Free Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) by Romi Moondi Page A

instruction manual.
    Not a word.
    “I said help me build this stupid thing!”
    “I’m busy!” he replied .
    I rose to my feet, walked towards his room and flung the door wide open. The image inside was priceless. With lights dimmed, Sonny was wrapped in a Snuggie as he watched an old Albert Brooks movie, like the wannabe filmmaker that he was.
    “So y ou’re wearing a Snuggie…at two p.m…in the middle of SUMMER?!”
    “It’s cold in t he basement,” he said calmly.
    I wouldn’t even bother telling my parents he should help me, since their casual “ Go help your sister ” prompts had no force in them at all. And why would they? Sons were treated like kings, for reasons I would never comprehend, since it was always the daughters who did all the work.
    “If I ever have a son,” I muttered to myself, “I’m gonna make him my monkey-butler.”
    I pushed the hair out of my face and began, counting down the days, hours , and minutes until this stupid wedding was over…
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Two days left...
     
    My house was buzzing with aunts, uncles, elder ladies who shook their heads because I wasn’t engaged yet, and so on.
    Tonight was the big night for the “mayian,” which was a pre-wedding ceremony to cleanse the bride’s soul. What this really meant in my own translation was a big tent in the yard, a catered buffet affair, about seventy guests, and an eventual “jaggo” dance, where the ladies literally balanced a decorated jug on their heads, dancing turn by turn amidst the chanting.
    Yeah.
    Before any of that fun could begin, all the ladies in our camp needed to get dressed, and because this was an Indian function, thick multi-coloured fabrics embroidered to high heaven were the order of the day. It was a visual delight for all involved, but these layers of fabric needed ironing.
    Yet another slave task I didn’t anticipate.
    Everyone who knew me knew that I’d rather clean toilets in a prison than iron clothes. Well actually, maybe everyone didn’t know this at all, since friends don’t actually compare household chores in conversation, and if they did...well I’d stop being friends with them right away. So fine, maybe I was the only one who knew, but yes, I hated it! The iron would get so hot and then the steam would make everything hotter, which of course would make me sweat, which was super-annoying when I’d just taken a shower ten minutes ago… gahh ironing!
    The stack of clothing kept growing, as my sister needed three (no four) decorative Indian outfits ironed, in case she changed her mind at the last minute. Bridezilla! By the end I had to take another shower, which left barely half an hour for hair and make-up.
    Standing in my room now, this paradox of a dresser stacked with beauty products next to a bookcase rammed with nerdy history books, I started to curl my hair into its usual voluminous mass. Only seconds into the process, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.
    “Can you please do Anju’s hair and makeup?” said my aunt from the other side.
    I opened the door and realized it wasn’t really a question, as my aun t was already walking away, while my tall and skinny cousin Anju stood awkwardly in the doorway.
    I let her inside and wondered why this seventeen-year-old cousin needed somebody else to do her hair and makeup; like wasn’t she obsessed with this stuff? I quickly realized that my cousin, not unlike myself, had the awkward teenage genes that were prevalent in my family, not to mention the lack of income that would be needed for copious amounts of eye shadow.
    I sat her down on the chair beside my dresser and set to work. As I put on the various shades of eye shadow, I tried not to be jealous of the absence of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. I also tried not to notice how I didn’t have to use concealer on her, since she didn’t have big dark circles under her eyes.
    For Anju’s hair I was having some trouble curling it, so I kept on adding more styling