Nobomi was getting married and Annamae wasn’t invited.
“No kids are invited, honey,” her mother explained.
Annamae sat on the floor by the coffee table, fingering the invitation. It consisted of three envelopes (a big outer, a medium inner, and an adorable little baby one to mail back), two cards (the invitation itself and the RSVP), and two pieces of tissue paper, which were somehow the best part. That, and the gold foil envelope liner.
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Can I fill out the RSVP card?”
“No.”
“I’ll write very neatly.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, Annamae. I’m feeling pressured.” Her mother spoke in a warning tone of voice. She was sitting in the blue armchair with her laptop on a pillow on her stomach, working on their taxes.
“Do I have taxes?”
“Eh, kind of. You’re part of mine. When you have a job, you’ll have your own taxes.”
“Felice has a job.”
“Mm?”
“She babysits three days a week for twins in her building.”
“How old?”
“Felice?”
“The twins.”
“I don’t know. Four.”
“Oof.”
“Felice is turning thirteen already. In a month.”
“Mm.”
“Why did you go ‘Oof’?”
“Two four-year-olds sounds like a lot of work.”
“Do taxes have anything to do with ataxia?”
Her mother looked up from the laptop. “Are you being funny?” She was highly sensitive around the subject of Nana lately.
Annamae had intended it as a joke, but now she said, “No, I mean ety-mo-logically.” She wasn’t a linguist’s daughter for nothing.
“Oh.”
“Is it?”
“I have no idea. Look it up.”
“Can I at least have the pieces of tissue paper?”
“What?”
“The pieces of tissue paper. From the thingy.” Annamae held up the pieces of tissue paper from the wedding invitation.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Oh Annamae. Fine.”
Annamae pressed one of the pieces of tissue paper to her mouth like a lady blotting lipstick on TV. It stuck there and wagged interestingly when next she moved her mouth. “I can’t believe we’re not invited.”
No sound from the armchair but keyboard pitter-patter.
“Me and Danny,” she clarified, dangling the bad grammar like a mouse in front of a cat.
Her mother did not pounce.
“You know God likes it when people tell Him to butt out? It cracks Him up.”
This did not get a rise, either.
Annamae let out a long groan. “I’m soooo bored,” she groaned, flopping sideways on the rug.
“You don’t say,” murmured her mother, typing away.