Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“Oh,” I say with a smile. “Well, thank you, Dr. Sprague. Any time you want me to find you an unusual outfit of your own, just stop by Vintage to Vavoom, you know, over in Kerrytown-”

Just then my sister Sarah bursts into the living room, her anger over the tomato ratatouille incident apparently forgotten, since she’s laughing a little hysterically. She’s followed by her husband, Chuck, my other sister, Rose, her husband, Angelo, Maggie, our parents, the Rajghattas, various other party guests, Shari, and Chaz.

“Here she is, here she is,” Sarah yells. She, I can tell right away, is drunker than ever. Sarah grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the landing-the one we used to use as a stage, when we were little, for putting on little plays for our parents. Well, the one Rose and Sarah used to push ME onto, to put on little plays for our parents. And for them.

“Come on, graduate,” Sarah says, having a little trouble with the word. “Sing! We all want you and Shari to sing your little song!”

Only it comes out sounding like, Shing! We all want you and Shari to shing your liddle shong!

“Uh,” I say, noticing that Rose has Shari in a grip about as tight as Sarah’s on me. “No.”

“Oh, come on, ” Rose cries. “We want to see our baby sister and her little fwiend do their song!” And she throws Shari hard against me, so that the two of us stumble and almost fall across the landing.

“Your sisters,” Shari grumbles in my ear, “have the worst cases of sibling envy I have ever seen in my life. I can’t believe how much they resent you because you, unlike them, did not become impregnated by a bohunk your sophomore year and have to drop out and stay home all day with drooling sprog.”

“Shari!” I am shocked by this assessment of my sisters’ lives. Even if it is, technically, accurate.

“All college gwaduates,” Rose continues, apparently unaware that she’s using baby talk while speaking to adults, “have to shing!”

“Rose,” I say. “No. Really. Maybe later. I’m not in the mood.”

“All college graduates,” Rose repeats, this time with dangerously narrowed eyes, “have to sing !”

“In that case,” I say, “you’re going to have to count me out.”

And then I turn to face thirty dumbfounded expressions.

And realize what I’ve just let slip.

“Kidding,” I say quickly.

And everyone laughs. Except for Grandma, who’s just come in from the den.

“Sully’s not even in this episode,” she announces. “Goddammit. Who’s going to get an old lady a drink?”

Then she topples over onto the carpet and lets out a gentle snore.

“I love that woman,” Shari says to me as everyone rushes forward to attempt to revive my grandmother, completely forgetting about Shari and me.

“So do I,” I say. “You have no idea how much.”

Ithought that was you!” Andrew gushes in that cute accent that had all the girls in McCracken Hall swooning-even if his th ’s do sound like f ’s. “What’s the matter? You walked right past me!”

“She thought you were a kidnapper,” the guy from the Meet Your Party booth explains between guffaws.

“Kidnapper?” Andrew looks from the guy in the booth to me. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Andrew’s arm and rushing him away from the booth. “Nothing, really. Oh my gosh! It’s good to see you!”

“Good to see you, too,” Andrew says, putting an arm around my waist and giving me a hug-so tight that the epaulets from his jacket dig into my cheek. “You look fucking fantastic! Did you lose weight or something?”

“Just a little,” I say modestly. No need for Andrew to know that no starch whatsoever-not so much as a French fry or even a lousy crumb of bread-has touched my lips since he waved good-bye to me last May.

Then Andrew notices me looking at an older bald man who has come up to us and is smiling politely at me. He is wearing a navy-blue windbreaker and a pair of brown corduroy pants. In August.

This is not a good sign. I’m just saying.

“Oh, right!” Andrew cries. “Liz, this is my dad. Dad, this is Liz!”

Oh, how sweet! He brought his dad to meet me at the airport! Andrew really MUST be taking our relationship seriously if he would go to so much trouble. I’ve already forgiven him for the jacket.

Well, almost.

“How do you do, Mr. Marshall?” I say, putting out my hand to shake his. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Andrew’s father says with a nice smile. “And please, call me Arthur. Don’t mind me, I’m just the chauffeur.”

Andrew laughs. So do I. Except-Andrew doesn’t have his own car?

Oh, but wait, that’s right. Shari said things are different in Europe, that lots of people don’t own cars because they’re so expensive. And Andrew is trying to get by on a teacher’s salary…

I’ve got to stop being so judgmental about other cultures. I think it’s just cute as can be that Andrew doesn’t have a car. So environmentally conscious! Besides, he lives in London. I imagine lots of people in London don’t have cars. They take public transportation, or they walk, like New Yorkers. Which is why there are so few fat people in New York. You know, because they’re all such healthy walkers. Probably there aren’t many fat people in London, either. I mean, look at Andrew. He’s thin as a toothpick, practically.

And yet he’s got those marvelous grapefruit-size biceps…

Although now that I look at them, they seem sort of more orange-size.

But how could anybody really tell beneath a leather jacket, anyway?

It’s sweet he has such a close relationship with his dad, too. I mean, that he could ask him to come with him to pick up his girlfriend at Heathrow. My dad is always too busy working to take time out for things like that. But then, his job at the cyclotron is very important, since they’re always smashing atoms up there and things. Andrew’s dad is a teacher, like Andrew wants to be. Teachers get summers off.

Dr. Rajghatta would laugh his head off if my dad ever asked for a summer off.

Andrew takes my bag, which has wheels, so it’s actually the lightest thing I’m carrying. My carry-on is way heavier, since it has all my makeup and beauty supplies in it. I wouldn’t mind so much if the airline lost my clothes, but I would totally die if they lost my makeup. I look like a total beast without it. I have eyes that are so small and squinty without liner and mascara I actually resemble a pig…even if Shari, who’s lived with me for the past four years, swears this isn’t true. Shari says I could get away without makeup if I wanted to.

But why would I want to when makeup is such a brilliant and helpful invention for those of us cursed with piggy eyes?

Still, makeup does weigh an awful lot, at least when you have as much of it as I do. Not to mention all of my hairstyling equipment and products. Having long hair is no joke. You have to bring about nine tons of stuff with you in order to keep it properly shampooed, conditioned, tangle-and-frizz-free, dry, shiny, and full of body. Not to mention all the different adapters I had to bring for my hair dryer and curling iron, since Andrew was remarkably unhelpful in describing what British electrical outlets look like (“They look like outlets, ” he kept saying on the phone. Isn’t this just like a guy?), so I had to bring every different kind I could find at CVS.