Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“But fashion history?” Dr. Rajghatta looks concerned. “There are many opportunities available in this field?”

“Oh, tons,” I say, trying not to remember how just last weekend I picked up a copy of the Sunday New York Times and saw that every fashion-related job in the want ads-besides merchandising-either didn’t exactly require a bachelor’s degree, or did require years of experience in the field, which I don’t have. “I could get a job in the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Sure. As a janitor. “Or as a costume designer on Broadway.” You know, if all the other costume designers in the world suddenly died at the same time. “Or even as a buyer for a major high-end fashion retailer like Saks Fifth Avenue.” If I had listened to my dad, who’d begged me to minor in business.

“What do you mean, a buyer?” Grandma looks scandalized. “You’re going to be a designer, not a buyer! Why, she’s been ripping her clothes apart and sewing them back together all weird since she was old enough to pick up a needle,” she tells Dr. and Mrs. R, who look at me as if Grandma has just announced I like to salsa naked in my spare time.

“Huh,” I say with a nervous laugh. “It was just a hobby.” I don’t mention, of course, that I only did this-reinvented my clothing-because I was so chubby I couldn’t fit into the fun, flirty clothes in the junior department, and so I had to somehow make the stuff Mom got me from the women’s department look younger.

Which is, of course, why I love vintage clothes so much. They’re so much better made-and more flattering, no matter what your size.

“Hobby my ass,” Grandma says. “See this shirt here?” Grandma points at her stained tunic. “She dyed it herself! It was orange, and now look at it! And she hemmed the sleeves to make them sexier, just like I asked!”

“It’s a very beautiful top,” Mrs. Rajghatta says kindly. “I’m sure Lizzie will go very far with such talents.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling myself blush beet red. “I mean, I could never…you know. For a living. It’s just a hobby.”

“Well, that’s good,” her husband says, looking relieved. “No one should spend four years at a top college just so that she can sew for a living!”

“That would be such a waste!” I agree, deciding not to mention to him that I’d be spending my first semester out of college continuing in my assistant shop manager position while waiting for my boyfriend to graduate.

Grandma looks annoyed. “What do you care?” she asks, giving me a poke in the side. “You went for those four years for free anyway. What does it matter what you do with what you learned there?”

Dr. and Mrs. Rajghatta and I smile at one another, all equally embarrassed by Grandma’s outburst.

“Your parents must be so proud of you,” Mrs. Rajghatta says, still smiling pleasantly. “I mean, having the confidence to study something so…arcane when so many qualified young people can’t even find jobs in today’s market. That is very brave of you.”

“Oh,” I say, swallowing down the little bit of vomit that always seems to rise into my throat when I think about my future. Better not to think about it right now. Better to think about the fun I’m going to have with Andrew. “Well, I’m brave all right.”

“I’ll say she’s brave,” Grandma chimes in. “She’s going to England day after tomorrow to hump some guy she barely knows.”

“Well, we have to be going inside now,” I say, grabbing Grandma’s hand and tugging her along. “Thanks so much for coming, Dr. and Mrs. Rajghatta!”

“Oh, wait. This is for you, Lizzie,” Mrs. Rajghatta says, slipping a small gift-wrapped box into my hand.

“Oh, thank you so much,” I cry. “You didn’t have to!”

“It’s nothing, really,” Mrs. Rajghatta says with a laugh. “Just a book light. Your parents said you were going to Europe, so I thought, if you are reading on a train or something-”

“Well, thank you very much,” I say. “That will come in handy all right. Bye now.”

“Book light,” Grandma grumbles as I hurry her away from Dad’s boss and his wife. “Who the hell wants a book light?”

“Lots of people,” I say. “They are very handy things to have.”

Grandma says a very bad word. I’ll be happy when I get her safely tucked in front of the rerun of Dr. Quinn .

But before I can do that, there are several more obstacles we have to hurdle, including Rose.

“My baby sister!” Rose cries, looking up from the infant she’s got in a high chair by the picnic table, into whose mouth she’s shoveling mashed peas. “I can’t believe you’re graduating from college! It just makes me feel so old!”

“You are old,” Grandma observes.

But Rose just ignores her, as is her custom where Grandma is concerned.

“Angelo and I are just so proud of you,” Rose says, her eyes filling with tears. It’s a shame she didn’t listen to me about the length of her jeans. The cropped look just doesn’t work unless you’ve got legs as long as Cindy Crawford’s. Which none of us Nichols girls do. “Not just for the graduating thing, but for-well, you know. The weight loss. Really. You just look terrific. And…well, we got you a little something.” She slips a small gift-wrapped package in my hand. “It isn’t anything much…you know, with Angelo out of work, and the baby in day care and all…But I thought you might be able to use a book light. I know how much you love to read.”

“Wow,” I say. “Thank you so much, Rose. That was really thoughtful of you.”

Grandma starts to say something, but I squeeze her hand, hard.

“Ow,” Grandma says. “Stab me next time, why don’t you?”

“Well, I have to get Grandma inside,” I say. “Time for Dr. Quinn .”

Rose looks down her nose at Grandma. “Oh God,” she says. “She didn’t talk about her lust for Byron Sully in front of everyone, did she?”

“At least he’s got a job,” Grandma begins, “which is more than I can say for that husband of-”

“Okay,” I say, grabbing Grandma and heading for the sliding doors. “Let’s go, Grandma. Don’t want to keep Sully waiting.”

“That is no way,” I hear Rose wail behind us, “to talk about your grandson-in-law, Gram! Wait till I tell Daddy!”

“Aw, go ahead,” Grandma retorts. Then, as I drag her away, she complains, “That sister of yours. How could you stand her all these years?”

Before I can form a reply-that it wasn’t easy-I hear my other sister, Sarah, call my name. I turn around and see her staggering toward us, a casserole dish in her hands. Sadly, she is in a pair of white stretch capris that are far too tight on her.

Will my sisters never learn? Some things need to be left a mystery.

But I guess since that’s the look that won Sarah her husband, Chuck, she’s sticking with it.

“Oh, hey,” Sarah says, not very distinctly. She’s clearly been hitting the Heineken herself. “I made your favorite for you, in honor of your big day.” She whisks the plastic wrap off the casserole dish and waves it under my nose. A wave of nausea grips me.

“Tomato ratatouille!” Sarah shrieks, laughing uproariously. “Remember that time Aunt Karen made that ratatouille and Mom told you you had to eat it to be polite and you threw up over the side of the deck?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling like I was about to throw up over the side of the deck all over again.

“Wasn’t that funny? So I made it for old times’ sake. Hey, what’s the matter?” She seems to notice my expression for the first time. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you still hate tomatoes! I thought you grew out of that!”