Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Barbara wanted to backtrack. After all, Albert was
paying the bills. “It’s just that you . . . you must take after
your mother,” she said, as though that were diplomatic.
“I do,” Carmen confirmed. “My mother is Puerto
Rican. She speaks with an accent. She says a rosary.”
Nobody seemed to pick up on her sauciness. The
invisible girl.
“She has her father’s aptitude for math,” Lydia argued
faintly, as though in her heart she didn’t believe Carmen
was related to Albert at all.
Carmen felt like smacking her.
“Well, let’s get on with the fitting,” Barbara suggested,
setting an armful of plastic garment bags down on
Lydia’s bed. Lydia and Albert’s bed. “Krista, let’s try
yours first.”
“Oh, oh, can we look at Mama’s first?” Krista begged.
She literally pressed her hands together wistfully.
Carmen disappeared into an upholstered chair by the
wall as Lydia proudly donned what looked to be at least
seventy yards of shiny white fabric. Carmen thought it
was frankly embarrassing for a woman over forty with
two teenage children to wear a big puffy white thing at
her wedding. The bodice was fitted, and the cap sleeves
showed a whole lot of over-forty arm.
“Mama, you are gorgeous. You are a vision. I’m going
to cry,” Krista gushed without actually crying.
Carmen realized she was tapping her foot against the
glassy wood floor, and she made herself stop.
Next, sweet, miniature, pale Krista tried on a pink-purple
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