The aftermath

So, that was it. My brother had gotten married. People made a bigger deal of this than it actually was. I know that dad shelled out some pennies, and so did the family who raised Sadie. Seriously, why go to all the trouble just to tell someone you love them?

The papers, of course, crowed about it the next day, with a front-page spread complete with pictures. There was Noah beaming in his tux and Sadie in her gown, and more pictures of other guests splattered around. I wonder if it was like this when Nancy Landgraab first got married.

The other consequence of what happened was, of course, I got to hear another command performance from the one and only Motormouth Mom.

"I trust it you had a good time at the wedding," she began while washing dishes (yes, despite the presence of a full-time maid she still insists on housework).

"I would like to know, Savannah, what was that production last night?"
"The party had stalled," I reasoned, "so I decided to liven it up a bit."
"I went into town today, nobody was talking about the wedding, everyone was talking about you. I had a reporter come up to me asking to interview you. You know what? Savannah, I cannot believe the stunt you just pulled. I am sick and tired of you doing these types of things. Once again, you have made yourself the center of attention. Once again, you have made it all about you. You have consistently defied me and your father and embarrassed this family."

"Well, Noah seemed to like it."

"Noah's like his father, he's not gonna say anything, he's not gonna cause a scene -- unlike some people I know --"

"Mom -- in case you missed my birthday party at the beach, I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm not someone you can just push around. I can do things on my own."

My mother shook her head and let out a deep sigh. "Savannah -- why can't you be like normal girls?"

"Because I'm not a normal girl. I'm Nathan Plumb's daughter -- his only daughter. "

"And that comes with a certain cache -- a certain set of responsibilities. Responsibilities you're not living up to. You need to figure out what you want to do with yourself and you can't go around making a spectacle of yourself like you did last night."

Right after my parents came home from work that evening, the conversation continued over dinner. As usual, dad reached for the leftover hamburger in the fridge. The only thing that's different with dad is his gait is slower and his hair is grayer. He's pretty much the same otherwise.

"I had an idea and I ran with it," I told him, "don't you think I deserve credit for at least that?"

Dad mumbled, "uh-hum," between bites.

Mom set her tray down, glaring at me in silence.

"You and your ideas, Savannah," she sighed. "You've had them your whole life. I remember when you were a little girl and I had first gotten promoted to conductor of the orchestra, you showed up an hour late to the after-party wearing dirty jeans and flip-flops. You never told me where you'd been."

I changed the subject again. "Well, it was the 'Love Serenade,' entirely appropriate. Dad taught it to me, and I decided to use it. People were dancing, they were having a good time. Isn't that what you're supposed to do at a wedding?"