Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“You can’t have a father-daughter dance to Tchaikovsky,” I say.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Blaine would do this to his own sister!

Well, actually, considering the fact that Dominique is involved, I sort of can.

But that doesn’t make it any less my fault. Why did I tell her about Blaine? He was clearly in a vulnerable state, romantically. Of course he’d have no resistance to her wiles!

And after Luke dumped her, she must have been smarting…of course she’d need the kind of therapeutic balm only a guy with a trust fund can provide a girl like Dominique.

And no matter what Shari might think, it’s my fault Luke and Dominique broke up. Not because he secretly loves me or anything. But because of my encouraging Luke to pursue his medical school dream, instead of Dominique’s living-in-Paris dream…

It really is all my fault.

There’s only one thing, I realize, that I can do. If I want to make things right again for everyone, that is.

The only question is, am I brave enough to do it?

I guess I have to be.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, throwing down my cork-unscrewing napkin.

And I begin marching toward the stage.

“Hey,” Shari calls after me, “where ya going?”

I keep moving. I don’t want to do this. But it’s not like I have a choice. Vicky, I see, is crying now. Craig is attempting to comfort her, as are her parents. The wedding guests are milling around, more concerned about the fact that Vicky seems so upset than about the fact that there’s no music.

“How could he do this to me?” Vicky is wailing. “How?”

“Darling,” Mrs. Thibodaux says comfortingly, “it’s all right. The boys will find something to play. Won’t you, boys?”

Baz, Kurt, and the bass player exchange glances. Baz is the only one with the guts to go, “Um. None of us can sing.”

“But you can still play,” Mrs. Thibodaux snaps. “Your fingers aren’t broken, are they?”

Baz actually looks down at his fingers. “No. But, like…what should we play? Blaine took the playlist.”

“Play something appropriate for the couple’s first dance,” Mrs. Thibodaux hisses.

Baz and Kurt look at each other. “‘Cheetah Whip’?” Baz asks.

“I don’t know, man,” Kurt says, looking alarmed. Or as alarmed as a twenty-year-old who is aggressively stoned can look. “We say ‘fuck’ a lot in that one.”

“Yeah,” Baz says, “but if no one is singing-”

I glance at Luke. He is gazing with concern at his sobbing cousin.

That’s it. I know what I have to do.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I step up onto the stage. Baz and Kurt look at me. The bass player-what’s his name again?-says, “Hey,” and grins at my bare legs.

“Is this on?” I ask, and grab the microphone from its stand.

Is this on Is this on Is this on? My voice seems to reverberate across the valley.

“Oh,” I say. “I guess it is.”

Everyone on the lawn before me turns to stare up at me…including, I see, an openmouthed Vicky.

And Luke.

Who looks like someone just kicked him.

Great.

“Hi,” I say into the microphone. What am I doing? And why am I doing it again?

Oh yeah. It’s all my fault.

I wonder if they can see that my knees are shaking.

“I’m Lizzie Nichols. Blaine Thibodaux was supposed to be up here-not me-but he had, ahem, an emergency-” I glance behind me for support. Baz nods energetically. “Right. An emergency crisis and he had to leave. But we still have the rest of Satan’s Shadow,” I say, flinging out an arm to introduce the band. “Guys?”

The band members shuffle their feet. The crowd, confused but polite, applauds a little.

I seriously cannot believe these guys just signed a multimillion-dollar recording deal.

“So, uh,” I say as I notice Shari, a look of abject shock on her face, weaving her way through the guests toward me, “I just want to say congratulations to Vicky and Craig. You two make a really beautiful couple.”

More applause, this time heartfelt. Vicky hasn’t stopped crying, but she isn’t crying as much. She looks more stunned than anything else.

Sort of like her cousin Luke.

“And, uh,” I say into the microphone. And uh And uh And uh And uh. “Since we’re missing a singer, I thought, in honor of your special day-”

I see Shari, out on the dance floor, shake her head at me, her eyes wide with alarm. No, she mouths. No, don’t do it.

“-my friend Miss Shari Dennis and I will sing a song traditionally played during the newly wedded couple’s first dance where we come from-”

Shari’s shaking her head so fast her bushy hair is whacking her in the face. “No,” she says. “Lizzie. No.”

“-the great state of Michigan,” I go on. “It’s a song I’m sure you all know. Feel free to sing along if you want to. Guys.” I turn around to face Satan’s Shadow. “I know you know it, too. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Baz and Kurt raise their eyebrows at each other. The bass player still hasn’t torn his gaze from my legs.

“Vicky and Craig,” I say, “this one is for you.”

you you you you.

Then I clear my throat.

“‘Now, I,’” I sing, just as I have a hundred times before, at family gatherings, grade-school talent shows, dorm competitions, karaoke nights, and anytime I’ve had one too many beers.

Only this time my voice is so magnified I can hear it carrying all across the lawn…across the vineyard…down the cliff and into the valley below. The German tourists floating on rubber inner tubes along the Dordogne can hear me. The tourists arriving by the busload to look at the cave paintings at Lascaux can hear me. Even Dominique and Blaine, wherever they are, can probably hear me.

