“Will you, Blaze Munoz, take this man, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and hold. . .”
I sighed once more. Another invitation or some plan having to do with any crowd of people, I’d pass out, or worse.
Time seemed to go slower than –the slowest turtle, as you could put it.
All the heat stuffed into this place made me sweat everywhere. Additionally, the food wasn’t as good, seeming that I was in a horrible condition. The broccoli I was eating was just bland. But I reached for another one anyway.
One more minute in this annoying dress or gown or whatever, and I was about to burst. I began to scratch an itchy hard-to-reach spot on my back. The dress was so tight and sticky. Not the perfect summer dress. Dad had picked it out for me at the mall while he was shopping for his clothes, so I just took it. It seemed okay. Turns out, things can be decieving. I didn’t realize it could be so uncomfortable in a hot weather. The mere thought of my welcoming shorts and T-shirt made my mouth water.
I began to feel a bit woozy with the hundreds of people around me. It was summer, and being cramped up with hundreds of strangers in the heat of 100˚F isn’t a comfortable thing. Especially when things are suddenly changing when about a month ago, everything was normal and fine.
I checked my watch. The wedding still has some thirty minutes to go, and to me, it probably will feel like about an hour or two. Can’t wait.
I looked at Dad. He had a soft and loving expression, as if Blaze was the most beautifulest thing he has and will ever see. A face, I knew, he’d never given my mother. My birth mother.
* * * * * * *
After what felt like thirty minutes, I decided to recount the place. I’d gotten to two hundred fifty-six, but I could hardly belive that. It felt like a thousand, at least. I began to recount, as to make sure of my number.
As Mom used to say, there should be groups of people, so count the groups. Group by group. Then you remember and add up as you go along. You have to depend on memory, pretty much. This one’s a cinch. Two hundred fifty-six isn’t that big of a number, since I’ve “dealt” with more than that.
At the two hundreth person, I was disturbed. It had suddenly become very silent. You could almost feel the tension and expectance in the silence.
I looked up, knowing what would happen, how after this, we’d be going on our tour to Philly, and how everyone was staring at Dad, waiting for him to say...
“I will.”
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
A loud applause broke out, and I excitedly joined in. When it died down, and the cake was being cut, I took a few pictures, and resumed my count.
Fake Vegetarian and Camera Boy
After many attempts to remember the number I was on, I finally gave up. And I wasn’t
in the mood too start over. I guess I’ll just have to go with two hundred fifty-six, then.
My stomach roared for some meat, but I knew not to, though it was tempting. Being a vegetarian isn’t easy, especially if you’ve been faking it for your dad for almost five years. He’d gotten the idea of becoming vegetarian, being a herbivore, from a book. He wouldn’t let me see it, but I knew it was some health-related book they sell at Barnes and Noble.
I ended up grabbing some carrots and broccoli with dressing and putting it on my plate. I stood by the vegetable table as to remind myself not to get too tempted.
I began to absentmindedly munch on a broccoli. I flashed a look around. Dad and Blaze were dancing to their new hit song. A few other celebrities were dancing along.
I heard a faint click. I looked around, my eyes flicking past Q without looking twice. He was holding his hand up in a casual way. But I doubled back. He had a sly expression on his face. Maybe that was a camera in his hand? I had noticed, at the last meet, he made that same “casual” move. I realized now that Blaze was married to Dad, Q would be my brother. Now that I think of it, I should be calling Blaze Mom now. I began to wonder if he would be a good brother.
He caught me in my act of staring and waved, iniviting himself over.
“Some party,” he muttered. “There must be three hundred people here.”
I smiled. “Two hundred fifty-six, I think.” I corrected.
He looked at me, quizzically.
“Counting guests, catering staff, reporters, and security people,” I continued.
Q looked at me as if I’d gone crazy.
“How’d you know that?” he asked, looking around.
“By observing,” I said, grinning.
He looked over to the dance floor and I follwed his gaze. Dad and Bl –Mom were dancing with a few other couples. It was slightly awkward, I noticed, being alone. With my brother. Being an only child made this a first –having a brother. But we were siblings, now. Desn’t he have to be annoying or something?
As if he’d read my mind, he said, “I think this might be the first time we’ve actually been alone.” Pause. He looked around. “Not that being with two hundred fifty-six people is being alone. But –“
I sighed, I had no privacy ever since their big hit song.
“I know... Between your mom, my dad...” I waved a hand toward the crowd, “... and everyone else, there’s always someone around.”
“I don’t know,” Q said, “but I thought I was going to pass out if the ceremony went on a second longer.”
