Bounce by Natasha Friend Page A

looks at me with big mascara eyes. These girls are so different from my friends in Maine. I don’t know how to act around them.
    â€œWell,” I say, “my Latin teacher is sort of a pita.” I still don’t know what a pita is; I can only hope I used it right.
    â€œOhmyGod, you take Latin ?” This from Chelsea Ableson, my homeroom buddy.
    â€œIsn’t Latin, like, dead ?” asks a girl with dangly earrings.
    â€œUm,” I say. “Yeah, but I’m thinking of transfer—”
    Andrea holds up her hand. “Latin helps with your S.A.T.s. We should all be taking Latin. Shouldn’t we, girls? Evelyn here will probably get into Harvard. Won’t you, Evelyn?”
    Everyone nods in agreement.
    It’s Evyn, I want to say. Not Evelyn. But I don’t dare correct her.
    â€œSo,” Andrea says. “Did you find out who Ajax likes yet?”
    â€œAlmost,” I tell her. “I should know for sure by Monday.”
    She smiles. “Good work.”
    Everyone else smiles, too.
    Translation: I’m allowed to sit here until the bell rings.
    The night before a wedding means you have to rehearse. Which means, in my case, tossing imaginary flower petals on the carpet as I march in time to the organ version of “Love Me Tender” by Elvis.
    Phoebe is glued to my side, like we’re field-trip buddies on our way to the aquarium. Behind us is Thalia. Followed by the sweater twins. Followed by Eleni, who is holding fake flowers but shedding real tears. The acoustics in this church are faaantastic. Everyone will be able to hear her crying for joy. She is just so head-over-heels in love with my father, she’s overflowing.
    I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about it.
    I will look straight ahead and focus on the groomsmen. On one groomsman in particular, who tomorrow will be wearing a tux and looking beyond gorgeous.
    Stella? It’s me.
    This time she has her head down so I can’t see her face.
    Stell?
    She’s never done this to me before—not responded. I give her a minute, but she doesn’t look at me, so I start right in,
    Can you believe tonight? Eleni and her whole “I never thought I’d love again and then I met Al” speech? I thought I was going to barf right there at the table. Of COURSE she had to cook for the rehearsal dinner instead of us going to a nice restaurant like normal people because it’s all about HER. Have I mentioned how much I am beginning to hate hummus? I can’t believe Birdie is actually going through with this. I can’t believe I have to wake up in the morning and put on an orange dress and pretend to be happy, when—
    Stella is looking at me now. Her eyes are red, but she is as beautiful as ever. Oh, honey, she says.
    For a moment, all we do is look at each other.
    You’ll be there tomorrow, I say finally. Right?
    She gives a laugh that is more of a hiccup. You want me to come to my own husband’s wedding?
    I nod. My throat is so tight I can’t talk.
    Stella fishes around in the pocket of her bathrobe. She comes up with a tissue and blows her nose hard. When she’s done, she folds it and puts it back in her pocket.
    You’re not going to make me dance the chicken dance, are you? she says. Because I really hate the chicken dance.
    You can sit that one out, I tell her.
    She gives me a tiny smile. In that case…
    She means that she’ll be there tomorrow, and I’m so relieved that a million hot tears start pressing against my eyeballs, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
    Luckily, the sweater twins snore so loud, an armored tank could plow through the wall and they wouldn’t wake up.
    At least they won’t hear me cry.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    In the limo, I’m squashed between Thalia and the bride, who has on a tan dress. Tan. Not that she should be wearing white; it’s obvious she’s no virgin, but come on.