But no one joins in.

Well, maybe they need more of a lead-in.

“‘-had-’”

Hmm. Still no one joining in. Not even the band. I turn around to look at them. They’re staring at me blankly. What is wrong with them?

“‘-the time of my life-’”

It can’t be that they don’t know this song. Okay, sure, they’re guys. But what, they didn’t have sisters?

“‘And I never-’”

What is going on? I can’t be the only person here who knows this song. Shari knows it.

But she’s still standing down there on the dance floor, shaking her head, mouthing No, no, no.

“Come on, guys,” I say encouragingly to the band. “I know you know this one. ‘-felt this way before.’”

At least Vicky is smiling. And swaying a little. She knows this song. Although Craig looks a little confused.

Oh my God. What am I doing? What am I doing? I’m standing up here in front of all these people, singing my favorite song of all time-the perfect wedding song-and they’re all just standing there, staring up at me.

Even Luke is staring up at me like I was just beamed down from the starship Enterprise.

And now Shari’s disappeared. Where did she go? She was there a second ago. How can she let me down this way? We’ve been doing this song together since kindergarten. She always plays the girl part. Always.

How could she leave me hanging like this? I know I screwed up with the thesis thing, but how long can you stay mad at someone you’ve been friends with your whole life? Plus, I apologized for that.

Then I hear it. The snap of a snare drum.

Baz. Baz is joining in.

I knew he knew this song. Everyone knows this song.

“‘Oh, I-’” I sing, turning around to grin at him gratefully. Now Kurt’s playing an experimental chord. Yes, Kurt. You got it, Kurt.

“‘-had the time of my life-’”

Oh, thank you, guys. Thank you for not leaving me hanging.

Then a voice not my own booms out, “‘-It’s the truth-’”

And Shari climbs up onstage and comes to stand beside me, singing into the microphone.

And the bass player, whatever his name is, begins plucking out the familiar notes, while below us Craig gives Vicky a twirl…

And everyone applauds. And starts singing along.

“‘And,’” Shari and I sing, “‘I owe it all to you-’”

Oh my God. It’s working. It’s working! People are having a good time! They’re forgetting about the heat, and the fact that the brother of the bride has run off with the girlfriend of their host’s son. They’re starting to dance. They’re singing along!

“‘You’re the one thing,’” Shari and I sing-along with Satan’s Shadow, the Thibodauxes, and the rest of the wedding guests, “‘that I can’t get enough of, baby-’”

I look down and see Luke’s parents dancing along with everyone else.

“‘So I’ll tell you something-’” I sing, not quite believing what I’m seeing below me. “‘This must be love!’”

People are having a good time. People are clapping their hands and dancing. Satan’s Shadow has given the song a kind of Latin beat. Which it’s not supposed to have, but whatever. Now it sounds kind of like Vamos a la playa.

But oddly, this isn’t turning out to be a bad thing.

And then, just as we’re getting to our big crescendo, Shari elbows me, hard-which is not actually part of our choreography. I glance at her and see that her face has gone as white as Vicky’s dress. She points.

And I see Andy Marshall making his way toward the stage.

Fortunately we’ve just warbled our last “And I owe it all to you.” Because if he’d shown up at any other part, I’d have choked on my own saliva.

The crowd bursts into enthusiastic applause, and Shari and I take our bow. While our heads are down by our knees (and I see the bass player duck to see if he can catch a glimpse of what’s going on under our skirts-which, in my case, is going to be quite a lot, if he can actually see up there), Shari says, “Jesus Christ, Lizzie. What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I say back, wanting to cry. “What do I do?”

“What do you mean, what do you do? You have to go talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him! I’ve already said everything I have to say to him.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t say it forcefully enough,” Shari says. “So go say it again.”

We both straighten just as one of Vicky’s friends, to hoots of “Go, Lauren!” and “You can do it, girl!” runs up onto the stage and grabs the microphone from us.

“Hi,” she says to us. “You guys were great.” Then she spins around to the band and cries, “D’you guys know ‘Lady Marmalade’?”

Baz glances at Kurt. Kurt shrugs.

“We can probably figure it out,” the bass player says.

And Kurt starts tapping out the beat.

“Lizzie,” Andy says, standing at the bottom of the stage. He’s got his leather jacket with him, strung over one arm.

What is he doing here? How did he find me? Why did he come? He doesn’t love me. I know he doesn’t love me.

So then why go to all this trouble?

My God. It must have been the blow job. Seriously!

I had no idea a blow job was such a powerful thing. If I had, I’d never have given him one, I swear.

I start climbing from the stage, Shari behind me, whispering, “Tell him to leave. Tell him you don’t want anything to do with him. Tell him you’re going to take out a restraining order. I’m sure they have those in France. Don’t they?”

Andy is waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. His face is white and filled with anxiety.

“Liz,” he says when I reach him, “there you are. I’ve been looking all over this place-”