“I wish he would notice me,” she says.
“The rest of the street has.” I tap the glass in hopes she’ll observe the awestruck tourists who have essentially walled up the sidewalk, plus the two dads who have caused incalculable anger in their wives. “Now come on. Stop pressing your boobs against the glass and get back to our garlands. They’re not going to make themselves.”
Around 11:30 on Friday night, my alarm punches into my dreams with the unfriendly sounds of electronica.
If I close my eyes, I can envision a backwards, happier version of this life, where I’m up at eleven thirty because I go out dancing in SoHo on the weekends, or I stay up late studying with music in my ears. But no. Nope. This accursed version of Sabby Spük goes to bed before sunset so she can wake up to perform nuptial assistance to druids.
That, and flirt with Hanry Burleson.
These two reasons combined explain why Hanry, Mandy, Bulan, and I congregate in the shadowed alley behind the shop at midnight. We’re here extra early so that, unlike at Dave and Amanda’s wedding, we have enough time to set up, plus leeway. Within the next six hours, we’ll receive, deliver, and set up the vendors’ supplies for Fi and Asher’s 6:32 a.m. druidic wedding ceremony and reception. The nuptials are timed to the sunrise, of course.
Technically, Hanry isn’t here to do anything but load the rented U-Haul truck; he’s mostly here to be eye candy. That, and to perform duties as my emotional support animal.
Our plans to “hang out on Friday” became a three-part adventure. The first thing Hanry did the morning after our date was to visit the shop with a single white rose in a freshly hammered wooden vase. He came back at dinnertime with a coupon for two-for-one oysters near Pickering Wharf—and what’s more romantic than a man who wantsto save money? As loathsome as I find being downtown during Salem’s holiday season, it turns out you can avoid most of its chief annoyances when accompanied by a man the height and girth of a medieval battering wall. As a bonus, Hanry’s presence alone diverts any and all potential attention more than a foot and a half above my head.
Which earned him a make-out session after dinner, while we walked the waterfront. I guess Hanry wasn’t put off by my scowling at the waves as they lapped against the pilings, rocked the docked boats, and mocked me in general for failing to understand the magical functioning of their tides. If anything, he seemed like he wanted to help me, and kissing was the best way he knew how.
“You sure you don’t need me to come with you?” he asks now, having kindly piled the last of the pillows and pallets into the trailer for me. His eyes are doing that whimsical thing again, making it hard to answer in a reasonable way.
Fighting temptation, I ask, “What time is your craft fair in Maine, again?”
“Not too early.”
“Uh-huh,” I tsk. “You told me it was eight a.m. No driving without sleep.”
“Is this another ‘rules for thee, not for me’ thing?” says Bulan from Mandy’s arms.
“I got sleep!” I retort. “What did you think I was doing in bed after dinner?”
“I didn’t want to ask,” says Bulan, eyeing Hanry. “I assumed the same thing you’d been doing with the rest of your free time.”
“All right, I think I’m going to leave you all to it. But only because you insist, Sabby.” Hanry seems adorably sad he can’t role-play the noble knight again. “Text me if you need me, okay?”
“We will!” says Mandy on my behalf.
After waving Hanry goodbye—and kissing him good night, to Mandy’s squeak of delighted embarrassment—the three of us depart for Dunks, a warehouse, and the florist. Then I drive us to Harold Parker State Forest. Mandy devours half my doughnut holes and downs myiced matcha before I can take a sip. I’m discovering she isn’t great with personal boundaries. But she keeps the conversation lively, so we’re all in a good mood when we unpile into the woods at two thirty in the morning.
I walk around the side of the U-Haul, the forest air piney and fresh in my nostrils. As Bulan and Mandy chat giddily with each other, I take a moment to catch my breath. I do a round of calm yoga breathing like Jane did that one time her rotisserie chicken was shoveled onto her plate with herbs instead of being served plain.
I have a bad track record with being in the deep of the woods, just outside Salem, at night. But what’s it matter?
Tonight will go differently. Because tonight, I’m not a naïve twelve-year-old.
Tonight, I’m theboss.
14ENTER: MOMZILLA
ALL RIGHT, BULAN,” I SAY,rolling up the rear trailer door. “What’s first on our agenda?”
Bulan, carrying a pen in his teeth, observes from atop a shiny new clipboard: “Paranormal review session! Druids today trace their descendance from a line of Celtic nymphs, possibly as many as ten generations back. Most of them are no longer capable of turning into trees at will—”
“Such a disadvantage,” I deadpan.
“Really is,” coos Mandy. “Palm trees seem so happy.”
“—but they can communicate with most anything that has chlorophyll on a cellular level. They have a strong reverence for the cycles of nature, for the earth, and of course they are responsible for funding Greenpeace. Also, many Scottish Highland dramas.”
“Ooh, I didn’t know that!” Mandy says.
