Chapter One
There’s going to be a wedding
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject line: News
Dear Grandma, Mom, Dad, Aunt Bernie, Uncle Craig, Mary, and Luke,
I am getting married. His name is Justin.
Sincerely,
Eden M. Collins
Someone hacked Eden’s e-mail account. That’s the only explanation. My cousin has never mentioned a guy—ever. She works in a hospital laundry to avoid people, and she takes college classes online for the same reason. Eden’s social life revolves around church bingo with Grandma.
I start my computer’s virus-scanning software in case I got infected by opening the message. Once Grandma replied to a scam e-mail about a Nigerian prince who needed money so he could hire a lawyer to collect his inheritance. She told the fake prince she’d be happy to help out as long as he paid her back. Aunt Maggie took her computer to a shop to have it cleaned up so the scammer couldn’t get Grandma’s personal information.
But my virus scan turns out okay. And all the e-mail addresses are correct. Everything looks normal. If this news is real, then Saint Anthony of Padua, the Patron Saint of miracles, had something to do with it. Church bingo is not a dating service.
Another e-mail pops into my account.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject line: Will you be my junior bridesmaid?
Dear Mary,
Grandma just replied to my e-mail announcing my wedding. She said I should ask you to be my junior bridesmaid because young cousins are perfect for that role. She asked about a maid of honor, and I don’t plan on having one, so I guess you’ll be both, in a way, if you know what I mean.
Will you be my junior bridesmaid?
Sincerely,
Eden M. Collins
So it is true! Eden’s humor is straighter than uncooked spaghetti. If she doesn’t joke about jokes, she definitely wouldn’t joke about her own wedding. And she wants me to be a junior bridesmaid. I guess that means I’ll get a pretty dress and matching shoes with heels. Maybe even a manicure! I’ve always wanted a real-deal manicure, the kind you see on models and rich ladies.
And then I think of something. Something that makes me smile really wide. I jump up from my desk, kneel down on the floor, and sweep my hand across the carpet under my bed until I find my notebook filled with Patron Saints. I flip through the pages until I find Saint Anthony of Padua, the Patron Saint of miracles. I put a big star next to his name because he’s delivered two miracles. First, Eden is getting married, and second, the timing is perfect. Any minute now my principal will be calling Mom to tell her about my fight with Brent Helzinski. But surprise wedding news is way bigger than your never-in-trouble, straight-A daughter getting a week of detention.
I flip to a clean page in the notebook. After getting called to the school office today, I have a new saint to add to the notebook, a guy I’m going to need: Dominic Savio, the Patron Saint of juvenile delinquents. I make a star by his name and say a quick prayer. Dear Holy Saint Dominic Savio, I guess I’m one of yours now. A juvenile delinquent! Me. The good kid. The principal said normally kids get suspended for fighting, but she’s giving me a break because I never do stuff like that. Help! Brent is making me crazy!
The phone rings. My whole body freezes. Downstairs Mom’s voice is high pitched and happy, but I can’t make out her words. Everything goes quiet, so I guess she hung up. High pitched and happy. That was not a call from my principal. My body relaxes, and I flop back onto my bed.
The phone rings again seconds later. This time her voice is deeper. During most of the call she’s silent.
Seconds tick into minutes. Long seconds, long minutes.
Footsteps pound down the hall, and I sit up just in time to look casual before my bedroom door opens. Mom steps into the doorway, shaking her head and drilling her hands into her hips.
“I just had two very interesting phone calls.”
“Oh?” I try to sound very innocent, but I’m not sure I’m succeeding. I’m an inexperienced juvenile delinquent.
“The first was Jon Hellmer,” she says. Mr. Hellmer is the youth group director at our church. “Guess why he called?”
“Does he need me to volunteer for something? That’s usually why he calls.”
“No, that’s not the reason. It seems he worked with Father Benson to nominate you for the Minnesota Church Youth Group Member of the Year Award. That award is based on integrity, volunteer service, and being a role model for younger kids. Integrity means being honorable and good.” She crosses her arms. “You won the award. You know why that’s ironic?”
Here we go.
“Why?” I ask.
“Less than sixty seconds later your principal called.” Mom takes a deep breath. “She said you punched Brent Helzinski in the face. That is not integrity!” Her Pump Quick uniform shirt is untucked, and her hair hangs in a droopy ponytail. Since Dad moved to North Dakota for the new job, Mom always looks like she just rolled out of bed.
