THE JUNIOR BRIDESMAID

The
Junior Bridesmaid

By
Amy Baker

The Junior Bridesmaid

This
book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn
from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Amy Baker

Published by Amy
Baker

Copyright
ã
2014 Amy Baker

All Rights Reserved

Prologue

I looked in the
dressing mirror with my bottom lip sucked in as far as it would go. There was
no two ways about it. I looked ridiculous. And not just because of the lip
action, although admittedly it didn’t help my overall appearance. No, I looked
ridiculous because of what I was wearing. What the hell was a Junior Bridesmaid
anyway? Maybe this was just one more way for Darcy Strong to torment me.

Conservatively
speaking, there were about a hundred million other things I would rather be
doing at that exact moment in time. Including the horrifying responsibility of
clipping great grandpa Willis’ toenails, which experience had taught me was an
absolute nightmare. You needed a hacksaw to get through those suckers. The last
time I cut them a toenail clipping simulated a shard of shrapnel and stuck in
my brother’s neck clear across the room. After he stopped screaming “I’m hit!
I’m hit!” we had to take him to the emergency room for stitches and a Tetanus
shot where we sat waiting for the ER Doctor for five long hours. Given a choice
between potentially contracting Staph in the emergency room and the bridal shop
where I currently stood, I think the emergency room still held more appeal.
Yet, there I was, at my mother’s insistence, parked approximately six inches
off the ground on a mint green, carpet covered platform waiting for Angela, the
bridal shop owner. She had disappeared behind a curtain at the rear of the
store what felt like an hour ago. She said something about accessorizing before
she began her journey waddling more left and right than she did forward. It was
a wonder that the woman ever got anywhere. I was hoping her unusually long
absence was due to her desperate search for an invisibility cloak that would
cover the heinous dress I was wearing but that was just wishful thinking on my
part. While I waited, lower lip still neatly tucked, my head tilted from side
to side trying to decide which part of the purple dress was more hideous. Was
it the drop waist that landed just above my knees, the large poufy sleeves,
which could double as headrests if I was suddenly stricken with a bout of
exhaustion or the bow the size of Kansas that was parked strategically in front
of my vagina?

Hmm.

Hard to say.

But I definitely
had to go with the bow.

Once my mother
received the exciting news of Darcy’s engagement and the even more exciting
news (to her anyway) that I was being asked to be in the bridal party, her
enthusiasm was difficult to contain. Actually, it was off the charts.

Impossible to
measure.

But despite her
euphoria, I still protested fervently. I
really
didn’t want to be a part of Darcy’s wedding party. But my mother became
insistent.

“Oh, my dear,
Delilah. You need to be more…pliable. This is one of those opportunities you
just can not refuse,” she sang the last word.

This was an
opportunity? What opportunity would that be? The opportunity to be tortured by
the biggest bitch in the county? No matter how hard I tried and I put in quite
an effort, I still couldn’t see my mother’s point of view. So I continued to
dig in my heels. But after days of presenting my case from various different
angles outlining the reasons why I shouldn’t be a part of Darcy’s wedding, my
mother still hadn’t budged. I even stooped so low as to insinuate that it would
take away from my studies which she must have known was bullshit because she
responded with a nonchalant ‘Oh Delilah, don’t be silly.’ It finally occurred
to me that I had no choice but to be in Darcy’s wedding.

Not for Darcy but
for my mother.

Clearly it meant
more to her than I could comprehend or she wouldn’t be so adamant about my
participation. So I stopped resisting and became more, as she put it, pliable.
I even swore that I would embrace my duties as a Junior Bridesmaid even though
I still had not a single clue what those might be. I just couldn’t fathom what
services a Junior Bridesmaid could possibly provide that the bridesmaids, maid
of honor and flower girl didn’t already have covered. With my luck I was
supposed to wipe her ass when she was unable to locate it herself under all
that tulle and shiny material. But, come what may, with my fingers crossed that
it wouldn’t be Darcy’s ass, I decided I would look at the bright side.

