auctioned,” I pointed out to her. “Your talent is.”
But she just shook her head some more.
I could understand Becca, who, when not around us, is pretty shy and all, not wanting to be a part of it. But Jason is totally outgoing…if you can be outgoing and antisocial at the same time.
I didn’t get a chance to really pester him in the car, but fortunately I got a call at home a little later from Kitty, letting me and Catie know that our dresses were ready—along with Pete’s and Robbie’s tuxedos—for our final fittings and asking if we wanted to come over.
“We’ll be right there,” I said, and went and got Catie—who was already doing homework, since fourth grade is the first year they give it in Greene County, and Catie was so excited about it, she couldn’t wait (as this kind of nerdiness is typical of me and the rest of my family, I didn’t become alarmed)—and Pete and Robbie, who were watching MTV2 in the family room, having figured out Mom’s password for the parental V-Chip again.
Then, telling Dad where we were going and leaving Sara in front of Dora the Explorer (so he wouldn’t figure out that we knew about the password), we all ran acrossthe lawn to Jason’s house, where the wedding finery was waiting.
I don’t consider myself a super fashiony person. I mean, aside from the thigh-highs, which I changed out of as soon as I got home, I don’t dress up much.
But the bridesmaid and flower girl gowns Kitty picked out for us are really something special. Sleeveless soft pink—but not in an annoying, girly way—satin shells with even paler pink chiffon floating over them, they are covered all over the hem with clear crystals of different sizes that catch the light and glitter…but not in a trashy, Princess Barbie way. I could totally remove the deep pink sash and wear the dress to the prom. You know, in the unlikely event anyone were ever to ask me.
And the best part of all is, Grandpa is paying for them. Because if it had been left up to Mom, we’d have had to wear matching dresses from the Sears sale rack instead of beautifully handmade gowns from Kitty’s own personal seamstress and dress designer.
“Hello, kids,” Kitty said when we came to the back kitchen door, which is the only one the Hollenbachs use. Their house, which Kitty grew up in, is one of the oldest on our block, a huge Victorian farmhouse (although the farm part got sold off long ago to build other houses on, like mine) with a fancy parquet entranceway the Hollenbachs never use. The house has a butler’s pantry and maid’s room (the attic room Jason had recently moved into), and a button under the dining room table you can press to ring for the maid in the kitchen, whichJason and I used to press so many times when I’d go over there to play as a kid that his mom finally had it disconnected.
“Would you like some lemonade?” Kitty asked.
Which is one of the reasons I’d liked coming over to Jason’s house so much when I was little. For one thing, it was the only house on the block with central air-conditioning, so it was always nice and cool.
But for another thing, his mother always had things like lemonade and fresh orange juice to serve. At my house, the only thing there is to drink, besides milk, is water. From the tap. My dad says we can’t afford to have juice, even frozen concentrate, since it’s so expensive (and besides, whenever by some accident it shows up in our fridge, it is immediately consumed by Pete), and he won’t let any of us have soda or Kool-Aid, because all that sugar isn’t good for you.
Jason can have as much sugar as he wants. And as a consequence, he never wants it.
We glugged down about two gallons of lemonade (Pete drank practically a gallon all on his own) before Kitty could finally persuade us to climb the stairs and try stuff on.
But when we did, it was totally worth it.
“Oh,” Kitty said when Catie and I came out of Jason’s old room, which had been converted into
But she just shook her head some more.
I could understand Becca, who, when not around us, is pretty shy and all, not wanting to be a part of it. But Jason is totally outgoing…if you can be outgoing and antisocial at the same time.
I didn’t get a chance to really pester him in the car, but fortunately I got a call at home a little later from Kitty, letting me and Catie know that our dresses were ready—along with Pete’s and Robbie’s tuxedos—for our final fittings and asking if we wanted to come over.
“We’ll be right there,” I said, and went and got Catie—who was already doing homework, since fourth grade is the first year they give it in Greene County, and Catie was so excited about it, she couldn’t wait (as this kind of nerdiness is typical of me and the rest of my family, I didn’t become alarmed)—and Pete and Robbie, who were watching MTV2 in the family room, having figured out Mom’s password for the parental V-Chip again.
Then, telling Dad where we were going and leaving Sara in front of Dora the Explorer (so he wouldn’t figure out that we knew about the password), we all ran acrossthe lawn to Jason’s house, where the wedding finery was waiting.
I don’t consider myself a super fashiony person. I mean, aside from the thigh-highs, which I changed out of as soon as I got home, I don’t dress up much.
But the bridesmaid and flower girl gowns Kitty picked out for us are really something special. Sleeveless soft pink—but not in an annoying, girly way—satin shells with even paler pink chiffon floating over them, they are covered all over the hem with clear crystals of different sizes that catch the light and glitter…but not in a trashy, Princess Barbie way. I could totally remove the deep pink sash and wear the dress to the prom. You know, in the unlikely event anyone were ever to ask me.
And the best part of all is, Grandpa is paying for them. Because if it had been left up to Mom, we’d have had to wear matching dresses from the Sears sale rack instead of beautifully handmade gowns from Kitty’s own personal seamstress and dress designer.
“Hello, kids,” Kitty said when we came to the back kitchen door, which is the only one the Hollenbachs use. Their house, which Kitty grew up in, is one of the oldest on our block, a huge Victorian farmhouse (although the farm part got sold off long ago to build other houses on, like mine) with a fancy parquet entranceway the Hollenbachs never use. The house has a butler’s pantry and maid’s room (the attic room Jason had recently moved into), and a button under the dining room table you can press to ring for the maid in the kitchen, whichJason and I used to press so many times when I’d go over there to play as a kid that his mom finally had it disconnected.
“Would you like some lemonade?” Kitty asked.
Which is one of the reasons I’d liked coming over to Jason’s house so much when I was little. For one thing, it was the only house on the block with central air-conditioning, so it was always nice and cool.
But for another thing, his mother always had things like lemonade and fresh orange juice to serve. At my house, the only thing there is to drink, besides milk, is water. From the tap. My dad says we can’t afford to have juice, even frozen concentrate, since it’s so expensive (and besides, whenever by some accident it shows up in our fridge, it is immediately consumed by Pete), and he won’t let any of us have soda or Kool-Aid, because all that sugar isn’t good for you.
Jason can have as much sugar as he wants. And as a consequence, he never wants it.
We glugged down about two gallons of lemonade (Pete drank practically a gallon all on his own) before Kitty could finally persuade us to climb the stairs and try stuff on.
But when we did, it was totally worth it.
“Oh,” Kitty said when Catie and I came out of Jason’s old room, which had been converted into
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