have a baby, I will sure as hell pick a better name than Brick!
'Yeah, you are picky,' Darcy says to me, but for her audience. She takes a sip of punch. 'Take Marcus, for example.'
'Who is Marcus?' Kim asks.
'Marcus is this guy that Dex went to Georgetown with. Nice, smart, funny,' Darcy says, waving her hand in the air, 'but Rachel won't give him the time of day.'
If she keeps it up, they are going to start wondering if I'm a lesbian. Which would make me a true freak show in their eyes. Their idea of diversity is someone who attended an out-of-state school and didn't rush a sorority.
'What, no sparks?' Kim asks me sympathetically. 'You need sparks. Jeff and I had sparks in the eleventh grade and they never stopped.'
'Right,' I say. 'You need sparks.'
'Absolutely,' Brit murmurs.
Their collective advice: don't settle. Keep looking. Find Mr. Right.
That is what they all did. And by God, I think they believe it. Because nobody who marries at the ripe age of twenty-three can be settling. Naturally. That is a phenomenon that only happens to women in their thirties.
'So, have you made a final decision on your baby names?' I ask Annalise, desperate to change the subject. I know she is considering Hannah and Grace if she has a girl, Michael or David for a boy. Wholesome, classic, solid names. Not trying too hard.
'Yes,' Annalise says. 'But we're not telling.' She winks at me. I know that she'll tell me the final decision later, just as she has with the runner-up selections. I am safe. The friend who will never, can never, swipe your baby names.
My specialty is fiance-stealing.
After we play a few silly shower games, Annalise opens her presents. There is a lot of yellow clothing because Annalise does not know whether she's having a boy or a girl. So no pink gifts except for a pink bunny bank from Tiffany, courtesy of Darcy, who says she knows for sure that Annalise is going to have a girl, that she has a very good sense about these things. I can tell that Annalise hopes she is right.
'Besides,' Darcy says, 'even if I'm wrong-and I'm not-did you know that at the turn of the century, pink was for boys and blue was for girls?'
We all say that we did not. I wonder if she is making it up.
Annalise comes to my gift. She opens my card, murmuring to herself. Her eyes fill with tears as she reads my words-that she is going to be the most wonderful mother and that I can't wait to watch it all. She waves me over to her, as she did with the other girls, and gives me a big hug. 'Thank you, honey,' she whispers. 'That was so nice.'
Then she opens my present, an off-white cashmere blanket with a teddy bear border. I spent a fortune on it, but I am glad that I splurged as I watch Annalise's expression. She gasps as she unfolds it, presses it to her cheek, and tells me it is perfect, that she will use it to bring the baby home from the hospital.
'I want to fly back when she's born!' Darcy says. 'I better not be on my honeymoon!'
Whether she does it on purpose or it is simply the way she is wired, something she can't help, Darcy inserts herself into every moment. Usually I don't mind, but after spending ages finding the perfect gift for my second- oldest friend, I wish she would pipe down and stop overshadowing Annalise and me for a nanosecond.
Always the diplomat, Annalise smiles quickly at Darcy before returning her focus to me and the blanket. She passes it around as everyone agrees that it is the ideal receiving blanket, so adorable, so soft. That's what they're saying, anyway. But something tells me that they are all thinking, Not a bad choice from a litigator with questionable maternal instincts.
Chapter 13
When I return home from the shower, my mother follows me into the family room and bombards me with questions. I give her the highlights, but she is insatiable. She wants to know every detail about every guest, gift, conversation. I have a flashback to high school, when I'd come home, exhausted from a day of academic and social pressure, and she would inquire about Ethan's debate-team performance or Darcy's cheerleading tryout or what we talked about in English class. If I wasn't forthcoming enough, she would fill in the gaps, rambling about her part- time job at the orthodontist's office or what rude thing Bryant Gumble said on the Today show or how she ran into my third-grade teacher in the grocery store. My mother is an open-book chatterbox and she expects everyone to be just like her, particularly her only child.
She finishes her inquisition on the shower and moves on to-what else?-the wedding.
'So has Darcy decided on a veil?' She straightens a pile of Newsweeks on our coffee table, waiting for an in- depth answer.
'Yes.'
She moves closer on our couch. 'Long?'
'Fingertip.'
She claps excitedly. 'Oh. That will be beautiful on her.'
My mother is, and has always been, a big Darcy fan. It didn't make sense back in high school given the fact that Darcy never put a premium on studying and promoted a certain unwholesome boy craziness. Yet my mother just plain old loved Darcy, perhaps because Darcy supplied her with the details of our life that she so craved. Even past the perfunctory parental pleasantries, Darcy would talk to my mother as a peer. She would come over to my house after school, lean against our kitchen counter, eating the Oreos my mother had set out for us while she talked and talked. Darcy would tell my mom about the boys she liked and the pros and cons of each. She'd say things like, 'His lips are too thin; I bet he can't kiss,' and my mom would become delighted and elicit more, and Darcy would give it, and I would end up leaving the room to start my geometry homework. Now what's wrong with that picture?
I remember once in the seventh grade, I refused to participate in the annual talent show, though Darcy incessantly heckled me to be one of her two backup dancers in her outlandish rendition of 'Material Girl.' Despite her own shyness, Annalise folded quickly, but I refused to succumb, didn't care that Darcy's choreography called for a three-girl act, didn't care that she said I was ruining her chances of a blue ribbon. Often I would let Darcy talk me into things, but not that one. I told her not to waste her breath, I had no intention of ever setting foot on a stage. After Darcy finally gave up and invited Brit to take my place, my mother lectured me on becoming more involved in fun activities. 'Aren't straight As enough for you?' I asked her. 'I just want you to have fun, honey,' she said. I lashed out, saying, 'You just want me to be her!'
She told me not to be ridiculous, but part of me believed it. I feel the same way now. 'Mom, no offense to you or the second daughter you never had, but-'
'Oh, don't start with that nonsense!' She pats her ash-blond hair which she has been coloring with the same Clairol hue for the past twenty years.
'All right,' I say. 'But truly, I have had it up to here with Darcy's wedding.' I hold my hand four inches above my head and then raise it even higher.
'That's no attitude for a maid of honor.' She purses her lips and scrapes one index finger across the other.
I shrug.
My mom laughs, the good-natured parent, refusing to take her only daughter too seriously. 'Well, I should have known Darcy would be a handful as a bride. I'm sure she wants everything to be perfect…'
'Yeah, she deserves it,' I say sarcastically.
'Well, she does deserve it,' my mom says. 'And so do you… your time will come.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Is that why you're sick of this?' she asks, with the accomplished air of a woman who has watched far too many talk shows on confronting your feelings and nurturing your relationships.
'Not exactly,' I say.
'Then why, exactly? Is she being a pain in the you-know-what? What am I asking-of course she is! That's
