Page 8 of A Really Bad Idea

The perfect family for the world’s most perfect home.

I’m halfway through the gourmet kitchen of high gray cabinets with gold hardware and Viking appliances when I see the back deck is full of more people than I was expecting. I turn around and walk into Beth, who is trailing behind me.

She grabs me by the arms and spins me back around. “Oh no, you don’t.”

I whisper-yell into her ear, “Where did all those people come from?”

With an air of sarcasm, she answers, “Well, Meadow, when two people fall in love—”

“Not in the biblical sense. I mean … they weren’t here an hour ago.”

“That’s what happens when you throw a party. People arrive. And, when you hide out in the basement for an hour, you miss the people actually arriving.”

I step to the side of the French doors and peek behind the silk drapes to peek outside again at the mostly familiar faces. My parents’ country club friends—the Romanos, Kents, and Vaduccis—are here.

With a twirl of my hair, I push a tendril behind my ear and assess the situation. “So, when you said you were hosting my birthday dinner, you meant a party for Mom and Dad.”

“Your mom asked if she could invite a few people.”

“A few?” I bite.

“It’s an intimate gathering of four of your parents’ closest couple friends.”

With another inspection out the French doors, I notice another interesting tidbit. Or shall I say, three tidbits. Frank Romano, Garret Kent, and Aaron Vaducci are all here with their parents.

“And their single sons.”

Beth runs a finger along the neckline of her sweater as she looks out the glass in fake interest. “Are they? What a coincidence.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

She drops her hand—and the act. “Okay, fine. Your mother thought you needed a push.”

“And you went along with it?” I’m back to the whisper-yelling.

“Tornado, remember? It’s hard to stay out of its path.”

“She’s alive!” Mom’s voice sounds behind me like a Broadway production.

“Speak of the devil,” Beth squeaks through a smile and then spins on her heel to head into the kitchen.

My mother walks through the doors that lead from the dining room, wearing her quilted Burberry raincoat over a gold Ann Taylor outfit I bought her over the holidays. When she reaches me, she gives a big hug with her chin tilted up so as not to rub her makeup on my sweater.

“Here I thought, I came all this way to have my only daughter hide away instead of coming to sit and talk to her mother.”

My mom, Gail Duvane, is the epitome of an overbearing mother. She’s a great mom; don’t get me wrong. Growing up, I never wanted for anything, and she always had my back if something wasn’t going right—like that time I didn’t get the lead in the school play.

She marched herself right into the principal’s office, lauded my impeccable acting skills, and claimed the girl who had gotten the role of Annie Oakley only did because her father had made a sizable donation to the school—or as my mother put it, “Gave blood money to procure his tone-deaf daughter a place in the spotlight.”

She threatened to run an opinion piece in the local paper and tell all of her friends—and she had many—about what was going on at the very expensive prep school when, suddenly, yours truly was cast as Annie Oakley.

She’s like a high-society Beverly Goldberg from the ABC comedy The Goldbergs, only she uses John Frieda instead of Aqua Net.

I give her a hug back and try to release myself of her embrace, but she’s holding on extra tight.

“You don’t feel right. Let me look at you.” She holds me out at arm’s length, her hands running up and down my sweater-clad arms, and squeezes as she does so. “Are you eating right? You need to take your B12. It’s vital to your immune system.” Her hands travel to my cheeks to feel my skin. “You need to moisturize. Thirty-three is hard on a woman.”

“I’m still thirty-two for another week.”