And, boy-oh-boy
was there ever a bright side. His name was Matthew Rowen. Otherwise known as,
Hugh, the groom. There was nothing in the world brighter than Hugh Rowen. At
least not for me. And I had been in love with him for as long as I could
remember.

Seeing him on a
regular basis would be far from a hardship. So I planned on participating in
the festivities with a smile on my face and a hint of eyeliner on my upper
lids. Knowing the man of my dreams would be there was a good enough reason for
me to show up and look (okay maybe stare) at the bright side.

But as luck would
have it and I would eventually learn, it turned out the groom didn’t partake in
quite as many bridal activities as I would have thought. So, it didn’t take
long for my positive outlook to wane. Once again I found myself dealing with
Darcy, her attitude, and her circle of wenches with not a whole lot of bright
side after all. Actually the experience on a whole was turning into a virtual
nightmare. Even the eyeliner was becoming irritating.

Gretchen Welling,
also known as my mama, was what others might consider to be a simple woman. She
never had the opportunity to go to college, as Great Grandpa Willis who raised
her didn’t see the point in “investing” in a female’s future. Needless to say,
his ideas were as dense as his toenails. Plus she was insanely in love with my
father in high school and they eloped the day after graduation. But that didn’t
mean that my mama wasn’t smart. She was. And she was always one to share her
sage advice. Granted, sometimes it would seem to come out of left field but
that didn’t make it any less significant or noteworthy.

For example, we
would be in the middle of the produce section at the local supermarket and she
would say something to the effect of, “Always remember when you’re older to
call your grandparents.” I would look around trying to figure out what
triggered the remark. Had she spotted my father’s parents somewhere in the
store? Or were the grapefruits she was squeezing somehow reminiscent of her
grandmother? Usually I was unable to figure it out.

But then there
were other times where Mama’s advice was not only poignant but timely as well.
She had the uncanny ability to seemingly hone in on exactly what was weighing
on my mind. I don’t know how she did it, either she sensed it or knew me so
well that she could feel my mood change. But she could pinpoint my concern or
worry with unparalleled accuracy without my having said a single word. It was remarkable.
One specific incident in particular we were sitting at a red traffic light in
town and she hit the nail right on the head. Walking by, directly in front of
our car in the crosswalk, was Darcy Strong. Had my eyes narrowed in disgust? I
don’t think so. I was fairly certain I had remained purposefully
expressionless. But at that very moment was when my mother chose to share a bit
of her wisdom.

“Hate,” she said
the word crisply, “is a
strong
word.”
Maybe her pun was intended since Darcy’s last name was Strong. Or maybe she had
that sixth sense that mothers always profess to have. But her chosen words
couldn’t have been more accurate. I hated Darcy Strong. And it was blatantly
clear that Darcy hated me. My guess was because I had the audacity to draw
breath. Contrarily, my hatred for Darcy wasn’t unjustifiable. She gave me
countless reasons to despise her over the years.

The most recent
incident involved the premature death of my short-lived bridal party thrill.
She had timed her attack perfectly to achieve maximum humiliation. She probably
caught me ogling her soon to be husband and was hell bent on retaliation. But
in my defense it was impossible to avoid staring at the man. He was that
beautiful.

I wasn’t shocked
when she did it. It was more like an anticipated eventuality. But truthfully it
didn’t hurt any less. We had all been asked to gather at the Strong home for a
mini engagement celebration. When my mother and I arrived we walked into the
living room where we found all of Darcy’s cronies, Hugh, and, of course, Aunt
Dody and her husband, Earl. Aunt Dody was beaming. She had even dressed for the
occasion even though she had downplayed the evening calling it an ‘informal
gathering.’ We all knew as soon as we walked in that the event was a big deal
because Aunt Dody had pulled out the fresh water pearls that her mother had
handed down to her. Between that and the crab salad we quickly realized she was
putting on the dog.

