A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 3 Cecily

Returning to campus the next morning feels like a weird van ride of shame. I think it has something to do with Maggie. Today, she’s wearing a neon purple tank top that claims I Love Me Some WAP with a picture of Tolstoy’s War and Peace below it. (One really has to wonder if she knows what WAP stands for or if this is just a fluke.) She smiles at all of us as we file into the van, and when it’s Nate’s turn to climb inside, she touches his arm and says, “Come, love. Sit shotgun next to me.” He politely declines with a shake of his head, and Maggie shrugs, walks around to the driver’s side, and sulks in her seat until everyone is safely on board. Meanwhile, all of the not-quite-one-hundred-percent-better-yet passengers had to endure many rounds of puking last night without brushing our teeth afterward, so I can’t speak for the others, but I opt to keep my mouth shut so nobody is subjected to my rank morning breath.

Thankfully, Maggie doesn’t drive like a maniac this time. She does, however, seem much quieter than the last time we were here together. To fill the void, she puts on the radio, and suddenly the van is overcome with the Jamaican dancehall stylings of one Mad Cobra circa 1992, whose one-hit wonder is marked by the refrain, “Gyal, flex. Time to have sex.” As if we were in need of a reggae-based alarm clock. Perhaps it’s not exactly what you or I might select at 7:30 in the morning after a stay in an infirmary, but I’m starting to think that this is definitely an on-brand move for Maggie.

Physically, I feel about eighty-five percent better, but emotionally, I somehow feel significantly lighter this morning, like the heavy weight of loneliness and feeling like I don’t belong that was crushing my shoulders is noticeably absent today. I woke up before Profes—um, Nate, and I worried for a split second that he would regret talking to me last night, like when you meet a guy when you’re tipsy in a dark bar and then see him sober in the light of day and you’re like, Wow…no.

But that’s not how it goes down at all. When we woke up, he smiled at me, his hair all askew, and we exchanged very few words other than his “How are you feeling?” and my “A little better. You?” which was followed by a nod, a grunt, and the word “Same.” We’re side by side in the back of the van, but I’m staring out the back window at the scenery, which I must admit is quite bucolic, especially in the early morning peachy glow of the sun. He’s checking his phone. If we were friends, I would say, “Look! You’re missing it.” But we’re just—I don’t know. Teacher and student, I guess.

When we arrive at the retreat center, I wave goodbye to Nate and to Maggie and immediately head to the shower. I stave off a warm welcome from Gurt, who is thankfully absent from our room when I arrive, and who (by some miracle of God) has not removed all of my personal belongings and changed the locks while I was gone. I luxuriate in one of the vertical coffins masquerading as a shower in the communal restroom, scrub the enamel off my teeth over the sink for a solid five minutes, and slip on a sundress with a light cardigan over it. I tie my wet hair in a topknot and decide to skip the makeup for today, seeing as how there’s no way I could look more haggard than I did last night. Clean is the goal, I decide. Just be clean and healthy, and keep all your food down.

With my backpack in tow, I head to the dining hall and make myself a toasted English muffin for breakfast. Dry. It’s about all my stomach can handle. I sit through Nate’s workshop. Today, we are reviewing Trite Tim’s work: the first eighteen pages of a novel that is supposed to be a modern-day take on George Orwell’s Animal Farm, only in his version, a hamster and a guinea pig try to take over a Petco, and there’s nothing to be found but entirely unrealistic action scenes that Tim insists are allegorical. I’m reminded of Humphrey, the hamster from the series by the same name that is quite popular with the third and fourth graders at the library, and even though I say very little out loud in our workshop together, I laugh as I remember the fact that I offered this up as a book recommendation in my feedback letter to Tim.

It’s so tempting to cut him down, but I’m exhausted, and I remind myself that’s not what I came here for anyway. Nate manages to give him a good dose of thoughtful feedback, Harold persists with the stroking of his imperceivable facial hair (the cape is blessedly absent from his outfit today), and Maleficent expresses her discontent for stories in which humans are not the main characters. We break for a snack, and while Tim is clearly pissed, at least he’s not crying, so I’m pretty sure Nate sees that as a win.

Later that afternoon, I’m settling into a chair in Room B of the North Wind building, readying myself for Nate’s seminar. I feel a little bit better, although the occasional errant burp reminds me of last night’s debacle and the fact that I will never eat shellfish again. The room is packed. Apparently, everyone’s really excited to hear Nate speak.

