Flower Girl by Jane Dieadra Cook (Ohio)

            ​I know this church well. The Walters, our family friends that are faithful church goers,
would drag me here after every sleepover. Us kids would run up and down the aisles when the
service finally ended; stealing the pastor’s keys and army crawling under the pews to keep them
from him. I’m crammed into those same pews now, the cushions on them are a gross mossy
green and the thick air smells like fading incense and Chanel No. 5. It’s not the old, ornate,
celestial kind of church. I think it was built in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since. The organ
strikes a heavy chord and we all instinctively rise.
            ​I tell myself so aggressively not to lock my knees that I wonder if I’ve whispered it aloud. My stomach knots and my heart speeds up. If I lock my knees, I know I’ll faint, or maybe I’ll throw up. The vomit would blend right into these ugly green pews. What a comfort.

            ​The thick oak doors at the rear of the church start to open slowly and I elbow my mother,
whispering, “I shouldn’t have come.”
            ​My body is telling me I want to cry.
            ​“Why on earth do you say that?!” she whispers back, startled.
            ​I pretend I don’t hear her question; I’m too involved in the glossy covered program with
watercolor roses that I’m bending between my fingers. I forget, sometimes, that she doesn’t
know about that night in Chicago. I forget that if she did know, she’d resent me and the choices
I’ve made.

            ​When I was little, my best friend was a boy; Eddy Walters. I thought this was
unusual–spunky–revolutionary of me, to pick a boy for my best friend. What I was truly drawn
to was how much he knew in his young brain, and how much more he craved to know—but also
I just loved his endless treble giggles. He had golden blonde hair and that crisp sort of blue eyes.
He loved Batman and Thomas the Tank Engine. I rode my turquoise bike down our quiet street
to his house almost every afternoon to play with him and his little sisters; Emma, who was only a
year younger than us, and Rosie who was practically still a baby. The three and a half of us
played with action figures, did donuts on our scooters in the driveway, and ran through the
sprinklers in the backyard on warm summer days. Most of all, we loved to play pretend.
            ​The spring when I turned seven, I was in my Aunt’s wedding as a Flower Girl. I wore a
spectacular white tulle dress with a deep pink satin bow. I simply couldn’t wait to get married.
The very next day, I stuffed the pretty dress into my little green backpack and peddled to Eddy’s
house.
            I ran down the basement steps and wasted no time, “Look what I brought!” I shouted,
pulling the dress from its tight enclosure.
            ​The girls gasped.
            ​“Let’s play wedding!”
            ​Emma hopped off the couch and ran to find a dress nice enough to be a Maid of Honor in,
and I instructed Rosie to go pick dandelions in the backyard so she could be my Flower Girl.
Eddy was supposed to put on his nice dress suit, but when he said he would get in trouble for
that, I told him anything with a collar would do.
            ​Eddy suggested we have our wedding by the koi pond out back; a brilliant plan. He
waited at the “altar” while Emma walked down the aisle first in a blush pink church dress, and
then while Rosie toddled after her big sister, throwing yellow dandelions every which way. When
I finally made my big entrance through the sunroom door, I strutted confidently towards Eddy in
my fabulous gown.
            ​None of us knew how weddings work, but we knew you had to say, “I do”, and we both
did just that. Then Emma giggled, “You may now kiss the bride!”
            ​Eddy chuckled and his cheeks reddened. I looked into his bright eyes and suddenly
closed mine tightly, grabbing his shoulders and lightly pressing my lips to his for a short
moment, then pulling away.
            ​Emma began to wail and ran into the house to tattle to her mother. Later, Mrs.Walters told
us that kissing was definitely not allowed. Yet, in that moment, I just saw Eddy open his eyes and
smile warmly – I felt my tummy fill with butterflies.

            ​Eddy is now perched at this real altar, smiling from ear to ear. He has this inherent
sweetness about him–a completely genuine charm that practically glows from within him.
            ​The woman that’s walking down the aisle toward him is beautiful. Her cheeks are full and
rosy and her hair is a rare and vibrant shade of red. There's nothing much to hate about her. I
have watched their sweet and humble love story from afar; they're getting married because they
are so undoubtedly in love with one another. The whole thing is enough to make my teeth hurt.
            ​My polyester cocktail dress fits me poorly and my feet are pooling with sweat in my
shoes. Tears prick in my eyes and I wonder if I am close enough to the happy couple to pass as
being emotional over their vows.
            ​My mother is, of course, emotional. “Just think, what a wreck I’ll be on your wedding
day,” she whispers to me; a subtle hint to hurry up and find someone before it's too late for
grandkids.
            ​With a chuckle and a wink, the pastor finally says, “If anyone objects to the marriage of
these two individuals, please speak now or forever hold your peace.”
            ​My heart sinks so quickly, like this crusty green church floor has been ripped out from
beneath me and I have suddenly gone plummeting. I imagine this is what those drop–floor water
slides feel like when you begin to fall. I feel like a wet and naked body barrelling downwards
through an exposed plastic tube.
            ​I’m on display. I wonder if people are watching me from the corners of their eyes–pitying
me, or shaming me for saying no when I could have had all of this. Not a single head is turned to
me. All eyes are on the beautiful couple at the altar, but my shoulders are up to my ears and my
senses are heightened. I think I’m being hunted.

