I Now Pronounce You Someone Else (3 page)

“So you’re having dinner with your ex-boyfriend Monday night,” Jared said to me, leaning across the table, wanting to get the information just right, “because your mother invited him over.”

“And his parents,” I said lightly. “Don’t forget his parents.”

“Right. His parents.”

“And about forty-five other people who, fortunately, are all pretty normal.”

“Boyfriend, his parents, forty-five normal people. Anyone else?”

“Possibly Jesus.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Uh-huh.”

“But you know, you just never know when Jesus is going to show up,” I said and quickly explained what I meant by that, how he had missed any number of Second Comings, adding, “But there’ll be another one the next time Peter’s up from Ann Arbor.” (He went to the University of Michigan and had had so many different majors by then I lost track.)

Jared and I were at Rose’s Restaurant for our first date, Friday, May 28. Six-thirty in the evening. Fifty-nine degrees. Cloudless pale sky. Our server’s name was Mindy.

I remember every single detail of that night.

“So what does Peter make of the fuss?” Jared asked.

“He pretends it embarrasses him, but he loves it. He gets to make an entrance every time he comes home,” I said. “Hey, you know what I just read in the paper?”

“You read the newspaper?”

“No, I just like saying that before I make up some fact.”

He grinned. “No, it’s not that,” he said. “I’m just impressed. I didn’t start reading it until a couple months ago.”

“Campus paper or the
Holland Sentinel
or the
Grand Rapids Press
?”

“Yeah, I read the
Anchor
,” he said of Hope College’s newspaper. “I meant a real paper.”

“Hey,” I said, laughing a little in friendly protest. “The
Anchor
is a real newspaper, and so is
East Vision
, which I happen to write for. And I’ve applied to be editor next year.”

“
East Vision?
Editor? No kidding?” His eyes and smile widened. “That’s great. I didn’t mean any offense. I sit here happily corrected and waiting to hear all about the articles you’ve written.”

“Really?”

“No, I just like saying that,” he said, obviously delighting in repeating some of my own words. “Tell me. What’s the most recent one I can read online?”

“Uh.” I tried not to laugh. “It’s an article about conservation and going green, and it’s called—and I’m serious—‘Flushing Wastes Money.’”

“‘Flushing Wastes Money,’” he pondered, looking up at the ceiling a moment. “Brilliant. Can’t wait to read it.”

And just the way he smiled—the kind of smile that exists only for you and anticipates the next good thing coming from you, or that whatever comes from you next is bound to be good—made my heart beat a little faster. Made my breath come just a little quicker.

He didn’t smile that way at anyone else that night.

I hoped he wouldn’t smile like that at anyone else ever.

“Does your mother save your articles?” he asked.

“She reads them. I don’t think we keep them. I mean, I can get them online. Does yours do that kind of stuff?”

“My mother,” Jared said by way of important introduction, “is a riot. In the best way. The woman has not only saved every single report card my sister and I have ever gotten, but she has bound them in little laminated notebooks. And they’re sitting in their proper places on the bookshelves in our den. And as soon as Lauren gets married—” His older sister, by four years. “—we’re going to have to move or build an addition strictly for pictures and photo albums. I don’t think there is a spot left in our house or our cottage for one more framed anything. I’m sure your parents are the same way.”

“Are you going down to your cottage this weekend?” I asked.

The Sondervans owned a big, pale yellow and white Victorian cottage, complete with a wraparound porch,
right on the beach in Holland. They were invited to Mother’s Memorial Day Family Cookout annually, but they always declined since that was traditionally the weekend they opened their place.

“Tomorrow morning,” Jared said. “Lauren’s bringing her fiancé. It’s supposed to be sunny and warm all weekend.”

“That’s got to be great.”

“You like the beach?”

“I love it. It’s one of my two Most Favorite Places on Earth.”

“What’s the second one?”

“Uh…it’s a secret.” I smiled. “A girl’s got to have some, right?”

“Oh, I’ve got to know.”

“The only way I will ever tell you is if—” I emphasized
if.
“—if you and I are sitting in the exact spot on a blanket at the same time.”

“A blanket. Why a blanket?”

“Because it involves a blanket.”

“Any particular color blanket?”

“No. But I like a good Scottish plaid.”

“Ah, well, now I’m dying of curiosity, but—” He held both palms toward me. “I completely respect your right to a little mystery. I have a secret myself. Want to know what it is?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t tell you,” he said through a smile. “You should come down to Holland Monday, hang out with us, but, oh, that’s right,” he teased. “You have a date with your ex-boyfriend.”

“It’s not a date.” I scrunched up my face a moment. “He might think it’s a date.”

“Please don’t tell me the whole Chad thing is secret too,” he said, and it wasn’t, so I told him the grim details—changing the Let’s Lose Our Virginity part to
He just wanted to go further with the relationship than I did.

