“They seem happy,” he says. Arizona, Roxanne, and I scoff in unison.
“That’s the most shrimp I’ve ever seen in one place,” Roxanne says. As far as post-proposal parties go, this one is particularly lame. With Natasha we went to dinner on the top of the Eiffel Tower. With Janie we had steaks uptown with the biggest baked potatoes imaginable. With Tess, Dad rented out a German beer hall, and we chowed down for hours on sausages and pretzels and Tess taught us German songs and we danced. Even Arizona enjoyed that night.
Tonight’s after-party is low music and shitty catering, and we are hiding out in the basement while the adults mill around upstairs. I feel like I can breathe, at least, with Arizona, Bernardo, and Roxanne. I can breathe as long as I’m not in the same room as the ring and all my feelings about it.
“What’d you get?” I ask Arizona, who has her tattered Trader Joe’s tote bag, a sure sign that she poached a bunch of food from the party to bring down here. She smiles and starts unpacking. She’s wrapped shrimp in napkins, and deviled eggs too, although they didn’t survive the journey so well. She has boxes of crackers and an entire slab of brie, stolen from right under the caterers’ noses. She has prosciutto slices and even attempted to pack bell peppers filled with goat cheese into a Tupperware container. The girl is a klepto rock star of epic proportions, especially when it comes to catered food.
She’s so put together now in every other way, it’s necessary that she has a few secret weirdo qualities. At a party like this, it’s necessary that we all do. Otherwise the night would be unbearable.
Fuck I’m glad I wore zebra print.
I dig around in the bar, wondering if we should try to make our own crappy martinis while the adults rage upstairs.
“Looking for this?” Karissa has appeared at the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t hear the door at the top open or her feet padding down the carpeted staircase, but Karissa has that whole lithe thing going for her. She flits. She’s got a few bottles of white wine and a wicked smile and too much blush and not enough newly engaged sparkle in her eyes.
We all startle at her sudden presence among us. The exact way we’ve always done everything shifts, and it is as recognizable as a sudden drop in temperature. The wives are meant to be on my father’s arm, showing his friends the new ring. The wives are meant to bury their faces into his shoulder with some combination of happiness and shyness when people congratulate them.
This is something else. Everything is something else with Karissa.
“Jesus. Don’t be creepy,” Roxanne says. “You can’t show up places without announcing yourself. Unless you are a witch or a hologram or something. Are you a witch or a hologram?” She’s like our id or ego or whichever one does all the shit you really want to do but stop yourself from doing.
“A witch,” Arizona says, not quietly at all, and I think she maybe has already had a drink or two. Maybe she snuck one in while she was stealing food. I kick in her general direction.
“I’m a girl who likes escaping prissy parties,” Karissa says. I think she thinks she’ll win my sister over with coolness. It won’t happen, but there’s something nice about her trying. “My little sis and I used to sit outside whenever my parents had parties. But they had great parties, actually. You know the wine and pickle thing I do, Mon?” She uncorks the wine. She has the swift, expert movements of someone who has opened up a lot of wine bottles. She has a system.
I nod. She shouldn’t call me Mon. I’m not ready and Arizona definitely isn’t ready.
“Wine and pickles?” Bernardo asks.
Karissa gets choked up and starts swigging wine.
“Oh my God, so sorry, I’m such a freak. Sometimes talking about them gets me a little . . . like this.” She wipes away a few perfect, beautiful, star-like tears.
“That’s okay,” I say, and try to make it sound robotic so that Arizona doesn’t think I’m on Karissa’s side, but also compassionate because Karissa must be hurting. There’s no way right now to be a good person and a good sister, so I settle for good person–ish.
“I wish they could be here for this,” she says.
“Of course you do,” I say, and mean it, because even if I hate what’s happening, I can’t let that go unsympathized with.
Roxanne clears her throat. Karissa’s not sobbing or anything, but she’s shifting the feeling of the energy down in the basement, and Roxanne was deep in party mode. I start rubbing Karissa’s back. She has a frailty to her that I would never have imagined.
I almost wish Arizona could feel it. There’s some sort of truth in the way Karissa’s bones protrude.
“I bet being up there and celebrating with Dad will help,” Arizona says.