Sister of the Bride by Beverly Cleary

Mrs. MacLane had not been able to put her mind on her cooking. Dessert was canned apricots and Girl Scout cookies, a further sign that Mrs. MacLane had no interest in food that evening.
    After dinner Gordy, with an air of escaping, left the house with his guitar to practice with the other two members of his trio. Barbara wished she could escape, too, and wondered if she should have accepted Tootie’s invitation to the movies. She was torn with a feeling, which was rapidly becoming familiar, of wanting to get away and of not wanting to miss anything. Not long after Gordy left, the doorbell rang, and the two sisters’ eyes met in one tense, understanding look. “I guess I’ll go study or something,” said Barbara.
    â€œWait and say hello,” whispered Rosemary, as she opened the door for Greg.
    Barbara was surprised when Greg stepped into the room, because he looked older than she had remembered him and much more serious. There was an air of determination about him that she had not noticed before. She also observed that he had a fresh haircut, and she was touched by this. Poor Greg. That haircut told her that in spite of his seeming assurance, he was anxious, too. Rosemary straightened his tie, which really did not need straightening, in a wifely, possessive gesture.
    â€œHello, Barbara,” he said, accepting Rosemary’s gesture with a smile.
    â€œHello, Greg,” answered Barbara, with a reticence she had not felt when she had thought of him as just another one of her sister’s dates. “Well…I guess I had better go study.”
    In her room Barbara sat down cross-legged on her bed with her French verbs once more. She heard her mother and father greeting Greg, and for the second time that day her mind was not on her studying. She went over the present subjunctive and the imperfect subjunctive of avoir , only to have them slip right out of her mind without a trace. If Rosemary’s affairs were not settled one way or another soon, she would probably flunk out of school, because she seemed incapable oflearning anything anymore. She closed her book. This was a waste of time, but she had to find something to do as long as she was trapped in her room. She decided to paint her fingernails, something she rarely did anymore, because she considered the task tiresome and a waste of time.
    Barbara opened Rosemary’s drawer and found an assortment of bottles she had left behind when she went away to college. She examined the different shades and names and selected a bottle labeled “Chili Bean.” From the living room came the sound of her father’s voice speaking seriously. Barbara bit nervously at a hangnail, remembered she was supposed to be manicuring her nails, not biting them, and clipped the hangnail off with the nail scissors. Then she began to smooth her nails with an emery board in long, careful strokes. She had the whole evening before her and only ten fingers to work on.
    The sound of voices from the living room was steady. Now Greg was speaking. Now Mr. MacLane. Neither raised his voice, which Barbara felt was a good sign. Never had nails been painted with such meticulous care. Each was filed to a perfect curve, each cuticle was pushed back until perfect half-moons showed. The Chili Bean polishwas tried, rejected, removed with cotton and polish remover, and replaced with a different red. Still the voices murmured on, now Rosemary, now her mother, but most often Greg and Mr. MacLane.
    Barbara’s mouth felt dry. She wished she dared leave the bedroom to get a drink of water, but she did not want to risk interrupting the conversation at what might be a crucial moment. She finally settled on a third shade of polish, called “Tickled Pink,” and began to paint her nails in careful strokes, sweeping from the half-moon to the tip. She worked slowly and carefully to pass the time. When all ten nails were painted she wafted her fingertips through the air to