            ​I’ve been waiting for him, in a way, just in case. I’ve never gotten too close to anyone
because Eddy was in the back of my mind. Now, this woman is close to Eddy in a way that I
never will be. It makes me angry that there is this side to him that I will never know.Even
though, for my entire life I’ve been the one who knows him best.
            ​When he ran away in fifth grade, Mrs. Walters called our house first. I told her he’d be in
the treehouse over the small creek behind our Elementary school, because that was always our
“headquarters” when we’d play spies; and it was also where he would run to when the other boys
would steal his Harry Potter books and bury them in the dirt.
            ​And in ninth grade, when he had his appendix taken out, everyone was sending him
chocolates and sweets, or cards and money. I came to the hospital, terrified of what I would find
when I rounded the corner into his room; he was clearly high out of his mind on the morphine
the nurses were pushing through his IV. His face was translucent and he was doubled over;
queasy. I was so glad to be the only friend that visited, because he was clutching his worn out
brown teddy bear; Martin. Poor Martin’s stuffing was worn out of most of his limbs and he was
missing an eye where a big hole now was.
            ​I had asked my mom to stop at Walmart so we could get Eddy flowers. She didn’t think
he would appreciate them, “He’s a thirteen year old boy, honey. And Mrs. Walters says he’s still
sleeping most of the time. He probably won’t even see them.”
            ​“Well, when he wakes up they’ll be there and he’ll like them,” I told her definitively
through the lisp my braces gave me.
            ​I picked out a big bouquet of daffodils and set the vase on the table at Eddy’s bedside.
Mrs. Walters squeezed his shoulder gently, “Eddy, wake up.”
            ​“Oh, you don’t have to wake him up, it's okay,” I insisted.
            ​“No, he’ll want to see you.”
            ​He was so groggy and drowsy; acting like a little kid the way we all do when we’re super
sick. I gave him a gentle hug around the shoulders, trying not to hurt his torn up abdomen. He
squeezed me tightly.
            ​I pointed to the flowers, “Those are for you.”
            ​His face lit up so lovingly, “Daffodils! They’re such a happy flower.”

            ​The fantasy I’ve had since I was little; Eddy and I finally realizing we were madly in love
and riding away into the sunset, has come to a screeching halt. For the first time in my life, Eddy
is about to be removed from the table completely and I will be left forever holding my peace.
What a task that is; forever holding your peace. It seems like a big ask. There is immediately an
emptiness inside of me where I’ve been holding onto the idea of Eddy for so long.
            ​I want to stand up with a bolt–excited, nervous, panting. I want to crawl over my
protesting mother and stumble into the aisle with pure exasperation. “Don’t say yes, Eddy! I love
you and I always have!”
            ​I would start crying soft and pretty tears, and everyone in the room would shoot me with
horrified expressions. I wouldn’t care because the drama and the romance of it all would just
sweep me away. Maybe Eddy would sweep me away too...just scoop me up and run right out
those doors in the name of true love.
            ​Yet, I’m glued to my mossy green seat because Eddy would simply stand there in shock.
He would be confused. “Where on earth is this coming from?” he might ask. He may even be
angry.
            ​No, of course, he would be angry.
            ​He and this red headed woman are in love.
            ​Eddy and I have never been in love. People–grown ups and peers–have speculated since
we were small that we would eventually become a couple, or that we secretly were. There is
something thrilling and enticing about that speculation, though. People looked at us and saw
something more; our body language, our prolonged touches, our shared looks–the comfort and
ease between us. Whatever we were doing naturally gave people the impression of romance.
            ​I liked that.
            ​But now, Eddy and I will never be in love. People will no longer speculate. Let’s be
honest, they haven’t for quite some time.
            ​Not since senior prom when he asked me to go with him, as friends. He had been sure to
specify. I made him think that was the only way I’d come. The loud base in the music made my
head hurt. “Maybe we should go,” Eddy had offered.
            ​Everyone ogled us as we slipped out of the dark and stuffy gym; me wearing his coat
over my shoulders and carrying my shoes.
            ​He asked me if I wanted him to take me home. “Not really,” I said.
            ​I didn’t want to be alone, I wanted us to be alone.
            ​So, he drove us through McDonald’s and it started to rain. Everyone had their theories of
what went on that night, but he didn’t even kiss me. We just sat in the dark car, eating fries; my
feet on the dash, his tie undone. He tried to steal my fries, even though he had his own, and I
playfully slapped his hand away. The rain drizzled down the dark windows, and we talked and
wondered aloud about life and leaving for college. “I can’t believe we’re gonna be six hours
apart next year. It just doesn’t seem real,” I told him, one little tear sliding down my face.
            ​Eddy reached over and wiped it away with his thumb – my tummy filled with butterflies.
I winced.

