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By Root 400 0

complete with a flouncy crinoline. It wasn't inherently awful, not like those lacy headbands that new parents put on baby girls until they've grown enough hair not to be mistaken for boys. Indeed, it was a lovely dress, one that surely cost more than the contents of my entire wardrobe. But on Marin, it just looked all wrong. And she felt wrong in it. She usually zipped around the room, from person to person and thing to thing. Marin has a true love for life and people. To see her slumping in her chair was just too depressing. But I didn't want her to feel any worse than she already did.

“It's a pretty dress, Marin.”

She rolled her eyes like a pro. “Did Mommy tell you what to wear today?”

Wow. She's a real smart-ass.

“Not today.” I kneeled down next to her. “But your mommy once made me wear a dress that I didn't want to wear.”

“Really?” she asked, sounding mildly interested. “When?”

“When she and your daddy got married,” I said.

“Five years ago,” she added, proud to know this fact.

“Yes,” I said. “And it was waaaaaaay uglier than this one. It was long and yellow and it made me look like a banana.”

This made her giggle.

“That's right,” I continued. “I'm lucky I didn't get dragged off by a gorilla!”

She thought this was positively hysterical. And when I started making EEE-EEE-OOO-OOO-AHH-AHH-AHH ape noises, she just about bust her little gut. Kids are so damn easy sometimes.

“But you know what, Marin? Even though I was wearing this ugly dress, I didn't let it ruin my day. I danced and had a lot of fun.”

But this last part of my speech was unnecessary. Marin was already out of the chair at this point, bopping up and down to the band's very unhip version of “Hey Ya!”

“Let's go, Auntie J! Let's go!”

Hm. Maybe I'm good with people after all, because the two of us took over the dance floor with sweaty, ass-shaking abandon. I felt pure, unself-conscious joy, just as I had when I was wild and wet in the waves. The moment felt elastic, as if I could stretch my happiness beyond this particular moment in space and time . . .

That is, until I felt someone grab my shoulder.

“Omigod! Jess!”

It was Sara . . . with Scotty and his huge head trailing behind her.

“What are you two doing here together?” I asked, putting my hands in the air, and waving them like I just didn't care, as the band had directed.

“You don't know?” she tugged Scotty's arm. “We've been hanging out for a while now.”

It's ironic that she didn't use her quote-unquote catchphrase around the words hanging out, considering how it's the commitment-phobic euphemism for any vague relationship consisting of drunken, semiregular hookups. Scotty had the confused look of a time traveler who had just beamed five hundred years into the future but couldn't remember how he had gotten there.

“Wow,” I said, rolling my shoulders in time with the music. “You make a perfect couple.” I was telling the ugly truth.

“I know!” she shouted. “Omigod! I heard about you and . . .”

“Not now, Sara!” I said, twirling away from her. “Not ever!”

“You and Len!” she shouted, ignoring my order. “You—”

“No! No! No!” Marin screeched as she stomped on Sara's foot. “Go away!”

“That's my girl!” I shouted as I hoisted Marin up and swung her around.

“Brat!” Sara seethed as she hobbled off the floor. I swear I saw a smile on Scotty's face as he followed her.

I could have danced all day with Marin. But my mother had other ideas.

“It's time for the Not-So-Newlywed Game!” my mother trilled, taking me by the arm.

“Now?” I asked.

“Yes, now,” she replied, handing over the question cards. “Let's get the game show on the road!”

Four sets of chairs were dragged onto the dance floor. Couple #1: The Doczylkowskis (junior). Couple #2: The Doczylkowskis (senior). Couple #3: The Darlings (my parents). Couple #4: The D'Abruzzis (Sara's dad and stepmom).

“Uh, hi everyone,” I murmured into the microphone.

“Speak up!” my mom shouted.

“I'm Bethany's sister, Jessica,” I said, slightly louder, but without much gusto. “Your host for the Not-So-Newlywed Game.”

Okay. You've seen The Newlywed Game—husbands