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“She won’t ask to see proof,” I say.
Olive squints at me. “You keep saying people won’t ask stuff and they always do. Trust me. Keep the book in your car. It will come up eventually.”
* * *
* * *
* * *
The fashion district is packed as usual. We’ve been shopping for what feels like a thousand years. I check my Google Fit app and I’ve already clocked more steps than Frodo Baggins slogged that ring through Middle Earth. How are these ladies not tired?
We reach a section of the street with nothing but bridal shops. I have no idea what Abuela could possibly want from here, but she insists on poking into every single shop.
I follow them in so they don’t get mugged—this is L.A. after all. Abuela and Mom have to touch… Every. Single. Dress. Running their fingers over the fabric, checking the price tags. At one point, Abuela takes one off the rack and calls Olive over.
“Ven, chava. For you.”
“ME?” Olive gapes at the wedding dress. “No, no grazie.”
“It’s gracias,” I say. “Grazie’s Italian.”
“Oh, right. I eat a lot of pizza in Jersey.”
Abuela sours her expression, clearly offended. “Porque, niña? No te gusta?”
Olive lifts her eyes up at me. “What did she say? Niña means baby, right? Does she think I’m… pregnant?”
“No, she doesn’t think you’re pregnant. You are the niña and she’s being meddlesome.”
Olive smiles at Abuela awkwardly.
“Abuela,” I say. “No estamos comprometidos. We’re not engaged.”
She pulls a face.
“It’s a really good deal, though,” says Mom. “Maybe we should get it just in case.”
Abuela turns a hard stare at Mom. “¿Recuerdas cuando te casaste?”
Mom looks to me, then back at Abuela. How would she forget when she got married to Dad?
“Si,” Mom replies. “Claro.”
Abuela gives her a casual once-over and ticks an eyebrow. “Eras mucho más delgada.”
“I have an underactive thyroid!” Mom cries and storms out. Abuela shrugs and goes back to looking through the dresses.
Olive, a little startled, asks, “What just happened?”
“My grandma basically paid my mom an underhanded compliment, saying how much thinner she was on her wedding day.”
Olive’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“I wish I wasn’t. My grandmother has no filter.”
She stares out for a while, jaw still hanging open, then she begins to laugh, like there’s a joke only known to her.
“What’s so funny?”