I wouldn’t have classified Nate Ellis as a nervous sort of person prior to my conversation with him last night. Descriptors for him might have included words like egotistical, narcissistic, or perhaps even holier-than-thou. Now, I feel like he’s a lot more regular that I previously realized; he’s maybe just a little better at navigating social situations that I am. (Fine, significantly better.) There’s something about accolades in the literary world that create unfair assumptions. I mean, between his prestigious award and his Yaddo stint, he’s an easy person to be jealous of. And to be fair, his writing isn’t half-bad. His book just struck me as a little bit reminiscent of Death of a Salesman, if it was set in the aftermath of a pandemic and Willy Loman was replaced by a Department of Labor employee. It wasn’t bad. I just wouldn’t choose it off a shelf in Barnes Noble is all I’m saying.

I’m not rude about it though. I’m not shouting from the rooftops that I wouldn’t curl up with Work on a Saturday night.

But apparently, I’m very na?ve. I’ve brought an expectation with me to this school that faculty members will be collegial toward one another and that they are as invested in each other’s success as they are in their students’ learning. So forgive me for not expecting what happens next.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Nate begins. “We’re here today to discuss the way in which plot affects character development in literature.” He starts up a PowerPoint presentation using the clicker that Lucy has provided him with. The first few slides offer examples, along with references to short stories that we were expected to read in advance of the seminar. All of these items are neatly printed out in my binder, and I follow along with the Nate Ellis Show without concern.

Until.

“I’d like us to take a few moments here to do a generative exercise. Everyone, please take out a notebook or an iPad. Whatever you’ve got.” He switches the slide and begins to read the assignment aloud. “This exercise is called ‘Put Yourself in the Story.’ Essentially, I want you to think of yourself as the main character in a novel or piece of short fiction. Think of a moment—a real moment from your own personal biography—that you feel shifted your outlook on life or on the world around you. Write that moment for us. And when we’re done, I’ll take a few minutes and give people a chance to share.”

I begin to ruminate on the question, knowing full well exactly which moment it was that altered the trajectory of my life—but my train of thought is interrupted by someone.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ellis. What makes you think that this exercise is relevant? I can think of a number of famous stories where the plot has nothing to do with the character’s internal arc. In fact, the arc happens despite the plot. I’d say we can all agree that this is a critical element of what sets literary fiction apart from genre fiction, hm?”

I swivel around to see that the demeaning voice belongs to that woman from the mixer the other day, the one who made the comment about Nate and Yaddo. Alice Some-French-Last-Name-That-Probably-Means-Fuck-Tart.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

She clears her throat and repeats her insult using a different set of SAT prep words.

“Well, if we disregard plot as an essential element of storytelling, we’re left with very little, Professor Devereaux,” he rebuts. “And I happen to have it on good authority that not every student in our program is writing literary fiction.”

She harrumphs, openly sneering at him. “You certainly weren’t.”

He laughs off the obvious insult, but I can feel the tension mounting. “You’re right. Like many of the artists here, I came to the page without a clear plan for what I was going to write. I think you’re missing the point of the exercise though. The point of the exercise is to take a deeper look at plot as a device to create change and move the needle for a protagonist. They say, ‘Write what you know,’ so I’m here offering our students that opportunity.”

Dillon Norway stands up. “It’s an interesting conversation, one that often persists in the MFA world: literary versus commercial fiction. There’s no right or wrong though. There’s plenty of space for both. So let’s get on with the exercise then. What’d you say, Nate? Ten minutes? Fifteen?”

“Fifteen minutes should work,” he agrees and then turns to shuffle some handouts as the room goes quiet with the white noise of pens scribbling on paper and tablet screens.

I can’t help but notice the slump in Nate’s shoulders as he busies himself with anything to keep his back turned to the audience. Alice Douchebag Devereaux receives a silent tap on the shoulder from Dillon Norway, who juts out his chin toward the door, mutely requesting that she follow him outside, which she does, but not without a puss on her face.

Thoughts of Alice Devereaux’s obvious frigidity sadly translate into the story I’m about to jot down about myself, causing me no small amount of panic at the thought of a sexless, judgmental future not unlike the one she must be experiencing presently. But I am not a bitter person, I remind myself. In fact, my story is actually quite hopeful.

So I write.

You know the wholeAlways a bridesmaid, never a bridething? Well, that’s kind of been my personal tagline for the past nine years. I’ve been in thirteen weddings. That’s thirteen bridal showers I’ve had to help plan, thirteen bachelorette parties I’ve tried (and failed) to enjoy, thirteen awkward nights out in uncomfortable shoes doing the Cha Cha Slide with my nieces while my adoring aunts drink themselves giggly and post wastey-pants videos of their synchronized dance attempts on TikTok. Now I’m sure you’re thinking that the reason I’ve been involved in so many weddings must be on account of my sparkling personality. (She’s awash with friends!you presume.Ha, I respond; if only that were the case.) I actually come from a gigantic family. Three sisters. Twelve cousins. All girls. All of whom I love dearly! And all of prime childbearing age, raised by a quartet of women from the easternmost New York City outer borough.

