“Where’s there ice-skating?” Reagan asks.

I tell them about the college ice rink and my remedial skating. “But I did it,” I say. “I even took pictures.”

Before anyone can ask to see them, I grab my phone and pull them up. Pictures of me pretending to twirl, pictures of Val and me, of Val and Ezra, all enjoying an above-average Thursday night. I look like some magical fairy. You would never guess I could only skate in three-second spurts.

“Isn’t it a nice rink?” I ask. “I am totally going back.”

Reagan peers into the phone, squinting her eyes to see the real picture. Other girls follow suit. They trade suspicious looks with each other.

I hand them the phone and play dumb. “What?”

“Is that...by those doors...?” Reagan starts then cuts herself off. She looks at Kerry, who nods back at her. They hide their smiles.

“What is it?” Huxley asks.

“Yeah. What did you guys see?” I ask. Wow, I didn’t think my acting was this good.

“Nothing,” Reagan and Kerry say simultaneously.

Huxley and I trade confused expressions. Only hers is real.

“May I?” Huxley asks. I hand over my camera. She scans the photo and remains unfazed. “Looks like a fun time.”

She hands the phone back to me. For all any of the girls know, she saw nothing.

Only I caught the slight narrowing of her eyes.

18

“Tom Hanks is such a creep in this,” Diane says through a mouthful of cereal. You’ve Got Mail plays on the TV. Milk dribbles onto her pajama bottoms. “He finds out they’re online pen pals but doesn’t say anything the whole movie. He just uses that insider information to manipulate her into falling for him. And then he drives her store out of business. Oh, and he was dating someone else the entire time. But she couldn’t care less. She’s like ‘La-di-da. I get to kiss Tom Hanks. Screw everything else.’ It’s kind of pathetic.”

“The dog is cute.” I mix the fruit in my yogurt and relax on the Throne.

“Yeah, the dog is kind of cute.”

My mom charges into the living room fully dressed and shuts off the TV. She looks at Diane. “Get dressed.”

“Why?”

“Erin’s son’s first birthday is today, and you’re going.”

“Benjamin Button? Isn’t it technically his eighty-first birthday?”

I laugh. My mom remains dead serious, which makes me laugh more.

“Swing by Toys ‘R’ Us and pick up a toy for Owen.”

“Actually, I was thinking of getting him a carton of cigs and a flask.”

My mom stays planted in front of the TV, arms folded. She’s not backing down this time. I cover my mouth harder to contain myself.

“Becca, do you really find this funny?” my mom asks. No, just awkward. She’s looking for my support, but she won’t get it here.

“Mom, why does Diane have to go? She’ll send a card. How about that?”

“So you think it’s fine that she cuts these girls out of her life?”

“Can you please stop talking like I’m not here?”

“Diane, you’re going. No excuses.”

Why is my mom being so adamant? Can’t she see the fear in Diane’s eyes?

“What else do you have going on today? Are you planning to waste your Sunday on this couch again? You could maybe look for a job and put your degree to work.”

“Why do you care so much about someone else’s baby?”

“Why don’t you care? She’s your friend! Do you remember them? Those girls who called you every day to see how you were doing. The ones who tried to surprise you on your birthday.” My mom shocked even herself with her yelling. She sits down on the empty bit of cushion next to Diane and goes to pat her knee, but Diane pulls them up to her body. “I know they’re in a different stage than you, but you’re going to meet a great guy and it’ll happen, one-two-three.”

“Like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?”

“Exactly!”

Diane swirls her spoon around in the bowl, avoiding eye contact with Mom.

“You’ll see your friends. You’ll socialize. You’ll have fun,” my mom says.

“They can barely be considered my friends. I’m not going.”

My mom swipes Diane’s car keys off the coffee table and retreats back to her TV-blocking position. She’s quick, sprightlier than usual. She prepared for a fight. “Fine, then,” she says. “If you’re not going there, then you’re not going anywhere this month.”

“You can’t do that.”

“We gave you that car. We can take it away.”

Diane pulls herself off the couch, her skin making a Velcro sound against the leather. She scowls at my mom. “Fine.”

“I think you’ll have fun.”

I leap off the couch. “I’m going with her.”

“Good.” My mom relinquishes the keys with ease, quickly returning to her nonconfrontational self.

