What Every Girl (except me) Knows by Nora Raleigh Baskin

mostly,” my dad said.
    “We would have come up for the opening,” Mrs. Bloom added. “If Cleo had told us about it.”
    “Mom-my” Cleo began, but my dad interrupted.
    “You didn’t miss anything,” he told them.
    “Oh, you artist types,” Mrs. Bloom chided kindly. I knew I had heard that expression before.
    I sat and listened and ate everything before me. My dad seemed okay with all the questions, so Cleo stopped hissing from across the table. Cleo’s parents turned from one person to the next. They asked Ian about his music and his teachers and his wonderful talent. Ian was particularly talkative. I think he liked the other Blooms more than he liked Cleo these days. Then they turned to me.
    “So, Gabby,” Mrs. Bloom said, “how are you doing in school?”
    I said, “Fine.”
    “What is your favorite subject?” Mr. Bloom asked. I know that sounds like the dumbest question on earth, but I couldn’t help liking him. All through dinner he kept offering me more of whatever I seemed to like. He had filled my glass of soda twice already. My dad never brought soda.
    “Music,” I answered.
    I heard Ian choke on his stuffing.
    “Oh, another musician,” Mrs. Bloom said cheerfully. “Do you play an instrument, too?”
    I looked Mrs., Bloom right in the eye and said, “No, I sing.”
    “How lovely,” Mrs. Bloom said. “Anyone want more stuffing?”
    No one mentioned the upcoming Bloom/Weiss marriage until dinner was being cleared and coffee was perking. Ian, my dad, and Mr. Bloom went into the other room to look at Mr. Bloom’s collection of shot glasses. He had a funny vacation anecdote for each one.
    I didn’t really love clearing the table and scraping the leftover food into the garbage. But I couldn’t complain. I liked it enough being around Mrs. Bloom, and she didn’t seem to mind all that work one bit. In fact, she was only worried if everyone had had enough to eat.
    “Do you think your Larry wanted more turkey?” Mrs. Bloom asked Cleo. “He hardly ate.”
    “Now you’re doing your thing, Mom,” Cleo said.
    I thought for a second they were going to go at it again, but Mrs. Bloom just laughed.
    “Okay, fair enough,” she said. “So when’s the wedding? Do you have a date?”
    “We’re not doing that whole, big, wedding thing,” Cleo told her mom. She slipped the last dish into the dishwasher and flipped up the door.
    “Oh, why not?” Mrs. Bloom’s voice went up like a little girl’s. “You know you always wanted that. When we lived on that commune and we all had to wear plain coveralls, everything simple, remember? You used to say when you grew up you were going to be the most beautiful bride in the longest, most-satiny dress with pearl beads, pink ribbons, and lace.”
    “Remember that, Cleo?” Mrs. Bloom’s voice smiled. She turned off the tap as if she were listening to her own memory. The way she looked into space, I could almost see Cleo’s wedding dress.
    “I remember.” Cleo grinned. “And remember when you had to get a ladder and take me down from that giant Buddha statue because I climbed up there to paint his face?” she went on.
    Mrs. Bloom remembered. “You said he looked sad. You know, as much as you said you’d rather live with the Brady Bunch, you loved it there,” she told her daughter. “You were such a free little thing.”
    My family never did this; the back and forth with memories they had and tried to get the other person to remember. It was like we never existed before the right here and now. The Blooms had stories, and stories about those stories, that made them real, made them exist.
    “Well, maybe a few pink ribbons and a little lace, then,” Cleo said quietly. She leaned against the counter. “Maybe a couple of pearls.”
    That’s when Mrs. Bloom got excited and went on and on. She had a friend whose brother was a big caterer. “You only get married once,” Mrs. Bloom said.
    But that’s when I lost interest and decided to slip out of the