That Summer by Sarah Dessen Page A

morning. “I need more than just the six that are left in this pack.”
    “Well, I put them in that same drawer,” my mother answered, her shoes making a scuffling noise across the floor as she went off in search of the notes. “They can’t have gone anywhere by themselves.”
    “Obviously not,” Ashley growled under her breath, that same constantly grumbling, incoherent voice I seemed to hear behind me whenever I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    I heard my mother come back and pull out a chair. “Here they are,” she said in her singsong placating voice. “And I brought this list in so we could go over what needs doing today.”
    “Fine.”
    “Okay,” my mother said, and there was a rustling of plastic that I assumed was Ashley ripping open the new cards. “First, there are the final fittings at Dillard’s today at ten. I know Haven has traded shifts so she can be there, and I called this morning to make sure the headpiece was ready.”
    “She’s probably grown another four feet and we’ll have to get fitted again later,” Ashley grumbled, and I stared at myself in my bathroom mirror, through the steam. I had almost outgrown my mirror, the top of my head barely within the frame. I examined myself, the geometry of my ribs, elbows, and collarbone. I imagined lines intersecting, planes going on forever and ever. My arms were long, lanky, thin, and my knees were hinges holding the bony parts of my skinny legs together. I was sharp to anyone who might brush against me.
    “Ashley, you know your sister is sensitive about her height.” This was the closest my mother came to scolding Ashley, who was old enough not to need it. “Imagine being fifteen and reaching six feet. It’s very hard for her, and comments like that don’t help.”
    “God, it’s not like I’m saying it to her face,” Ashley said bitterly, and I wondered if all those thank-you cards and all that gratitude were having an adverse effect, leaving no niceties for anyone in person. “Besides, she’ll be glad later. She’ll never get fat.”
    “That’s hardly a comfort now.” My mother cleared her throat. “After the fitting we can have our final meeting with the caterer. He called yesterday and said the appetizers are in order and you just have to make some final decisions about desserts.”
    “God, I am so sick of making decisions.” A pause, during which I heard my mother stirring her coffee. “And writing these damn thank-you notes. Does anyone really think that I’m not grateful for their gift? Is it really necessary for me to state it in writing?”
    “Yes, it is,” my mother snapped, and I turned to look at the vent as the words came up through it, surprised at the impatience in her voice. “And I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Ashley, about your attitude lately concerning this wedding and those who are doing their best to make it a success.”
    “Mother,” Ashley began in that bored voice. I could almost see her waving her hand, dismissing the words even as my mother said them.
    “No, you’re going to listen this time.” My mother was hitting full speed now, gearing up. “I understand that you are under a lot of pressure and that it’s hard being a bride. That is all well and good. But it does not, ever, entitle you to be rude, selfish, uncaring, and generally obnoxious to me or Haven or anyone else. We’ve been very patient with you because we’re your family and we love you, but it stops here. I don’t care if the wedding is two weeks or two hours away, you were never raised to behave this way. Do you understand me?”
    And there it was. I stood naked, my eyes fixed on the steel grate of the vent that transmitted my mother’s words, clear as bells, up to my own ears. It was quiet down there now, with only the sound of the ceiling fan creaking in slow circles.
    Then, a sniffle. Another. A sob, and the floodgates opened. Ashley was wailing, her usual response to any justified attack. “I don’t