Jared called that
pretty cool.

We talked over salads and wood-fired pizza and dessert, which was cheesecake. Jared suggested it, and I agreed, even though I dislike it. But I’m not ketchup-averse to it, so we split a piece, by which I mean I picked at it, eating a few small, slightly sour, and unpleasantly sticky bites.

I just wanted to prolong the date.

Talking about Chad led to stories about football, baseball, prom, and miscellaneous ex-girlfriends of Jared’s, culminating with his latest. He never mentioned her by name, just referred to a rough breakup in February—I was dying to ask for details but didn’t—and said they were both better off now.

Rough, indeed. I would have guessed rough had he not said so. Just for a moment, I watched as his smile and his easy laugh slipped away, replaced by a more somber and even distant aspect. Something in his eyes—sky blue surrounded by long, fair lashes—told me he remembered something unpleasant.

I wanted to touch his hand.

But then with a tilt of his head and the redirection toward me of those eyes—those gorgeous eyes—his smile returned and so did his ease.

“So flushing wastes money,” he said.

“Yes, it does. But,” I added, “you should splurge and do it before company comes over.”

We talked all the way out of Rose’s, a steady conversation I interrupted only once to say a cheery hello to friends of my parents’ I passed on our way out. It was only about nine o’clock. The air was cool. We both had jackets, so when Jared said, “You want to—” I interrupted with, “—take a walk?” in keeping with my Prolong the Date theme.

“I was going to say rob a bank,” he said.

“Oh, sorry. I’ll have to pass.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to cut down on that myself. So it looks like a walk.”

A long one.

And slow.

East Grand Rapids was settled in the 1830s by the Dutch, who populated the place with tulips and blondes. Both thrived and are thriving still and have made this community of about ten thousand a picturesque and successful little place.

The yards and the blondes are very well manicured.

Signs at a couple main entrances to the area welcome guests and residents alike with the boast that our thirty-eighth president, Gerald R. Ford, grew up here.

My grandfather hates the signs. Every time he passes one, he grumps, “No one actually voted him into office.” Ford’s funeral was held at the very church my family has
been attending since before I was born, Grace Episcopal Church, which further irked Granddad.

“Tied up the church and the traffic all weekend,” he fumed. “And for what? A non-tithing member.”

All of East Grand Rapids is pretty, but the prettiest part of all is Reeds Lake, two hundred and eighty-three gorgeous acres of water where people sail in the summer and ice fish in winter. The three acres of thick grass tumbling into the lake from Lakeside Drive and dotted with park benches, boat launches, and trees is called John A. Collins Park. The north end of the park is where Rose’s sits.

Jared and I walked from Rose’s through downtown, just a block away. One main street, Wealthy—yeah, I know—runs perpendicular to Reeds Lake and is lined with shops and businesses and restaurants and Jettas and BMWs. We popped in at the Java Bean for coffee to go, said hello to ten friends between us, and continued down Wealthy, back toward Reeds Lake, then turned north past the high school and beyond.

It was nearly eleven when we returned to Jared’s car outside of Rose’s. It felt like nine thirty.

Of course, that would have meant that we crammed all that lovely conversation into thirty minutes, and we rushed nothing. Just talked.

A few minutes later, Jared dropped me off at home, walked me to my front door, and said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And he left.

No kiss good night.

Hmm. And here I thought we were having such a good time—the same good time—the same good time leading up to the same Good Night Kiss.

I felt thoroughly confused.

About an hour later, a little past midnight, I was in bed watching something stupid on television when my phone rang.

“It’s tomorrow,” Jared said by way of hello.

“It is tomorrow.”

“I promised I’d call.”

“I like how you keep promises.”

“I never promise what I can’t keep. So good night, Bronwen. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

“Dream of me,” he said.

Dream of you? I’m doing that while I’m awake.

First thing in the morning—literally, I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet—I called Kirsten and we talked for over an hour. She asked all the right questions.

Wait, what were you wearing?

Did he say he liked it?

Where did you sit—across from or next to him?

Who ordered first?

And then what did he say?

And then what did you say?

Did he laugh?

How did he end it?

“He called,” I said and described the short conversation.

“Dream of me?” she thrilled, and Kirsten rarely thrilled over things. “Oh, my gosh. That’s so romantic.” She laughed. “Listen to me.”

“I know. I feel exactly the same way.”

“Just remember that every relationship is great at the beginning.”

“I remember,” I said, and I meant it.

We had figured this out years ago, which is one reason I never told Chad I loved him. Everybody loves everybody during the first three or four months of any relationship. And then the newness wears off, and, suddenly, it’s as if a spell breaks. And no matter where you are—dinner, class, the Lake—you look at the guy with completely clear eyes and think,
Yuck.