“Me too!” I said, “I felt woozy.”
That was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. Woozy? What was I, a kindergardener? Making a great impression as a fifteen year old sister upon a “new” brother who’s only two years younger.
“What do you think caused that woozy feeling?” he asked sarcastically.
“Stress, maybe,” I suggested. I knew how that felt.
“I guess I’ve never felt stress, then, because I thought I was going to puke.”
I abruptly stopped munching on my fifth broccoli. A bad memory of throwing up came back to me, from fourth grade. Embarassing. I shuddered, putting my plate down. I lost my appetite.
Q must have noticed this, because he added quickly, “Aside from the stress, what do you think of all this?”
I sighed. It seemed out life was planned by some music directors from now on.
I shrugged. “I guess it all seems kind of orchestrated, as if –“
“We’re on a reality TV show or something?” he interrupted.
“In a way, we are. They’re going to incorporate the wedding into the music video.” I looked at the crowd. Things would never be the same again.
Sighing, I said, “I guess we’ll have to get used to it.”
“Nahh...” he said, waving his hand. “It’ll be fine once we get on the read. No one’s going to follow us across the country to Philadelphia. You heard what they told Buddy.”
I sighed at the name. He was a total pain in the neck, as good a Personal Manager he could be.
As if saying the name did it, a familiar pounding of footsteps and grunts came. I didn’t even need to look up.
“Speak of the devil.” I gestured towards the sound.
Buddy T.
Why Buddy T. had to be our PM (personal manager) out of the hundreds of PMs, we don’t know. His name is Buddy T. T –we don’t know what that means, either, but Dad claims it stands for To-Do, because the way he talks, he sounds like he’s reading a huge To-Do list.
Buddy is everything you don’t want to be. Arrogant, annoying, has-to-get-it-his-way, but somehow one of the best PMs in the musical business. He has to deal with our schedules, checks on things, with roadies or all that, and he claims its a very complicated job.
But that’s not the only reason we don’t like him. Dad and Blaze aren’t in the best relationship with Buddy. We have about a billion problems to negotiate with.
See, Dad wanted to go as a family on the tour, and he hadn’t even planned the route. Buddy was fuming.
“One platinum song!” he had shouted. “Big deal! Who do you think you two are? I don’t
have enough toes or fingers to count the number of one-hit wonders I’ve worked with in my life. One of them is a security guard now. Three of them sell insurance for a living. And they were all famous. I mean, really, really famous, for a heartbeat or two. Now look at ‘em!”
Another problem happened when Buddy didn’t want us to go along on the tour. My heart had dropped at his suggestion. Thankfully, Bl –Mom had a different idea: “If they don’t go, we don’t go.”
And when he finally did agree, he wanted us to hire a driver. Dad said he didn’t want a stranger driving or living in our home.
Finally, Mom told Buddy to lay off. “I got off the road because of Quest. I didn’t want to raise him in that toxic atmosphere. Roger and I are going to do this tour our own way. We’ve taken them out of school for a year to see the United States and arranged for them to continue their schoolwork through the Internet. We’re going to travel and act like a normal family we are. If we can’t find a way to do this as a family, we’ll cancel the tour.
So, why didn’t we just complain and get a new PM? We did, but Mrs. Huges, who was the President of the company, said, believe it or not, Buddy liked us, and he was the one that chose us, not she assigned him as our PM.
Fat chance.
But, Mom, being Mrs. Huges’ long lost friend, agreed and left the matter.
I tried to imagine him liking us, or even enjoying our presence, while he grunted, “Time to go,” with a scowl on his face.
“What are you talking about?” Q suddenly asked, an alarmed expression on his face. “Mom and Roger are supposed to sing before we leave.”
“They’re here to sing, but you and Angela won’t be here to hear it,” he answered. “They’re doing a short set. A couple of songs, max, then they’re outta here. I need you on the bus ready to go. It’s a long trip from here to Philly.”
“Why can’t we just ride over to the bus with them after they finish?” I argued. I wanted to see how they did all this, making the music video and all that. Seeming that your parents were top-hit singers, you couldn’t resist not being interested.
“Photo op,” Buddy grunted, starting to get annoyed. “The wedding’s going to be part of their music video. It hits the air in a couple of days. You’re not included in the video per your parents’ request.”
After a second or two of awkward silence, Q began to open his mouth in protest, as if he’d come up with another excuse, but Buddy interrupted, “Enough chitchat. These two will drive you over,” he said, nodding at two burly security men.