A new family circle. Calliope stole a glance at Livya. The other girl’s upper lip was curled into a sneer, her nostrils flaring, the type of face you make when you smell something rancid.
“And now, let us extend a blessing to this beloved couple,” the rabbi intoned, before launching into a traditional Jewish prayer in Hebrew. Everyone seemed to be reciting the words; Calliope pretended to mumble along.
She couldn’t help thinking of the last wedding she’d been to—at a family estate in Udaipur, with gold-plated invitations and thousands of candles hovering in the air as if by magic, the scent of them heavy in the air. Now that wedding had been fun. Calliope remembered drifting around the enormous grounds, a flower twined in her hair, pretending to be first one person and then another, turning her various accents on and off as needed, like a faucet. There really was nothing like the thrill of anonymity. Of stepping into a party as a blank slate and letting the situation dictate who you might become.
As she stood here now, staring out at the sea of faces watching her, all she could think was how surreal it all felt.
She was dimly aware of her mom slipping a ring on Nadav’s finger and reciting the words of the marriage vow: “With this ring, you are my husband, and I love you as my soul.” Then Nadav was saying the same thing, slipping an enormous pavé band onto Elise’s finger; and they were kissing, and the temple had erupted in applause.
“One last tradition! The breaking of the glass,” the rabbi proclaimed, holding up a hand for silence. An assistant handed the rabbi a wineglass wrapped in velvet—the old-fashioned kind of glass, which could break, not flexiglass. “The breaking of the glass is a reminder that marriage can hold sorrow as well as joy. It represents the couple’s commitment to stand by each other forever, even during the difficult times.”
Calliope felt a shiver of premonition. Forever was a long time for anyone to promise. And she and Elise had broken so many of their promises before.
Elise and Nadav set the glass on the base of the chuppah and each placed a foot over it. Then, at the same time, they both put their weight on their heels, shattering it into countless tiny shards.
“Calliope! I’ve been looking for you.”
Calliope turned around slowly, taking a few steps away from the dance floor. They were finally at the reception, at the Museum of Natural History, where she had been waiting with an eager, half-painful sort of anticipation for Brice to find her.
“At least, I think it’s you. Are you in there, beneath that fluffy mushroom cloud of a dress?” he added, and made a show of squinting at her. He hadn’t shaved, in blatant disregard for black-tie etiquette, but the shadow of dark stubble looked good on him. Calliope found her eyes dragging along his jawline, wishing she could reach out and touch it.
“I didn’t really have much choice. I was . . . talked into this dress. Very forcibly,” she told him.
“I’d rather talk you out of it.”
“Once you do, we can burn it afterward.”
“Don’t do that! Where else will we find a flammable camping tent?”
As she laughed appreciatively, Brice put an arm on her elbow and steered her wordlessly toward the dance floor.
The museum’s famous holographic whale glided in lazy circles above them. On the stage, an eighteen-piece band played soft jazz music. A trail of antique iron candelabras led out onto the terrace, where heat lamps floated like miniature suns.
Calliope knew that she should step away. She’d felt Livya’s gaze on her all night, just daring her to make one false move, one mistake that would blow her cover. Livya would never even talk to a boy like Brice, let alone dance with him.
“Has the wedding been as utterly boring as you expected?” he asked as they moved toward the middle of the dance floor. He danced the way he talked, his movements bold and confident.
“Not anymore,” Calliope murmured, and smiled. “I’m glad you came, Brice.”
“So am I.” His hands skimmed lower, to play with the enormous bow sewn onto the back of Calliope’s dress.
“Stop it!” she whispered, smacking his hands away. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“I hope I do. When most people say trouble, they’re usually talking about something exciting,” Brice replied, though he resettled his palms much higher.
“I know,” Calliope said helplessly. “But I’m not supposed to be . . .”
“Dancing?” Brice tried to spin her, and the rustling folds of her dress almost caused him to trip. He let out a laugh. “Whoever designed this bridesmaid dress didn’t want you to dance, that’s for sure.”
The music crescendoed louder, as the band suddenly launched into one of those wild top-forty songs that everyone loved. Calliope risked a glance at Nadav, who was talking to someone she didn’t recognize. His jaw had tightened; he’d probably told the band not to play music like this, yet they were doing it anyway. Near him, Livya stood like a pale, thundering column, her judgmental gaze scouring the dance floor.
Calliope knew that she couldn’t join in, at least, not the way she wanted to. Because the girl she was supposed to be—sweet, modest Calliope Brown—wouldn’t dance to music like this, her hair flying and boobs bouncing. Not that you would even notice her boobs bouncing right now, buried as they were beneath a million flounces of fabric.