“Sorry. Imighthave gone overboard on the bacon.”
“Itoldyou this stupid Solo February was a bad idea. Damn it! I cannotbelieveyou!” Her fingers slip off the zipper and she breaks a nail. She stares at her nails in horror. She sticks her finger in her mouth and stares daggers at me. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I told you not to go formfitting! I told you we should do flowy.” She never listens. I can fluctuate ten pounds in a single day, for goodness’ sake. Nami only ever loses or gains maybe an ounce.
The seamstress approaches me and studies the gap in the zipper, taking the measuring tape from around her neck and marking my skin. She studies the zipper.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d stuff your face with bacon all month! I mean, are you trying to have a heart attack? Like Dad?”
Her words hit me like a blow. It’s a clear, below-the-belt foul. “Hey, that’s low.”
Nami swallows what she was going to say next. But she’s still angry. She blows out a frustrated breath and paces in front of me, panting. “I suppose you don’t have a date yet,” she says, anger in her voice.
“No, not technically.”
“Great!” She throws her hands in the air. “So, the couples’ dance is ruined. This is just fantastic.”
“Nami—”
“This is so like you. You’re always so… so… careless. I swear to God.”
I tell myself Nami is under stress and she’s taking it out on me.
“This is just like when you crashed the minivan.” Nami is fired up. Eyes flashing.
“Oh no. Not this again.”
“Mom was giving me the minivan for my sixteenth birthday, but you were home from college and justhadto use it, and then you totaled it,one daybefore my birthday!”
“A dog ran out in the road! I swerved to miss it.”
“Fine. And what about my iPhone in ninth grade?” Her cheeks flush red with anger. I tell myself I’m the easy target. She knows I’ll love her no matter what. She’s just venting.
“I didn’tmeanto drop it and crack the screen. It just slipped.”
“And my favorite cashmere sweater that Grandma Mitsuye gave me for my tenth birthday?” Her voice gets even louder.
“That’s not fair.” I might have tried it on and stretched it out horribly. “You always stole my clothes! I could never borrow yours because they never fit me!”
“Here we go!” She throws up her hands, mirroring my frustration. “All I’m saying is that if you were a little more careful, a little more considerate, these things wouldn’t happen! It’s like you’re trying to ruin everything!” In her fury, she snags a heel on the pristine white carpet of the fitting room area. She catches herself, but the stumble makes her angrier, especially because I have to swallow a snicker. “Don’t laugh,” she warns me.
“Then stop holding grudges.”
“Dad held grudges. I can’t help it.”
We both glare at each other, a lifetime full of resentments bubbling to the surface like a bloated whale. I love my sister to pieces, but sometimes, I just want to kick her hard in theshins like I used to do at age five. A good scuffle and then the argument would be over.
“I’ll fix it,” the seamstress tells us, moving in Nami’s direction. “No problem.”
But Nami seems not to hear, or not to care about the seamstress’s effort to barter a peace accord.
“I just can’t believe you’re being so insensitive,” Nami snaps at me. “This is my wedding. It’s got to be perfect. For Mitch.”
“Please,” I mutter beneath my breath. Mitch wouldn’t care if the wedding happened in a nice hotel, or the back of a courtroom, or, hell, in the bed of a pickup truck. He’s the last man to be worried about appearances.
“What did you say?” Nami’s laser-focused on me now.
“Nothing,” I murmur, not meeting her eye.