Diane gives me a relieved smile, as if glad to know someone in this house is still on her side.

* * *

Diane zooms down the highway, one hand on the radio.

“This is going to blow,” she says to me, to herself.

“Is it just going to be a bunch of people staring at a baby?”

“Pretty much. Marian may try to steal some of the attention. Heaven forbid it’s not all on her.”

“Didn’t you tell me she got so drunk at Aimee’s twenty-first birthday party that they took her to the hospital?”

“Yep. She was sobbing in the corner when we sang ‘Happy Birthday.’”

I remember when I visited Diane at college and got to hang out with her friends. Aimee, Marian and Erin were like surrogate big sisters for that weekend. They had all lived on the same floor their freshman year with Diane, all joined the same sorority and all shared an apartment senior year. The “maxipad.” Most of what they talked about were inside jokes that went over my head, but I found them hysterical. They were so cool and, in my head, still are. I would never tell Diane that, though.

We pull into a gated community filled with homes on Martha Stewart steroids. You can tell each new homeowner strove to outdo the last one. We drive down a road overlooking a pond. Diane parks on the street behind an SUV with a Baby on Board decal. Erin’s house has a wraparound veranda, a nod to her Southern roots. Blue balloons tied to the mailbox wave in the breeze.

“Brace yourself,” Diane says. She’s trying to be funny, but I can see she’s scared, and all I want to do is protect my older sister. “You may suffocate from all the smugness.”

I think about the maxipad and how envious I was of a friendship like theirs. I carry a colorful abacus for baby Owen that we found on clearance. “They love you.”

“They love the old Diane, the one scheduled to be married and living in one of these bland, ugly houses.” She stares down the house. Sadness creases her face. She spits her gum out on their lawn. “Ready?”

Erin’s house is full of Pottery Barn furniture, funky paintings and couples. Lots of couples. In fact, all couples. Everyone is in the same uniform. The men have on V-neck sweaters with a collared shirt underneath and jeans. The wives wear sweaters (not in the same color as their husbands; that’s too obvious) and leg-hugging jeans tucked into their boots. Casually formal. We look too casual. Diane cleaned up well, but these women just sparkle. I can sense Diane’s dread of having to walk through this minefield of relationship zombies. She lifts her head and forces a smile. It’s like watching a car salesman, except she’s selling her happiness to the doubters.

I follow behind my sister. Couples huddle together and exchange impassioned small talk. Diane receives a growing barrage of glances and outright gawking. It’s worse than the looks I got at the movie theater. You’d think adults would be more mature. They peer over at us then back to their safe conversations, clutching on to their significant others, infinitely grateful that they were able to fill out society’s checklist. This is my cafeteria in ten years, the next preordained step in their clichéd lives.

Diane and I charge through in our bulky winter coats. She leans into me. “I’ll say hi to Erin, watch the kid crap its pants, then we’ll go.”

“Diane?” Aimee gets up from the couch. Her baby bump peeks out from a flowing blouse. Knowing Aimee, her water will probably break when she’s leading a meeting.

Diane gives her an awkward smile. “Hey.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Aimee says. She doesn’t sound excited to see her friend. She seems nervous.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

“Yeah. Seven months. We’re waiting to find out the sex. We want to be surprised. Like I am right now. Wow! It’s good to see you!” She pulls Diane in for a hug, which looks uncomfortable for all parties involved.

I catch a couple behind me staring at Diane and whispering between each other. Look, there’s that sad single girl, I’ll bet they’re saying. But they don’t have the malicious grins of gossipers. They seem nervous, too.

“Hey, Becca! I haven’t seen you in forever,” Aimee says. Her eyes scan the kitchen entrance.

“Diane?” Marian joins us from the basement. Her wedding ring could blind somebody on a sunny day.

“It’s a minireunion,” Diane says.

“We didn’t know you were coming,” Marian says.

“Well, I’m here.”

Marian and Aimee trade glances. Their necks crane over me toward the kitchen entrance. It’s like they have a competition over who can be ruder and more obvious.

“This is a surprise,” Marian says. “You should’ve told us you were coming.”

“Well, I didn’t. Where’s Owen?” Diane asks. A caustic tone overtakes her voice.

“I think she’s feeding him. She’s wearing white pants, too, the brave soul,” Marian says. She twirls her ring on her finger, but has to move her middle finger to make it go around.