Young Jane Young(59)

“Describe it in great detail. Make him suffer,” Chef José said. “What was your favorite part?”

“The foam,” Embeth said.

“Which one?” Chef José asked.

“Mine was the wasabi vanilla,” Molly said, suddenly at Embeth’s side again. “Embeth, I know we were going to make a thing of cutting the cake, but I think we should just serve it. You and the congressman can do a champagne toast before you do the opening dance.”

“Let them eat cake,” Embeth said.

By 9:30 p.m., his revised ETA, Aaron was still not there, and there was no choice but to open the floor to dancing. At 9:33, he sent a frenzied, typo-filled text that his plane had arrived and he was only a brief forty-five minutes away. Molly told Embeth that they should revise the plan yet again. It was getting late, and Embeth should speak.

“It seems odd,” Embeth said. “It’s an anniversary party, and I’ll be the only one speaking?”

“When the congressman arrives,” Molly said, “we’ll tell the DJ to play your song, and we’ll clear the dance floor for you and Aaron. Have you decided on a song, by the way? I have ‘Stand by Your Man’ at the ready.”

“Jorge and I were joking about that,” Embeth said.

“I know,” said Molly. “What song?”

“‘Crazy Love’ by Van Morrison,” said Embeth. “Yes, we’re old.”

Molly sent a text to the DJ.

Embeth delicately reached under her wig and scratched the back of her scalp. “I still think it seems odd for me to speak alone.”

Molly poured Embeth a glass of champagne. “I’m a professional. Trust me. Nothing is ever odd at a party unless the host makes it odd,” she said. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

“I’d like to come out to the song ‘It’s My Party (and I’ll Cry If I Want To),’” Embeth said.

“Irony. I get that,” said Molly. “I’ll make it happen.”

“How does one become a party planner anyway?” Embeth asked.

Molly looked momentarily confused at the introduction of a personal question.

“I know a girl who is a party planner and I wondered how one got into that field,” Embeth said.

“I studied hotel management as an undergraduate at Cornell,” Molly said. “I should go talk to the DJ now.”



Embeth made her entrance to the plaintive teenage wails of Lesley Gore. She walk-danced. She half-assed aerobic cha-chaed. She tried to look jaunty. She tried to look like she had no fucks left to give. El Meté was on her shoulder, but he stayed very quiet. The music came down, and the DJ said that Mrs. Levin would like to say a few words.

Embeth looked into the crowd. It was dark, and she couldn’t see Allegra or Margarita or Jorge or Dr. Hui or anyone else. “I’m told Aaron is on his way,” Embeth began. “Ah, the life of a politician’s wife! Your husband is always on his way.”

The crowd laughed warmly at the joke that was barely a joke.

A moment later, the crowd magically divided. Aaron came down the aisle, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“I’m here,” he bellowed. His gray curly hair bounced in the spotlight. “I’m here, Embeth Bart Levin, love of my life!”

The crowd awwwwed.

Embeth grinned stupidly. How handsome he still was. How ready to forgive him she felt. How she loved that man.

And maybe that was what her life came down to. For him, she had lied, cheated, eaten dirt, blinded herself. She had shielded him from unpleasantness as much as she could. She had protected him from Ruby, Destroyer of Worlds. When they wrote the Book of Embeth, the only thing to be said was that she had loved Aaron Levin as well as any woman could.

He finally reached the microphone. He squeezed her hand. He leaned in, and El Meté flew away. He kissed her, and then he whispered in her ear, “What did I miss?”





V





Choose





AVIVA





1


Your name is Aviva Grossman. You are twenty years old, a junior at the University of Miami (Go Hurricanes!), and today is your first day as an intern for Congressman Levin, the Democrat from Miami, the Twenty-Sixth Congressional District of Florida.

You are super pumped. You believe in the possibility of government to effect positive change! You believe in the congressman! He’s such an inspirational speaker. He’s so young-looking and handsome, not that these things matter. But hey, it doesn’t hurt that he looks like a Jewish John F. Kennedy, Jr.

You are standing in your dorm room, contemplating your wardrobe. You have spent the last year in sweatpants and Birkenstocks. All of your “good” clothes are tight, because you gained twenty-two pounds your freshman year. You are still not fat, but you don’t know this at the time. You could have asked your mother to buy you new work clothes, but then she would have lectured you about your diet. She would have said, “Are you drinking enough water? Are you eating after ten?” You don’t want to hear it. You want to concentrate on your new job. You put on black tights even though it’s ninety degrees out.

Turn to page 2.





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