“I’m sorry. It’s complicated, Mom.”
She sighs, and the anger seems to float out of her body with her breath. “Why in the world would you punch Brent Helzinski? That boy has enough problems. His mom practically lives in the bar.”
“He’s a bully.”
“Violence is never the answer. It’s never an option, Mary.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something ginormously important to tell you.” I take a breath and swoop in with my distraction. “Mom, Eden is getting married!”
“What?” She leans against the door, like she might fall over without support.
“You need to check your e-mail. She wrote to all of us. She’s getting married to some guy named Justin.”
Mom tightens her ponytail. Whenever she’s nervous, she tugs at her hair. “Maggie would’ve told me.”
“Aunt Maggie got the e-mail, too. We all did.”
“Let me read it.”
As she leans toward the computer screen, another e-mail from Eden lands in my inbox. Mom reads the new one out loud:
Dear Grandma, Dad, Mom, Aunt Bernie, Uncle Craig, Mary, and Luke,
You are all probably wondering if Justin is Catholic. The answer is no, but please don’t worry. He is taking classes to convert.
Sincerely,
Eden M. Collins
Mom looks as if she’d jump in the car and make the four-hour drive to Aunt Maggie’s house if she could. She tucks in her work shirt. “I should call Maggie, but I don’t want her to hear it from me. Leave it to Eden to send an e-mail. Who does that?”
“Eden. Eden does that,” I say. “She wants me to be in the wedding.”
“That’ll cost a fortune.”
“Do you want me to tell her no? She said that Grandma told her to ask me.”
“Of course she did,” Mom mutters. I can practically see images of expensive wedding dresses in her brain. Details of the Brent fight are evaporating, and my mood improves by 100 percent in seconds. Mom continues, “E-mail! That’s no way to tell your family important news. We’ll be together next weekend for Easter. Why not tell us then?”
“Because it’s Eden. She doesn’t like talking when we’re all together in a group. It makes her anxious.”
“She didn’t even tell us she had a boyfriend. This is crazy. Just crazy. Poor Maggie. And Uncle Will! It’ll break his heart.”
“Doesn’t your shift start at four-thirty? You only have fifteen minutes.”
Mom checks the time on her phone and shakes her head like she can’t believe she’s running late again. “Listen, Luke has a spelling test. Please go over his words. I didn’t have a chance to get groceries because the guy was here fixing the furnace. Warm up the leftover meatloaf. Make sure you both eat a vegetable, too. And please fold the towels in the dryer.”
“I will.”
“And do your own homework.”
“I know.”
“And load the dishwasher if you’ve got time. Only if you have time. Homework first.”
“I’ll have time.”
“Thanks, honey. I know I can count on you.” She disappears into the hall, calling to Luke, “Mary’s in charge. You need to listen to her.” Then she pops back into my room. “If Dad calls, don’t say anything about Eden. He didn’t get the e-mail because he still doesn’t have Internet at the motel.”
“Why can’t I tell him?”
“Once he hears about you being in the wedding, he’ll just worry about how much it’s going to cost.”
“But what if he asks?”
Mom looks at me like I’m stupid. “He’s not going to ask, ‘Is Eden getting married?’”
“He’ll say something like, ‘What’s new?’”
“Mary, I’m not saying it’s a secret forever. Just tell him nothing is going on because, actually, nothing is really going on. It’s not official news until I talk to Maggie, right? We don’t even know if it’s 100 percent true.” If the Pope ever decides to pick a Patron Saint for Truth-Stretching, my mom will be a top candidate. She’s the Master of the Not-Exactly-A-Lie.
“Okay.”
With that final instruction, she leaves. The front door slams, and in seconds the car is rumbling. It rattles and coughs and stalls. The engine screeches as she starts it again, and the rumbling fades away.
I flop on the bed. Crisis averted! But at the back of my mind a question lingers: What mom forgets her daughter just punched a kid?
Even worse, what girl wins an award for being nice the same day she punches someone? What girl is proclaimed a junior bridesmaid hours after getting lectured in the principal’s office?
Me—a responsible daughter, a sweet big sister, a devoted Catholic, the nicest girl in school. Mary Margaret Miller. The girl who knocked down the school’s meanest bully with a mighty right hook.
Text copyright © 2016 by Shelley Tougas
