Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“Isn’t that a type of orange?”

“Gran. You know what I mean. She’s perfect for him.”

“So?” Gran sounds offended. “And you’re not?”

“No, Gran,” I say miserably. “I’m not. I’m just… I… I—”

I don’t know how to go on, really, or what more there is to say. I find myself, for one of the first times in my life, at a loss for words. How can I explain to her just why it is that Valencia is so perfect for Chaz—for any guy, really—whereas I, on the other hand, am not? So not.

Gran, however, comes to my rescue.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says. “I know. You’re engaged. I heard. Engaged isn’t married, you know. Engaged isn’t dead. Listen, I gotta go. My show’s coming on. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen them all before. But that’s one of the good things about getting old. I can’t remember how a single one of these goddamned episodes turns out. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hangs up. I do the same and turn around to find Ava looking up at me with a wounded expression on her face.

“You’re going somewhere on the Fourth of July?” she asks sadly.

It takes me a minute to register what she’s saying. Then I shake my head.

“Just to a barbecue,” I say. “At my best friend’s house. In Brooklyn.” When Ava continues to look stricken, I add, “Ava… you can come, if you want to. But… won’t you have other plans? I mean, the Fourth of July isn’t for another week. You’ll probably have gotten a better invitation by then.” And, please God, you won’t still be staying at my place.

“I don’t know,” Ava says. “Maybe. Chaz is going to be there?”

“Yes,” I say slowly, wondering what she’s getting at.

“I kind of have been wanting to see this guy,” Ava says. “You talk about him so much. Maybe I’ll just stop by. Oh, there he is!” She points a French-manicured finger at the screen.

And I have the privilege of gazing, for the first time, at DJ Tippycat.

He is surprisingly normal looking—a bit on the short side, slightly balding, and wearing a shirt with the word “Wonderbread” written on it. In fact, if Shari were here, she’d accuse him of being a nebbish.

“Wow,” I say. “He’s… that’s… ”

“I know,” Ava says with a sigh. “Isn’t he hot?”

And I realize that there really is no accounting for taste. At least when it comes to DJs. And, I’m pretty sure, princes.

And philosophy Ph.D. candidates.

When, during medieval times, marriages represented not only the joining of two people but of two families, or even two countries, it was necessary for the bride to dress to impress, meaning layering on the bling… not just jewels, but the costliest furs and materials that could be found, as she was representing her noble lineage.

So were introduced the first wedding gowns… the richer and more powerful the bride’s family, the wider the sleeves and the longer the train.

Obviously, those on the lower social rungs attempted to copy the richies until… well, everyone’s wedding gowns were long and flowing.

It wasn’t until Queen Victoria chose to wear white to her wedding to Prince Albert that the color became the most popular choice for wedding gowns. Until then it wasn’t thought to represent brides or purity—blue was!

But white has stood for brides ever since, and we have the Victorians to thank for it… along with the concept of evolution, free public education, and don’t forget Jack the Ripper!

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

While starlets such as Sarah Jessica Parker might be able to get away with a black wedding gown, a touch of white to acknowledge the special nature of the day is generally appreciated. Wearing all black on your wedding day is actually considered bad luck. While it hasn’t appeared to affect Sarah (as of this writing), really—why risk it?

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

I wake the next morning to the sound of a horrified gasp.

I spring from the couch—ignoring the crick in my neck, brought about by having spent the night on a less than comfortable sleeper sofa that does not, in fact, fold out—and lunge for the window, where Ava is standing.

“What?” I demand, expecting to find a dead body, at the very least. But all I see are a few dozen paparazzi lying in wait below.

Ava points a trembling finger at them. They haven’t yet noticed that she’s spotted them; they are leaning against parked cars, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee from Starbucks cups.

“How,” Ava demands, in a sleep-roughened voice, “did they find me?”

I blink down at the rough-and-tumble cameramen, with their beards and their cargo pants and their multiple lenses.

“How should I know?” I ask. I try not to sound as cranky as I feel. I’m not really a morning person, and feel even less so after my night on the couch. “I didn’t tell anyone you were here.”

“Well,” Ava says. She’s scooped up Snow White and is clutching her to one silk pajama—ed breast. “I certainly didn’t tell anyone I was here.”

