• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"You call that calligraphy, Mother?"

"What do you mean?"

"The addresses are all running downhill!"

"No one is going to notice."

"Everyone is going to notice! I only let you do it because you promised it would look professional!"

"You think I enjoy doing this? If Grant didn’t insist on inviting three hundred people, we might have been able to afford professional calligraphy."

"Don’t blame Grant."

"Well, his family is twice as large and has ten times more money than we do. It would be nice if they helped out a little."

"That’s not the groom’s responsibility, Mother."

"This is the twenty-first century; it’s time for traditions to change. The bride’s family shouldn’t have to pay for everything anymore."

"Well it’s just too bad you don’t have a boy …"

Matthew Michael Darling. Born August 16. Died September 1.

I don’t know what fell faster, my sister’s face or my mom’s tears. Mom ran out of the room but my sister stayed put, knowing there wasn’t anything she could do or say that could take it back.

"You are such a bitch," I said in that quiet, calm way that makes vicious words sound even worse.

Bethany’s mouth went slack. She couldn’t believe what I had said.

I couldn’t believe it myself. I’d never said anything like that to anyone in my family before. I got up and went to my room before I found out what would happen. No way could I stay there, though, sticking Lovestamps on the envelopes.

About a half hour later, my mom came up and told me that what I had said to my sister was totally inappropriate. Her eyes were rimmed red.

"And like what she said wasn’t?"

"She’s got a lot on her mind," my mom said, running her finger along the dust on my dresser. "She didn’t mean what she said. You did. Which is why I want you to apologize."

"You’re right, I did mean it," I said, bitterly. "But I’m not going to apologize. No way. I’m not sorry. I wouldn’t expect you to understand."

"And why not?"

I wanted to say, Because you’re exactly like her.

"Because Hope is the only one who understands."

Then my mom did her combination There’s no use talking to you–Stop moping over Hope speech and told me I wasn’t allowed out for the rest of the night, which, of course, was a blessing in disguise.

the twenty-fifth

I had to get away from my mom. So today I gave hanging out with Hy a try.

"I’m amped that you called," she said. "I was supposed to chill with my girls, but my aunt is being a bizotch and won’t drive me to the bus station. So I’m stuck here."

"Sorry," I said. "I’ll be right over."

Hy’s aunt lives on the far side of Hope’s old neighborhood. Her house is the same model as Hope’s except all the rooms are on the opposite side: Hope’s kitchen is on the left, Hy’s kitchen is on the right; Hope’s living room is on the right, Hy’s is on the left.

You get the idea.

Anyway, I had such a feeling of topsy-turvy déjà-vu that I thought, Omigod! Maybe Hy is destined to be my best friend. Maybe she’s the Bizarro Hope. Then I started collecting supporting evidence:

Hope has natural red hair.

Hy has black hair with (currently) artificial blue streaks.

Hope is 5 feet 11 inches tall.

Hy is 5 feet 1 inch tall.

Hope used to play the baritone horn.

Hy used to play the flute.

I just about had myself convinced. But then, in a perfect example of how I can make the ludicrous legit, I thought, Wait—if she were Bizarro Hope, her initials would be W.H., not H.W.

And that ended that.

I kind of enjoy going over to someone’s house for the first time because I can check out her or his bedroom. A bedroom reveals a lot about what’s important to a person.

Bridget’s room: Highlighted newspaper clippings, mushy greeting cards (on the inside of every one: To B., Love Ya, B.), and dried carnations tacked to a bulletin board. Football practice jersey (Roy 33) hanging on the back of her door. Countless couple pics in frames, wedged in her mirror, loose and waiting to be put in a photo album, including: B. and B. at homecoming, B. and B. in