After we had
toasted the couple with pink champagne (I had apple juice, uck) we all sat
around discussing the options for their honeymoon destination. Sand, sun,
Hugh’s shirtless chest in front of a setting Hawaiian sun. I was down with that
conversation. It was all good. Until, of course, the conversation drifted into
what lingerie Darcy was considering for her wedding night. Then the entire
conversation became unbearably uncomfortable. Even Hugh shifted in his seat and
tried to change the subject. Always having the ability to escape into the
recesses of my creative mind, I chose instead to allow my thoughts to drift
back to Hugh’s naked chest. (Oh yes, much more pleasant territory.) Maybe Darcy
witnessed my eyes lower to his perfectly muscled pecs, which were easily
admired through his tight, navy blue, t-shirt because that was when she chose
to deliver her unnecessary and venomous insult. She quickly dropped the
lingerie topic, which way-too-descriptively shared her choice of white lace, La
Perla and began complaining to her friends and not all that discreetly (meaning
she wanted me to know she was coerced into including me in the bridal party)
that she had no idea who I was supposed to walk down the aisle with. Maybe she
could spiff up her mama’s ironing board. Needless to say, that was a dig. One
in a string of many that had been getting more and more deliberately hurtful
over the course of time.

This specific
insult was referring to the difficulty in finding a perfect match to my
figureless body. It’s not like she was bringing something to my attention that
I hadn’t been acutely aware of already. I was completely self-conscious of my
flat chest and curve less body without her pointing it out every time she saw
me. Seriously? What teenage female would want to be as flat as a pancake? But
there wasn’t all that much I could do about it at sixteen. Some of my friends
were
there
but not me. My mother just
said that I was a late bloomer. Just like her sister, Isabeau. When I looked at
Aunt Isabeau I saw a woman with beautiful curves. It was hard to believe that
she was ever flat anywhere.

            Hearing
Darcy’s derogatory remark and the chorus of chuckles that accompanied Hugh
became visibly enraged. His eyes squinted and his nostrils flared in response
to Darcy’s deliberate jab as if hearing it pained him personally. Then he
instantly came to my defense, “Leave her alone, Darcy!” His tone was
unyielding.

I wasn’t sure why
he did it but he truthfully was the nicest guy I had ever met. What he was
doing with Darcy was one of those mysteries that would never be solved. Darcy
rolled her eyes but thankfully stopped the onslaught. She certainly had the
capability of continuing. She had done it an innumerable number of times
before.

Hugh quickly
showed up by my side. He bumped my shoulder with his and gave me a tight smile.
“Don’t pay Darcy any mind. She’s just jealous,” he murmured so only I could
hear.

I was so mortified
Hugh had heard what Darcy said that I couldn’t respond to his reasoning. But,
obviously Hugh had no idea what he was talking about. Why the hell would Darcy
be jealous of me? She was pretty, popular, stacked and had the most wonderful
fiancé in the world. As complete embarrassment consumed me, I crossed my arms
over my flat chest hoping to hide what wasn’t there and did my best to exercise
my ability to evaporate into thin air. It didn’t matter that it never worked
before. Given the circumstances, it couldn’t hurt to try.

            As
my vision focused on the image coming toward me, I awoke from my reminiscent
nightmare. I watched in the mirror as Angela emerged from the back room
waddling in my direction holding a hideous purple cap in her clutches. My eyes
squinted unable to believe what I was seeing. It looked like it belonged on a
circus monkey.

“Holy shit, is
that a parrot?” I breathed as I was figuring the entire saga was about to take
a turn for the unbelievably god-awful. That dreadful hat was about to find a
home on the top of my head. Parrot and all.

“It’s a blue
bird,” the woman answered still coming toward me.

Junior bridesmaid,
my ass. I was slowly being turned into a chump. Or maybe it was a chimp.

“God help me,” I
closed my eyes and prayed.

This wedding was
going to be the death of me.

Chapter 1

Darcy Strong, the
bride-to-be, and her bridesmaids were very well known in our community. I guess
one could say that they had a reputation. They had many actually. The one that
spread like wildfire was the one announcing that they were easily ‘accessed.’