“Little Joey?” I ask.

Ava shakes her head. “No way. Are you sure you didn’t tell anyone?” Ava has begun tearing about the apartment, gathering up her things and stuffing them back into her seven suitcases—as much as she can do so one-handed, since she’s still hanging on to her dog. “What about Luke? Could Luke have told anyone? Maybe he’s mad at you for breaking up with him.”

“We’re not broken up,” I remind her. “I told you, we’re just on a break. Besides, he doesn’t even know who you are.”

I notice Ava’s lower lip jut out a fraction of an inch, but she chooses to ignore this ill-timed reminder that not everyone is addicted to Google Entertainment News.

“Well, what about your friend Shari?” she asks. “You told her not to tell anyone I was here, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” I said. “She’d never say a word. What about your limo driver? Would he have told anyone?”

“Absolutely not. They all sign a confidentiality agreement with the company they work for. He’d never breathe a word, not if he didn’t want to lose his job.” Ava pauses as she’s jabbing numbers into her cell phone. “What about your grandmother?”

I immediately begin chewing my lower lip. Gran. I’d forgotten to tell Gran not to tell anyone that Ava Geck was staying in my apartment. But surely she wouldn’t—

“Yeah,” Ava says, looking away from me. “That’s what I figured.” Someone picks up on the other end of the line she’s dialing. “Joey?” she barks into the phone. “Code one. We’re compromised. Come now.”

“But she wouldn’t have told anyone,” I insist, trailing after Ava as she heads into the bathroom. “I mean, Gran didn’t even know for sure it was you. And she wouldn’t have known who to call. She doesn’t exactly have TMZ or whoever on speed dial!”

“Yeah,” Ava says, looking tight-faced. “Well, she sure seems to have caught on fast, hasn’t she?”

It’s all I can do not to burst out with, You’re the one who picked up the phone! You’re the one who taught her how to program the season pass on her TiVo!

It’s not Ava’s fault, though, I know. It’s mine. Me and my big mouth. As usual.

“Ava,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m really just so, so sorry.”

“Whatever,” Ava says, with a shrug of her slim shoulders. I notice she can’t seem to make eye contact with me. “I’m going to take a shower. When Joey gets here, will you buzz him up? He’ll buzz three times quick in a row, then twice, real slow, so you’ll know it’s him. Okay?”

I nod. I feel terrible. “Ava—”

“Just let him in,” Ava says. “Okay?”

I nod again, then back out of the bathroom so she can close the door. A second later, I hear the water turn on.

I can’t believe this. What a disaster! The integrity of Chez Henri has been totally compromised. Not to mention my own personal integrity. Not that I had much of it to begin with.

Still, I can’t believe Gran of all people had been the one who’d called the paps on Ava. She wouldn’t even have known how to do it. It’s not as if it matters—the damage is done, obviously—but I have to know. I have to know if it’s really my fault. I pick up the phone and call my parents’ house. Gran picks up on the first ring.

“What?” she demands.

“Gran,” I say. I keep my voice low, in case Ava hasn’t gotten into the shower yet and is eavesdropping, as she is all too wont to do.

“Who is this?” Gran demands. “Lizzie? No one’s here. Your dad’s at work, and your mom’s at the Y. Your sisters are all God knows where—”

“That’s okay, it’s you I want to talk to, anyway,” I say. “Did you say anything to anyone about Ava Geck staying at my place?”

“Well, good morning to you too,” Gran says. “Did you shtup him yet?”

“Gran,” I whisper. “I’m serious. Did you tell anyone about Ava?”

“Of course not,” Gran says, sounding annoyed. “Who would I tell? No one talks to me except you. I’m just crazy old Gran, too drunk for anyone to take seriously—”

I feel myself begin to relax. It hadn’t been my fault after all. For once in my life, it hadn’t been me—

“Although,” Gran says, in a different tone, “your sister Rose was skulking around last night while I was talking to you.”

I feel my blood run cold. If it had been Sarah, I wouldn’t be worried. But Rose is a different story.

“Do you think she heard you?” I ask.

“I know she heard me,” Gran says. “She asked a lot of questions after I hung up, like why I was asking about Ava Geck, and what Ava Geck was doing at your place. I just told her what I knew—”