The estrogen in our bloodline is next level.

We must put out some serious pheromones too, because all thirteen of the weddings in question happened before the brides turned thirty. We’re not living inLittle House on the Prairietimes either, where girls had kids by eighteen and were dead by fifty. This story takes place now, not hundreds of years ago.

My younger sister, Jamie (bride number thirteen), was going for her master’s degree at Merrimack College in Massachusetts, studying to become a certified athletic trainer, when she got a job working for the New Hampshire Fisher Cats, a double-A affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays.

In professional baseball, guys move up and down the minor league ladder, all hoping for a shot to play in the majors. It’s a real grind too. Players have to work out every day, and they have to report to games six days a week with an off day on Monday. They live in obscure towns across the country—or even in Canada, if you happen to play for the Blue Jays—and as they move up and down the ladder, they can be plucked up out of one of those areas and sent to another team within the franchise in a totally different time zone overnight. I happen to know this information courtesy of Bryce Archer, my first and only long-term boyfriend ever. We met in homeroom at Cardozo High School in Queens, New York. Like people used to—none of this online business you see happening these days. Things were good until they weren’t, and then we broke up. There were no new verbs aligned with our time together, no gaslighting or catfishing. He was not sus, and neither of us were woke. In fact, our relationship read a lot more like a traditional teen romance movie than the current online dumpster fire of my social life. Bryce was cute and popular. I was shy and awkward. It was veryTwilightminus the vampires,The Fault in Our Starsminus the terminal illness. Cool guy plusnerdy girl equals happy ending, which sounds a lot like common core math to me in that it makes no logical sense whatsoever. Still, we stayed together for six years, which is a long time for any relationship, I know now. We even stuck it out through college, both of us moving to the wilds of Rhode Island. He played baseball for Bryant University, and I went to Brown University to study literature, so we were twenty minutes away from each other in the Dunkin’ drinking Ocean State. Until he got drafted by the Toronto Blue Jays his junior year of college and poof! Within days, he was gone, suddenly living in Vancouver, Canada, on a work visa playing minor league baseball for a Blue Jays farm team. Bryce left me behind to handle thering by springexpectation of my mother, who would not stop begging me to make it work long distance while I succumbed to the quiet understanding that he was out there chasing his dreams, just like all of my overachieving friends at Brown.

I was chasing mine too—or, at the very least, I was figuring out exactly what mine were while immersing myself in the written word: classics, contemporaries, and everything in between. I could lose myself in a book just as easily as I could find myself in one, and I knew that I yearned for a future where I could be surrounded by stories. I loved words like Bryce loved baseball.

So when he left, it hurt, but it wasn’t a shock, and I certainly wasn’t about to force a round peg into a square hole just to appease my mother. Besides, our relationship had devolved into a ticking clock. Waiting for the draft. Waiting for the call. Scoping out teams, locations. I would have been really stupid if I thought he’d quit all that so he could stay in Rhode Island with me, especially when the whole reason he’d gone there in the first place was so that he could get noticed by scouts, chase opportunities,and find a way into a world he’d wanted to be part of since he was a little kid. We’d stay friends, we decided. You know, the kind of friends who barely ever speak to each other because of time zones, practices, games, and all that.

It was fine. There were other fish in the sea.

Besides, I had my books. My books would never leave. They’d see me through the pain of a breakup. Books could see me through anything. Plus, the leading men in books were a whole lot more interesting and desirable than the ones I knew in real life. Mr. Darcy never talked about anal during Mexican night at the dining hall the way Todd did. Marc Antony didn’t ask Cleopatra if she wanted to have a threesome with her roommate. (Vinny sure did though.)

In the years following graduation, I dated Les, who was conveniently “between jobs” and made me pay for our dinner; Devin, who had a legit toe fetish; and Jared, who was kind enough to inform me that the thing on his lip was not a pimple but a herpes sore (as I’d suspected). Anyway, all of that was a far cry from my most recent relationship, which took place last year and lasted exactly one evening, ending with me climbing out of the bathroom window of a restaurant after being informed that my date, Adrian, “occasionally dabbled” in methamphetamines.

And no, that was not a fact that he listed on his Tinder profile.

