can't look out the window she gets airsick. I wanted to tell her that this principle of car travel does not apply in a plane, but I didn't bother, just surrendered to her demand. In the past I would have done so mindlessly, but now I feel resentful. I think of Ethan and Hillary and their recent statements about Darcy. She is selfish, plain and simple. And this is the truth, regardless of my feelings for Dex.
A forty-something man with a crew cut has the aisle seat to my left. He has glued the entire length and width of his right forearm to our shared armrest, elbow to fingertip. He drinks and turns the pages of his magazine with his left hand so as not to lose ground.
The pilot announces that the skies are clear and we will be landing ahead of schedule. Darcy announces that she is bored. She is the only person I know, over the age of twelve, who says with great regularity that she is bored.
I glance up from my book. 'Did you already read your Martha Stewart wedding issue?'
'Cover to cover. There's nothing new in there. And by the way, you're the one who should be reading it. There's an article on favors-you promised you would help me think of an original idea for favors,' she says, as she adjusts her seat the whole way back and then up again.
'How about matchbooks?'
'You said original!' Darcy crosses her arms. 'Everybody does match-books! That's just a given. I need a proper favor, in addition to matches.'
'What does Martha suggest?' I ask, marking my place in my novel with my thumb.
'I dunno, hard stuff to make. Labor-intensive stuff.' She looks at me plaintively. 'You have to help! You know I'm no good at crafts.'
'Neither am I.'
'You're better than I am!'
I turn back to my book, pretending to be engrossed.
She sighs and chews her Juicy Fruit more vigorously. And when that doesn't work, she hits the spine of my book. 'Raa-chel!'
'Okay! Okay!'
She smiles, unabashed, like a child who doesn't care that she's made her mother miserable, only that she got what she wanted. 'So you think we should do something with d?'
'D?' I ask, playing dumb.
'You know, a d… for Dex and Darcy. Or is that cheesy?'
'Cheesy,' I say, which would have been my answer even before the D and R days.
'Okay-then what?' She checks the number of fat grams in her snack mix before casting it into the seat-back pocket in front of her.
'Well, you have your sugared almonds in netting tied with pastel ribbons… or mints in a tin with your wedding date,' I say as I exert slight pressure with my left elbow, trying to wedge it in a tiny crevice on my armrest. In my peripheral vision, I see Crew Cut flex his bicep in resis-tance. 'Then you have permanent keepsakes like Christmas tree ornaments…'
'Can't. We have too many Jewish guests-and honestly, I think some people who celebrate Kwanza,' she interrupts, proud of her diverse guest list.
'Okay. But you get the point. That genre. Permanent keepsakes: ornaments, homemade CDs with your favorite songs.'
She becomes perky. 'I like the CD idea! But wouldn't that be expen-siver
I give her a look that says, yeah, but you're worth it. She eats it up. 'But what's another few hundred dollars in the scheme of things, right?' she asks.
I'm sure her parents would love this statement. 'Right,' I patronize.
'So we could have, like, The Darcy and Dex Soundtrack and put our all-time favorite songs on it,' she says.
I wince.
'Are you sure it's not cheesy? Tell me the truth.'
'No, I like it. I like it.' I want to change the subject but worry that this will spark a discussion of my maid- of-honor shortcomings. So instead I strike a thoughtful pose and tell her that although the CDs would be time intensive and expensive, they would make a lovely, special favor. Then I ask her if Dex would like the idea.
She looks at me as if to say, who cares what Dex wants? Grooms don't matter. 'Okay. Now help me think of some songs.'
I hear Shania Twain singing 'Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?' Or maybe Diana Ross belting out 'Stop! In the Name of Love!' No, all wrong, I think. Both songs cast Darcy in the role of noble victim.
'I can't think of one song. My mind's a blank. Help me think,' Darcy says, her pen poised over her napkin. 'Maybe something by Prince? Van Halen?'
'I can't think of any either,' I say, hoping that Bruce Springsteen doesn't make the cut.
'You sure it's not cheesy?' she asks.
'It's not cheesy,' I say, and then whisper, 'This guy next to me is really pissing me off. He won't give me any of the armrest.' I turn to quickly survey Crew Cut's smug profile.
'Excuse me! Sir!' Darcy leans over my lap and pokes his arm. Once, twice, three times. 'Sir? Sir!'
He casts a disdainful eye her way.
'Sir, could you please share the armrest with my friend here?' She flashes him her most seductive smile.
He shifts his arm one centimeter. I mumble thanks.
'See?' Darcy asks me proudly.
This is the part where I'm supposed to marvel at her way with men.
'You just have to know how to ask for what you want,' she whispers. My mentor in dealing with the opposite sex.
I think of Dex and July Fourth.
'I might have to try that,' I say.
My parents call my cell right after we land, to confirm that Darcy's father picked us up and to ask if I ate on the plane. I tell them yes, Mr. Rhone showed up, and no, they stopped serving dinner on the New York to Indy flight about ten years ago.
As we pull into our cul-de-sac, I spot my father waiting for me on the front porch of our two-story, white- aluminum-sided, green-shuttered house. He is wearing a short-sleeved, peach-and-gray plaid shirt and matching gray Dockers. By any measure, it is an 'outfit,' and it has my mother written all over it. I thank Mr. Rhone for the ride and tell Darcy that I'll call her later. I am relieved that she does not ask if we can all get together for dinner. I've had enough wedding talk and know that Mrs. Rhone is incapable of discussing anything else.
As I cross Darcy's yard into my own, my dad throws up his arm and gives an exaggerated, overhand wave as if signaling a far-off ship. 'Hello, counselor!' he belts out, all grins. The novelty of having an attorney daughter has yet to wear off.
'Hi, Dad!' I kiss him and then my mother, who is hovering at his side, already examining me for possible signs of anorexia, which is ridiculous.
I am nowhere near too thin, but my mom does not accept New York's definition of thin.
As I field their questions about my flight, I notice that the hall wallpaper has changed. I advised my mother against wallpaper, told her paint was the way to go for a fresher look. But she stuck with wallpaper, switching from tiny floral print to slightly tinier floral print. My parents' taste has not evolved since around the time that Ronald Reagan was shot. Our home still has lots of country touches-cross-stitched expressions of good cheer like 'Back- door friends are best,' a scattering of wooden cows and pigs and pineapples, stencil borders throughout.
'Nice wallpaper,' I say, trying to sound sincere.
My mom doesn't buy it. 'I know-you don't like wallpaper, but your father and I do,' she says, motioning me into the kitchen. 'And we're the ones who live here.'
'I never said I liked wallpaper,' my dad says, winking at me.
She shoots him a practiced look of annoyance. 'You most certainly did, John.' Then she tells me in a whisper, designed for him to hear, that, in fact, my father picked the new paper.
He gives me a 'Who, me?' expression.
