I wonder briefly if all these men and Erebuni are my way of distracting myself from the end of my relationship. If my agreement with my mom is a red-blue-and-orange Armenian flag Band-Aid over my Trevor wound.
Almost as soon as I think it, I shrug off the thought. No, it’s over with Trevor, and not only that, I’m surprised by how the thought gives me this liquid warmth. Yes, I feel bad about how it ended, and I wish we had some better closure. And that ring, God, I hope he can return it. But this is all absolutely a good thing.
In one motion I spring up, climb on top of my desk, and rip theOCposter off the wall, not taking care to keep it intact. I’m done with her. I have better things to aspire to.
11
She is a very honest girl. How do you know it? Her mother affirms it.
??? ??? ????? ?:—?????? ?????? ?:—???? ??????:
—Armenian Proverb
A saleslady isclamping me into an ice-blue tulle dress while five of my family members look on: my mom, Nene, Diana, Diana’s Mom (Tantig Emma), and my dad’s sister (Tantig Sona, who likes to be involved). I was mostly nude in front of them seconds ago, and everyone pretended to be very modern and okay with it, including me, but we were all looking in different directions. There’s a queue of thirty more maid-of-honor dresses lined up for me to climb into next, and the sweat’s already building along my temples. I’m trying to smile for Diana’s sake, but I want to rip off this itchy tulle-fest of a dress and bolt out the door.
It’s Saturday, my day off, and I’m spending all day here before it’s time to get ready for the Armenian brandy tasting, which I learned is at Kiki’s house. And while a bunch of the guys on Mom’s list have RSVP’d yes, it’s not them I’m excited about seeing tonight.
“Diana, can my dress have a slit?” her teenage cousin calls from the room next door.
Before Diana can answer, the girl’s mom yells, “Heesoos prgich! No slit, I tell you!”
We’ve taken up four dressing rooms, each crowded with Diana’s relatives of all ages. I know I got mad when Trevor made those remarks about how loud my family can get, but, like, I’m sure the sales staff hates us right now. Then again, they’re in the wedding business, so they’re probably used to gaggles of women effusing over garments.
I can’t help but think that if this was me trying on wedding dresses for my marriage with Trevor, it would be a quieter affair: both our moms, sitting outside the room, making awkward small talk about the dresses, not mentioning prices for fear of scaring Trevor’s mom, who is, uh, thrifty. Right now, I’m not sure if I prefer that version to this.
My mom squints at my chest. “Will the bust look like that in the actual size? Or... more bust will show?”
She knows me. I’m wearing a strapless dress about seven sizes too large for me, but unfortunately it seems to be the correct size for my boobs. Welcome to my everyday clothing dilemma.
I catch the saleslady’s eyes in the mirror, and she has an uncomfortable look like she doesn’t want to give us the answer. “I have this style in her size but in a different color. We can see how it works.”
There’s the briefest moment of quiet as she exits the room, and I can hear Nene humming to the music. They’re playing Mozart, which people think is relaxing, but his music is surprisingly energizing and, in today’s case, only contributes to my nerves. It sounds like it’s shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”
Nene is feeling the music, and seems to be grasping on to it like a lifeline. She is not a fan of being surrounded by loud voices.I ask, “Nene, what’s the name of this song?” Then quickly add, “I know it’s Mozart of course,” wishing to spare myself a lecture on why I can’t identify my classical musicians. I played piano for five years, much to the disappointment of everyone. My mom wanted me to play the violin, and my dad wanted me to play the guitar, so piano was their splitting-the-baby deal since it could be both jazzy and classical. Nene just wanted me to be musical like her (she didn’t live with us then, but she was highly invested in my progress). When, year after year, I made only marginal improvements, and then had one particularly disastrous recital where I played an off-tempo version of the “Turkish March” and forgot the notes halfway through (my mom said it was a cursed song because of the title), it was clear I had no talent, and I quit. Sixth grade was rough.
“ ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Serenade Number Thirteen in G Major,’ ” she recites, sticking her finger up in the air; she’s better than classical Shazam because I get to hear it in her heavy Armenian accent.
I remember that now, “A Little Night Music.” And for some reason, that title reminds me of Erebuni, maybe because I’ve seen her only in the nighttime, or because she is like night music, the way she speaks and moves.
I feel myself in that glow for a moment until I’m pulled back to the fitting room by Tantig Sona. She shakes her head at me. “You are the most impossible size.”
Uh, thanks? My Dad’s sister never got married and never had kids, and who cares, right? Her choice. Well, she does. She blames a whole cadre of people for it (she probably has a point; I’m sure plenty of folks in the community were nasty to her about it), and she holds this bitterness about her sometimes. She’s alsohilarious, an awesome storyteller, and I love to have her around, but then she’ll be mean out of nowhere. Plus, the damn Facebook antigay memes. Just like the memes, I pretend I didn’t register her comment about my body.
“Size, mize,” Tantig Emma says, shooing away the comment, and turns to Diana. “What about color? Hokees, are you sure you want blue in September? This light? It looks like icicles and snow.”
Diana takes a breath and seems to stifle an eye roll. “I don’t care about the season, we’re getting married in September because it was the only open month at the Manor Hotel, and ice blue is what I want. There’s also going to be a pale green.”
“Green and blue together, akh akh,” her mom quietly wails.
My mom has a handful of faults, but she’s good about not butting into other people’s business. As am I. We stay quiet but telepathically signal each other in agreement.
“I found it in orange,” the saleslady says as she barges in with a hideous pumpkin version of the tulle dress. Almost reluctantly, I dip my legs in, and she zips me up, and sure enough, it fits great in the waist, then looks like a porno on top. Tantig Sona fans herself, and everyone is saying some version of “No, oh no.”
“Told you guys,” I say, trying hard to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “I can’t wear strapless.”
“That eliminates more than half the dresses,” the saleslady says, eyebrows raised.
Diana stands up, ready to battle the racks. “No problem, plenty more options.”