But (and my apologies for the digression, but we’re back to minor league baseball here) I now know that the minors are kind of like the military, minus the weapons training and risking-your-life-for-freedom thing. The guys often get lonely, and many look for the companionship of a wife at a relatively early age. How did I learn this tidbit of intel, you wonder? Well, courtesy of Bryce, of course.

And my sister.

Lucky wedding number thirteen, a.k.a. the day my ex-boyfriend became my brother-in-law, was fraught with pitiful looks from my huge extended family. Exuberance for my baby sister was marred by mumbled sidebar concerns for my mental health as my chronological age was nearing twenty-nine and my ovaries had zero prospects in sight.

Please allow me to remind you that this is a work of nonfiction, so yes, your knee-jerk response of“You’re kidding, right?”is fully warranted.

Jamie called me when Bryce showed up on her team, fresh off a stint with the Buffalo Bisons. He was bummed to be climbing down the ladder after a not-so-hot season, demoted from triple-A to double-A, and was grateful for the surprise of Jamie’s familiar face. She asked me if it was okay to go out with him for a drink a week or two later, and what was I going to say? No?

Icouldn’tsay no. She’s mysister, and I love her! Bryce was just a guy from my past. And so what if he took my virginity?

Okay, fine. In retrospect, maybe I should have said no.

Jamie’s wedding day should have been a sad day for me, walking down the aisle toward my Bryce plus seven years of muscle decked out in a tuxedo. To be fair, I’ll admit that it was hard not to be reminded of our prom night, seeing him standing there dressed like that. Yet as I arrived just steps shy of his position at the altar, I veered to the left to line up alongside my relatives, a lopsided smile plastered to my face, making space for his bride, my sister, whose fidget spinner collection he used to make fun of back when we were dating. And I was…fine. Not angry, not sad. Bryce was a minor-league baseball player who dropped out of college, and Jamie was content to toss aside herexpensive private school education and interest in science and biology to accompany him up and down the MLB flowchart, living in crappy rental apartments paid for by the team and going to six baseball games a week with no end in sight.

If that was the journey she wanted to have, more power to her.

One thing bears mentioning though. I had an epiphany during that wedding. So this is the “character arc” part of the story, if you will. As I shifted from left foot to right foot in my painful sparkly shoes, there was a moment when I realized I wasn’t like the rest of my female family members. For them, the idea of being married and procreating was some sort of apex to aspire to. But I never really saw marriage that way. My dad was always busy working; my mom was busy feeding everyone and running us all over the city to our various activities and playdates. My parents never got all fancy and went out together unless they had to. There were no Broadway shows or date nights. Dad only dressed up for work, for weddings, or for Nana’s funeral. Life was just always superbusy.

Well, I mean, for the rest of us. (Rest in peace, Nana.)

Meanwhile, I grew up hiding from the ever-present noise in my childhood home by burying my nose in a book, wearing oversize, unsightly red headphones to mute the constant drama that comes with a house full of girls. I immersed myself in stories about strong women, books likeThe Poisonwood BibleandThe Handmaid’s Tale—narratives that reinforced the notion that there was more to life than just the search for a man. Then I’d pen short stories or fanfic, mostly coming-of-age YA stuff, in an attempt to fill a void that I felt existed for young girls like me in bookstores and libraries. The classics portray male protagonists going on great adventures; think Huckleberry Finn orOdysseus. Even Holden Caulfield was going on his own kind of journey. But female protagonists of the past—much like my sisters and cousins—journeyed only toward marriage and childbirth, leaving careers and other meaningful life goals on the wayside in pursuit of that sperm.

So as I stood there at Jamie’s wedding, hiding behind my robin’s-egg-blue glasses, I received those pathetic looks from my family members and found myself awash with resolve. No more of thisalways a bridesmaidbullshit. No more being defined by my lack of a plus-one at family functions.

No more of me just being areader, a sideline participant, a children’s librarian swimming in an endless sea of other people’s stories.

Why waste my time on dating apps when I could spend it pursuing my dreams? And maybe, I figured, if my family could see how fulfilling my life was as a solo act, they’d leave me alone about having babies and actually be proud of myprofessionalaccomplishments.

Yes, as my baby sister took her vows to love, honor, and cherish Bryce Archer, so too did I take a vow, to love, honor, and cherish myself!Thiswas the moment I decided I would pursue my childhood dream of becoming a published author. I would write books and people would buy them, and I would be Cecily Jane Allerton, the self-fulfilled author whose family was proud of her, not Cecily Jane Allerton, the poor soul whose prom date married her sister.

That counts as a character arc, right?

I scribble away, recounting the story that has shaped my adult life most to date, until Nate informs us that it’s time to be done. “That’ll do it, folks. Anyone want to share what they wrote?”