And all that’s left is a Big Ugly Breakup, because now you’re embarrassed you ever went out with the guy—never mind saying
I love you
to him—and he’s still thinking he’s going to have sex with you in your parents’ basement. So you want to get as far away from him as possible and tell him never to touch you again as long as you live, and the poor guy can’t figure out why suddenly you’ve become an entirely different person, one he doesn’t like very much. And it’s all because you both made the Big Dumb Mistake of saying
I love you
during the first few months of the relationship.

There should be a law against this.

Then I told Kirsten the two blights on the evening:

1. Jared did not kiss me good night, and
   
2. I passed Mr. Dykstra and
   Sandy
   on my way out of Rose’s.
   

I knew they’d tell Chad they saw me out on a date. It should have come from me.

Kirsten called both of these events “curious but nothing to worry about.” Still, I felt I needed to call Chad, by which I mean I dreaded calling Chad.

“Yeah?” he answered, fourth ring.

“Uh—” I sat up a little against all the pillows on my bed. “—Chad?”

“Yeah. What do you want, Bronwen?”

“Um. Do you have a minute?”

“That’s about all I have.”

“Did your parents tell you I saw them last night?”

“Yeah. You and your new boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a…friend.”

“But you went out with him.”

“Chad, I think we need to clear something up.”

“I don’t really think so. I’m pretty clear on everything.”

“No, I really—I think you’re not.”

“Nope. Totally clear, thanks,” he snapped. “Clear about you and your new boyfriend and the bullshit of you wanting me to come to your parents’ party. I mean, what was that?”

“I never said I wanted you to come,” I said too quickly.

He was quiet just a few seconds. Then he laughed—that short burst of disgusted laughter. “That’s great, Bronwen. Really nice.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you to come. I just never said—”

“So you do want me to come?”

“I—it’s up to you.”

“Do you or don’t you want me to come?” he practically demanded.

“It’s up to you,” I said again, by which I meant
No, I don’t want you to come, particularly if you’re going to be like this.

“No. I want to hear it from you. Yes, you want me there. Or no, you don’t.”

“Do whatever you want,” I said.

“Whatever I want?” Chad snapped. “Okay. Here’s what I want. I want you to quit calling me. I want you to quit talking to me at school. And I want you to quit acting like we’re friends. How’s that for clarity?”

And he hung up abruptly, and that really didn’t go the way I hoped it would.

I called Kirsten back directly. “Didn’t he just say a week ago that he loved you?” she said.

“Yes, he did.”

“Huh. Interesting definition of love he lives by. Why didn’t you just tell him not to come?”

“He was already upset.”

“So?”

“I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“For you or for him?”

“Yeah, I know. Both, I guess.”

Big sigh. “Well, Pheebs, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll get over it. After all, there are apparently eight girls ready and waiting to drop their panties for him. No doubt he’ll be in love with one of them soon.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’ll be committed the same way he was to me.”

Lucky her.

In the kitchen that morning around eleven, I kissed Sam, took a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, and announced to Mother and Whitt—online and online
respectively, different computers—that I would not, definitely not, thank you very much, be attending their cookout on Monday.

I missed their initial expressions as I opened my soda, took a few sips, and petted Sam some more. When I looked up at them, they were staring blankly at me.

Finally, Mother said, “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. You love that party.”

She turned back toward the computer at her desk.

“I like that party,” I said, emphasis on
like.
“And I’m not kidding. I’m not going. I’m going over to Kirsten’s.”

“Oh,” Mother happily dismissed me. “You’ll come.”

“Bronwen, what’s going on? Why not come?” Whitt asked.

“I don’t want to,” I said.

Whitt shut down his computer there on the breakfast bar and turned to face me. Mother was reading Peter’s e-mail, which, she reported, contained “some very nice things about Jared Sondervan.”

“Do you want to tell me why?” Whitt asked.

“Not really,” I tried, but his set jaw wouldn’t accept that. “I don’t want to be around the Dykstras,” I said and saw, peripherally, Mother’s head snap around. “It’s just going to be too awkward.”

“Too awkward?” Mother asked.

“Why?” Whitt asked. “I thought everything was okay between you and Chad.”

“Well, it’s not.” I faced Mother to say, “And I really don’t want to go into it, so can we just leave it at that?”

“And just what do you expect me to tell them when they ask why you’re not here?”

At first, my eyebrows asked
Are you kidding me?

“Why don’t you tell them I’m over at a friend’s house,” I managed.

“And what about Chad?”

“He’s not invited.”

This time, Mother’s eyebrows said
Not funny.

“Chad’s not coming to the party,” I said. “I just got off the phone with him.”

“I’m calling Sandy,” Mother said, reaching for the phone.

