“Hi!” Asher says with false enthusiasm and a clap of her hands. “Now that we’ve all said hello, can we keep this moving?”
The ceremony itself, which takes place on the patio, goes smoothly, except for a couple flower girls who love the petals so much, they can only bring themselves to part with one or two every few feet. Finally, one of their mothers intervenes and throws fistfuls of petals, which makes everyone laugh. Victoria looks stunning in her strapless A-line dress and hair comb, Lincoln the epitome of dapper. If I didn’t know they were being filmed, I wouldn’t be able to tell. They have this way of tuning out the cameras honed over a dozen episodes of reality TV.
A glass is broken and everyone shouts “Mazel tov!” and when my jaw starts feeling strange, I realize it’s because I’ve been smiling. Guess I’m more excited than I thought for another episode of Perfect Match.
No mistakes at dinner, either. No dropped plates, no embarrassing toasts. I can almost feel the weight of this day lifted from my family’s shoulders. The cake has been waiting in the middle of the room all through dinner, and toward the end of the meal, I head back toward the museum restaurant to retrieve a knife. This is the last cake cutting I’ll be part of for a while—that’s what I’m thinking when my shoe snags a camera cord and I stumble, toppling forward and flinging my arms out, grasping for anything to break my fall—
—and that “anything” turns out to be one of the velvet curtains.
It happens both in slow motion and in a single heartbeat, the tearing of the curtain from the ceiling, the shouts from the wedding guests, the gasp that might be coming from my own throat.
And the unveiling of a painting with the most well-endowed guy of the bunch.
Parents clap hands over children’s faces. “What on earth?” says one little old lady, while another puts on her glasses to take a closer look. In some distant part of my brain, I hope that’s the kind of old lady I become.
Somehow, I don’t spontaneously combust from embarrassment, which is the way I’ve always assumed I’ll die. With my body half beneath the curtain, I decide I shall hide under it for the rest of my life. This is my new home. The men in the paintings will be my only friends. It will be a good life, a simple life.
Except something wild happens. People start laughing. A few chuckles at first, but then it spreads, a wave that takes over the whole room until even Victoria and Lincoln join in.
From where they’re standing near the exhibit entrance, just off camera, my parents and sister look amused too. Horrified, but amused. Maybe this will be okay. I haven’t ruined the wedding—I’ve just turned it into a comedy.
The room is in such an uproar that no one immediately notices the smoke rising from the other end of the curtains.
At least, not until the fire alarm goes off.
Followed shortly by the sprinklers.
Miraculously, the art is safe, but the cake and most of the decorations are ruined. Months of work—gone.
Tarek and his mom run to a nearby bakery to buy out all their cakes while the guests dry off outside. The crew is still filming, despite Victoria’s mother’s best efforts to shut them down. Victoria waved her off, told her she didn’t care if they documented this disaster. “Lincoln and I are married,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
The curtain swiped a candle on its way down, and if there’s a better metaphor for my relationship with my parents going up in flames, I would like to hear it.
“We got lucky,” Dad is saying as we clean up the exhibit-slash-reception alongside the museum staff. Asher’s outside with towels and extra articles of clothing she scrounged from our emergency kits, trying to keep the guests from further losing their collective shit. “Everyone’s okay. Victoria and Lincoln are okay. This could have easily been much worse.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say for the hundredth time, guilt and embarrassment fighting for control, both intent on making me feel as shitty as possible. My wet hair isn’t helping either. “I don’t know what happened. I just—I just tripped. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”
Mom rolls up a tablecloth so tightly, I’m worried she might use it as a weapon. “I realize mistakes happen, but something of this magnitude? You knew how crucial it was to be on top of our game today. All these people trusted us. That’s what this job is—trust.”
Mistakes happen. Why, then, do I get a lecture and her endless, aching disappointment any time I make one? My allergic reaction, the missed trip to the florist, the forgotten walk-through. If I were a vendor, they’d simply stop working with me. But because they can’t, this is what happens. It’s not just a mistake. It’s the destruction of the biggest wedding of their career, and I’m the easiest person to blame. The cake could have flipped over onto my head of its own accord, and I’d still be the one getting berated.
I drop silverware into a large gray bin, each damp clang turning my guilt to anger. “Right. People trust us to make sure their flowers are the right shade of blue.”
“I don’t exactly see how sarcasm is helping right now.” Mom attacks another tablecloth. “It doesn’t matter how insignificant a request seems. It’s our job to do everything we can to make it happen, and we’re good at it. It’s the reason we’re able to put food on the table, the reason you’re able to go to such a good school.”
“I know that,” I snap. Of course I appreciate what they
