaking their heads. A huge sigh escaped me as they studied me trying to figure out what the heck to do with me.

  “What if we just shorten the bridesmaid’s dress? Really short,” the older of the two seamstresses suggested.

  “Nah,” Angela said shaking her head. She was perfectly round and had a very thick Italian-American accent. “She’s-a got those-a tooth-a picks for legs. She-a look-a like she try to wear her mama’s clothes. No good.”

  I looked into the mirror and tried to mimic the scowl on Angela’s face not because I wanted to make fun of her but because I wasn’t sure if the muscles in my face could contort my mouth the way that her muscles were able to contort hers. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t do it. Apparently she wasn’t just a talented seamstress she was also a very good facial contortionist as well.

  “Take it off-a,” she bellowed. “We try anodda one.” She teetered around until she was facing the other direction. She reminded me of one of the toys I used to play with as a kid that refused to tip over no matter how many times you flicked it. She swayed from side to side gaining an inch at a time with every quarter step she took. She finally disappeared behind the green and white, checkered curtain about fifteen minutes later.

  Another huge sigh expelled from my lungs and my shoulders got in on the action drooping so low I was almost in the shape of a ‘c.’

  “Maybe if she stood up straight.” The older one didn’t even attempt to muffle her sarcastic response to the dilemma.

  Angela came back with another dress. It was also dark blue with a cap sleeve and a square neckline. It had pleats at the waist with an excessive amount of tulle under the flared skirt. My face brightened because it had potential. It was the best I had seen even though it had so much tulle I probably would look like Thumbelina. I stepped into the dress and the older seamstress zipped me up. I turned to look in the mirror with hope in my expression. I could see Angela’s face reflected in the mirror. She was still wearing the scowl.