“Auntie Gemma. What’d you bring us? What’d you bring?” asks Sasha. She’s eight and a half years old, the oldest, and the ring leader of their little sibling gang.
“What makes you think I brought you anything?” I ask. I try to hold back a smile. Sasha has bright red curly hair like her dad and gray eyes like my sister. I was there when Sasha was born. She came out with a whole lot of spunk and she hasn’t settled down one bit.
“Because you always bring us something,” Colin says. He’s quiet and serious and the voice of reason among the siblings even though he’s only four.
Maemie and Mary, six-year-old twins and troublemakers extraordinaire hold hands and jump up and down. The picture frames on the wall vibrate in time to their thumps.
“Hmmm.” I put a finger to my mouth and pretend to contemplate what Colin said. “You think so? Funny thing. I happened to be in Chinatown yesterday and I saw this…”
With a flourish I pull a clear plastic sack from my coat pocket. It’s fancy imported candy, the pretty pastel gummy kind in shapes like unicorns, kittens, and sharks. The girls start squealing. Colin’s eyes light up.
I hold out the bag. “There are twenty pieces of candy. You each get five. Share, right?”
The kids all nod, promising prettily to share and share alike.
I drop the bag into Sasha’s hand.
“Alright. Give me my hug and get out of here,” I say.
The girls rush me and nearly knock me over with their enthusiasm. Colin hangs back until I gesture for him and he joins the pileup. I love these little hellions. I was there for all their births, their christenings, and I get to babysit them a night a week. I’m a lucky aunt.
I drop a kiss on each of their heads.
“Love you, Auntie Gemma,” they chorus.
“Love you too, kiddos.”
They rush back down the hallway into the house. As I’m hanging my coat I hear my sister, Leah, yell from the kitchen. “Candy before dinner? Gemma, I will kill you!”
I grin and unwrap my cashmere scarf. Leah’s all bark and no bite.
The sounds of the party drift from the interior of the house, and the smell of barbecue wieners and processed cheese wafts to me. My mom is one of those people who thinks that hosting a fancy party means putting miniature foods on toothpicks and adding chopped vegetables to lime Jell-O. No amount of cooking shows or gourmet food magazines will convince her otherwise.
“Gemma! I thought I heard you. What in the world are you wearing?” I turn from the coat closet and smile at my mom.
“It’s a work outfit, Mom.”
But she’s not listening. She holds up the edge of my knee-length olive green sweater and grimaces. I have on black leggings and chunky shoes.
“Sweetie. You’ll never attract a man if you dress like this. Honestly. You look like a lumpy cucumber.” She drops the edge of my sweater and gestures at the stairs. “Luckily, I bought you a new outfit. I laid it out on your bed.” She shoos me with her hands. “Go on. Hurry up.”
“But I’m not trying to attract a man,” I tell my mom, secure in my new vision for the future. I don’t need a man for my happiness.
She looks past the stairs, down the long hall, then leans in and whispers, “Mort is here. Didn’t I tell you? He has a fabulous job. Mimi Butkis told me his house is three thousand square feet, with underground sprinklers.”
I stare at her, unable to comprehend what underground sprinkling has to do with me.
“Go on. Go on.” She pushes me toward the stairs.
I go. But only because I hear Josh and Dylan laughing from the living room. I realize that if I’m going to approach Josh with my plan, I may as be wearing a new dress while I’m doing it.
Oh God.
My mom has turned me into a pumpkin. When Cinderella was helped by her fairy godmother, she turned a pumpkin into a fabulous carriage. When my mom dressed me, she turned me from an average-looking woman into a top-heavy gourd.
I walk into the living room and pull at the short orange skirt barely covering my bum. Unfortunately, as I tug at it, the orange fabric around my cleavage drops lower and more of me spills out for everyone to see. I blow out a breath. My mom is five foot three and still as thin as a toothpick. Leah takes after her. Apparently, when she bought this outfit she forgot I’m not built like them.
I somehow picked up all the curves that my mom and sister never acquired and plastered them onto my hips and my chest. I’ve had double-Ds since I was twelve. And unlike popular opinion that big breasts are great, all they’ve done for me is give me back aches, make it hard to run, and cause men to speak to my boobs instead of my face.
I wrap an arm over my chest and take little mincing steps into the living room so that the skirt doesn’t ride too high.
The party is in full swing. Holiday jazz music plays over the stereo system. There are at least three dozen neighbors, friends, and relatives milling in the living room, dining room and adjoining family room. The white carpet is covered in plastic runners and the furniture has clear plastic wrap over it. My mom covers everything in plastic for the party, so every wine, barbecue, or processed cheese spill can be wiped up and away. The plastic scent lingers for weeks and is a reminder of a party well hosted. In fact, the plastic scent is one of my first childhood memories. That, and Josh Lewenthal’s kiss. Speaking of…
I look around for Josh but don’t see him in the crowd. No problem. I’ll grab some wine and wieners and work my way through the rooms.
I inch to the buffet table and try to scoop some wieners onto a paper plate. It’s awkward since I’m still using one hand to keep my breasts inside my orange top, but I manage. I grab some red wine and take a long gulp.
My mom swans over. Her face is flushed and she gives me a wide, encouraging smile. “Gemma. Sweetie. You look beautiful.” She’s talking in an overly loud fake voice which makes me realize that she’s actually talking for someone else’s benefit.