The F-Word

There’s no studly stud waiting in the wings. There’s no guy from GQ hovering. There’s no guy, period.

And maybe that’s the exact reason Bailey doesn’t want to go to the party.

I mean, I remember when Casey was in high school. Eighth grade. We laugh about it now, that eighth grade was not her finest hour. Finest year. You know what I mean. She had braces on her teeth, she was growing so fast that she’d taken to walking so hunched over that I helpfully called her Quasimodo, and a squadron of zits had taken over her forehead.

Of course, by ninth grade she was tall and proud of it; the braces were gone; her skin was flawless. She was gorgeous—she still is—and now we can

think back and roll our eyes.

But not then.

I can recall, all too clearly, her flat-out refusal to attend the eighth grade graduation dance, where she was sure she’d be the only girl without a date.

I clear my throat.

“Weddings always suck.”

Bailey shoots me a look. “It was impolite to listen to the conversation, Mr. O’Malley.”

“I didn’t listen. Well, yeah, I did, but only because I couldn’t avoid listening. I tried not to, remember? I turned on the radio…”

“It’s Cousin Violet who sucks.”

Wow. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard my PA say a mean thing about anyone.

“We’re the exact same age. Exact! We were born on the same day. Same hospital.”

I risk a glance at Bailey. She’s sitting with her arms folded, starting straight ahead.

“My whole life, I had to share birthdays with her.”

“Well,” I say helpfully, “I’m sure it’s not fun to know some other person is—”

“Our mothers made one party. One party! For the two of us. And it always was at Violet’s house because her house was bigger. Her yard was bigger. Big enough for pony rides, even though I loathed them!”

Silence. Am I supposed to say something here? I shoot another glance at her. Yes. It’s my turn, but, shit, what can I…

“Not the ponies,” she says. “I loved the ponies. It was seeing them used like that. You know. Going back and forth, back and forth, kids riding them, yelling, shouting, digging their heels into the ponies’ bellies…”

“I think they probably dug their heels into the ponies’ flanks,” I say, being helpful again.

Bailey gives me a look I deserve. She’s feeling pity for the ponies, and I’m correcting her pony parts.

“And there was always cake. Chocolate cake. I hate chocolate cake!”

This time, I am smart enough to keep quiet.

“With vanilla frosting. I hate vanilla frosting.”

There’s a sign ahead. The ramp for the highway is coming up. Thank you, God. Once we’re on the highway, we’ll be back at the office in less than ten minutes.

“Violet always wore lacy dresses. Ruffley dresses. So my mother made me wear them too.”

Another bleep of silence. It goes on long enough so I know I have to say something, and not what I’m thinking which is that I don’t think ruffley is a word.

“And, uh, and I bet you hated—”

“I did not hate them! I just looked awful in them. Violet was round and plump. I was round and fat.”