“That’s a great idea, Mother. Mess it up some more if you can. That’s how all this started.”

“All what started?” Whitt asked.

“Mother screwing everything up—”

“I beg your pardon.”

“—when she called Mrs. Dykstra, told her things I never said, and got Chad thinking we were getting back together, which, trust me, is never going to happen, and you don’t want it to.”

“I do not like—”

“What do you mean, Bronwen?” Whitt asked.

“—your tone,” Mother snapped. “You said you and he were friends. That’s all I told Sandy.”

“No, it isn’t,” I snapped back. “And anyway it wasn’t your place to tell her that or anything. It was between Chad and me. Why couldn’t you just stay out of it, particularly if you were going to get everything wrong?”

“Your mother was just making sure you and Chad were both okay,” Whitt said.

“That’s right. His parents are our friends, and we wanted them to know we were concerned about their
son too,” Mother said, and I stared at them, speechless, at least a couple of seconds.

“Well, the next time you talk to
your
friends about
their
son, you might want to let them know that
their
son broke up with
your
daughter because she refused to have sex with him.”

“Eh,” was all Mother managed.

“Downstairs. In our basement,” I said. “On prom night. He said it would be special if we lost our virginity together. I didn’t think so. I had to push him off me. Most parents would give me a medal. You two want to make sure I was nice to Chad because, God forbid, there should be any problems anywhere between you and any of your friends. Let alone because of something I said or did. And what is with her—” I just had to add. “—wanting me to call her Sandy? It’s too weird.”

Mother looked like she just ate a bug. Whitt seemed to be studying his arms, folded across his chest.

Seconds passed in total, by which I mean seething, silence.

I exhaled.

“I’ll be upstairs,” I said, heading out of the room. “Call me if the Dykstras stop by. I’ll be sure to come down to say hello so that it’s not
awkward
for the four of you.”

“We can do without the sarcasm, Bronwen,” Whitt said.

“Yeah,” I said on the steps. He couldn’t hear me. “I know.”

We didn’t talk about much at dinner—not even the news, although it was on in the background.

Some nights were like that.

The brightest part of my day was an evening call from Jared, who said, “Hey, I’m sorry I can’t talk long. I just wanted to say hi and that I’m thinking about you. You’re probably thinking about your boyfriend.”

“Nope,” I said lightly. “No boyfriends around here.”

“Well. None yet,” he said, and I believe I did the little
Yes!
dance as he said, “All right, I’ve got to run. We’ve got people coming over, and I need to go flush all the toilets.”

We hung up laughing.

Sunday morning, I entered the kitchen in time to hear Mother say over the phone at her desk, “Yes, downstairs on prom night. In this very house. And she said no, and that was it.”

I froze, my hand half an inch from the refrigerator door.

“Oh. Oh, wait. She’s just downstairs,” Mother said, as I whipped around to her radiant smile, a cheerful, “Good morning, honey,” and a kiss on the cheek before she handed me the phone, which I took robotically.

“Go on,” Mother said. “It’s your grandmother.”

Somehow—to this day I have no idea how—I
managed to produce the words “Hi, Gram,” but that was about it from my end for the next eight or nine minutes as I listened to my grandmother explain that some boys in this world are only after one thing—“getting into a girl’s pants.”

I spent Memorial Day with the Vaases—Kirsten, her two younger sisters, and their parents, who insisted that I and all their children’s friends call them Mr. and Mrs. Vaas.

Mr. Vaas is a paramedic. Mrs. Vaas is a surgical nurse. Both of them told me they were proud of the way I handled The Chad Situation—Kirsten tells her parents everything—and I thanked them.

Mr. Vaas said, “I expect you to handle this Jared fellow the same way.”

“Okay,” I said and turned a little pink.

It was a good blush.

I actually kind of enjoyed it.

Around ten o’clock that night, Mother and Whitt knocked on my bedroom door and asked—
oh, geez
—if they could come in to talk.

“Sure,” I said, pretending breezy cheeriness. “It’s open.”

I was sitting at my desk, fooling around with different combinations for a new Summer Before Senior Year
Playlist. Mother sat on the edge of my bed. Whitt stood rather near the doorway.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Bronwen, Whitt and I—” Mother looked back at him. “—want you to know that we’re very proud of you, very proud, for not giving in to—”
Please don’t say peer pressure.
“—peer pressure.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I think they appreciated my smile, which was really just an attempt to keep from gagging or giggling or something rude that would wreck Mother’s moment.

“You’re welcome,” she said and moved to hug me, which I received with all the grace of a cardboard cutout.

Whitt winked at me, and we said good night, and I shook my head when they left, wondering if maybe the Vaases were my Real Parents.

But no.

They’re all blond. Like Mother. Like Peter. And like me, except not like me.

Not at all.

Not even that.