Overzealous students raise their hands, eager to hop on board the Nate Ellis express train to success, but all I keep thinking about is what he told me last night at the medical center. He thinks he’s just a fluke. Maleficent attempts to share her pearls of wisdom with the group, only she doesn’t really answer the question and instead talks about Hemingway’s alcoholism, which seems irrelevant but is in much the same vein as Professor Douchebag Devereaux’s previous comment. I turn around to see if the douchebag herself has reentered the room, and not a moment too soon, as it appears she is not only back but has something new to say.

“I agree with Andrea,” she pontificates. “Real character arcs develop due to more than just circumstances. For example,” she goes on, “if we were to take your success as an author, we would see that you went from a no-name copywriter to a big-name somebody in the time it took for a pop-up animal market to go batty in Wuhan.”

Oh, damn.

“Which is not exactly the same as a character arc, now is it?” she goes on.

Nate pauses, takes a breath, and puts on the fakest smile I have ever seen on a man in my life. “Well, since this is intended to be a personal activity, I would be happy to share that my success as an author has definitely contributed to the development of my character over time, but I don’t think it’s the sole factor.”

“Then what is?” she counters.

Nate shrugs. “It’s not just one thing. It’s been a series of events.”

“Okay, Mr. Ellis. Riddle me this. How can you ask our fledgling writers here to choose just one moment and characterize it as the moment that defines their personal arc? How can you expect them to do something that you yourself are unable to do?”

“This is just an exercise, Alice. Real character arc doesn’t happen in a vacuum.”

I’m not sure what possesses me at this exact moment, but before I can stop myself, I am raising my hand. Nate looks at me and nods his head.

“I’d like to share,” I say in a voice bolder than one who spent six of the past twenty-four hours puking her guts out should have.

His face shifts the tiniest bit from exasperation to relief, like he’s narrowly avoiding heart palpitations.

“My ex-boyfriend married my sister,” I overshare loudly. “And as I was walking down the aisle as her bridesmaid, I realized I wanted to pursue my dream of becoming a published author instead of pursuing my family’s dream of me becoming a wife and popping out a bunch of kids. It was a single moment, and I think it resulted in a huge character arc,” I say in a moment of verbal vomit (a welcome contrast from my earlier bout of real vomit).

In response to this information, I hear some very low murmuring from the audience, but I choose to ignore it. Nate Ellis eyeballs me curiously. Then Dillon Norway pipes up. “That would make a great novel,” he says.

Thatwould make a great novel, I realize.

Dillon Norway continues. “I also think it’s an excellent example of how there’s not one single right answer. Still, I appreciate the heated discussion. Who else would like to share?”

Others tentatively raise their hands, and once it’s clear that there are plenty of people who believe that character arc can be borne from a solitary plot twist, Douchebag Devereaux quietly leaves the room. I only know this because I can see Nate’s face change. Students engage in meaningful discussions, he offers a few more examples, and the session comes to a close.

Afterward, some students linger, and some try to approach him for sidebar conversations. I pack up my backpack and hoist it onto my shoulders.

“CJ!” I hear as I walk toward the exit. “Cecily!” the voice says again.

I turn around. Nate is waving me over.

“Stick around for a sec, please?”

I try to make a smooth about-face, but the tortoise shell on my back bonks into a few fellow MFAers. I work my way back to the front of the room, and the Nate Ellis fan club begrudgingly dissipates.

He lowers his voice when he speaks to me. “Thank you for doing that,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“Shutting her down like that with your god-awful story.”

I shrug. “No worries. I was just trying to save you from the same humiliation I went through.”

“Huh?”

“In workshop. When they all ripped me to shreds,” I explain. “I don’t know. I don’t like watching nice people be attacked for no good reason.”

He nods. “Well, really, thank you. I appreciate what you did.”

“My pleasure.”

“Did that really happen to you? That thing with your sister?”

“It did.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. I guess that was what you meant.”

“Huh?”

“When you said that books can’t hurt you like people can.”

“Oh. That.” I shuffle my feet. “Yeah. But it’s all good. Remember? I said it was a glass-half-full situation.”

“You did say that.”

The conversation fades out, and I’m met with an awkward pause. “Well, I’m going to head out,” I say. “Good seminar, by the way.”

“Thank you,” he says.

I walk toward the exit, and just before I cross the threshold, I turn around and hold up my hand in a little wave, surprised to see that he’s still looking at me. An unexpected warmth fills my belly, but I quickly ignore it.

I’m sure it’s just the bad fish,I tell myself.