            ​I watch him kiss his bride and I want to scream.

            ​Freshman year of college, he rode the train all the way to Chicago to see me. It was chilly
enough to wear my favorite cream sweater and cradle my hot coffee with both hands. I wanted to
be Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping. I don’t remember much about all the sightseeing
we did that weekend, or all of the cheap, hole in the wall restaurants I took him to. Yet, that last
night before he went home is as clear in my mind as these stained glass windows are in front of
me.
            ​I insisted it was time he tried Chicago style pizza, so we got take out and ate it back on
campus–on a bench overlooking the dim evening lake. Our shoulders were touching and we were
quiet. We’d told our stories from the months apart in rapid succession over the past few days and
we’d laughed until our bellies hurt, gasping for breath and slapping tables. Now, we were just
still.
            ​I heard him take a long, deep breath and immediately, my blood froze in my veins. The
time apart has gotten to him. Here it finally comes.
            ​“Look, I know we’re going to school pretty far apart–but I,” he turned away from me and
ran his hand through his hair.
            ​While he paused, my mind raced trying to determine what in the world I could say to
him.
            ​“I wanna give this a shot–us a shot,” he said, turning to look right into my eyes.
            ​I blinked in fear.
            ​“We’ve been so close for so long and I just feel like there’s more here,” he smiled, taking
my hand and running his thumb over my knuckles.
            ​My eyelids fluttered against the tears welling in the rims of my eyes. I wanted to
dash–maybe just jump into the lake or something.
            ​Suddenly, he was kissing me, and before I knew it, he wasn’t anymore. I wish so much
that I could remember how lovely I’m sure it was. All I could think of was the deep dish
pepperoni pizza we’d both just eaten.
            ​I felt my sweaty, clammy hand entangled with his and I ripped it away from him with a
jolt. The passion in his eyes thawed and he suddenly seemed lost.
            ​“It’s a bad idea, Eddy,” I cried, standing and pacing. I cracked my knuckles.
            ​He followed me, reaching for my hands again, “Why?”
            ​“The distance,” I lied, “We’ve missed our chance.”
            ​He narrowed his brows.
            ​“I’ll end up hurting you,” I insist, tears rolling down my hot, embarrassed cheeks.
            ​“No, no, no! We’re best friends–companions, we know each other so well–”
            ​“We don’t know eachother like that,” I folded my arms over my chest.
            ​"I want to know you like that,” his icy eyes sparkled at me.
            ​I sighed, shaking my head, “No you don’t, I promise, you’ve just missed me. You’re
confused–”
            ​“Don’t tell me what I am, I–”
            ​Eddy paused. He wasn’t expecting it to go this way, “I know you don’t like change and
this is scary, but–”
            ​“Eddy, stop. I’m not a child.”
            ​“I think you’re being selfish,” he spat.
            ​ I sniffed, wiping my running nose with the backs of my knuckles.
            ​“I am, I know,” my voice was small.
            ​For the first time in maybe a decade, I saw tears well up in his eyes. He came all the way
to Chicago for me–he came all that way to do this and I chose my security over our happiness.
            ​He reached out for me, placing his hands on my shoulders with care. He leaned down to
tenderly kiss my forehead. I could tell that if he were to speak, his voice would betray him–go
unsteady and derail. He backed away from me and stared out over the moonlit lake.
            ​“Please, don’t look so sad,” I begged.

            ​I regretted turning him down the moment he got on that train home; and I regretted it
even more when we hardly spoke after that.
            ​I still think of him everyday when my tongue instinctively wants to reference a joke or a
moment that only the two of us would understand. Our memories and our vernacular were once
so relevant in my day-to-day, but now they are just that; memories.
            ​I’m so happy for him, really. I’m bitter and jealous, and I’m mad at myself for not acting
on my feelings six years ago. I’m mad at him for the lines we both drew. I feel ugly and I feel
lame for having no plus one–for sulking here next to my weeping mother. I feel lifeless and I feel
stuck. I feel old. But I’m happy for Eddy. How could I not be?
            ​I had my nails done just for this and I’ve picked them all off. My mother keeps tapping
my wrist in hopes of getting me to knock it off. If I could claw my skin off I would.
            ​But then, “Can’t Stop This Feeling,” by Justin Timberlake starts to blare through the
church. If my teeth didn’t hurt before, they do now. Everyone stands–dancing and grooving a bit
in their pews. The couple practically skips back up the aisle with glee.
            ​I can feel the bride’s confidence oozing from every one of her pores. She knows she
looks beautiful and she knows Eddy is a dream. She knows they’re both pretty well off for two
fairly young adults. She knows everyone is rooting for them—everyone but me. She has just
sealed the deal forever, and she’s confident he won’t go anywhere. She’s confident he’ll treat her
like a queen, and I know he will. He’ll handle her with velvet gloves. I can’t even fathom the
sense of security she’s feeling—the relief coursing through her veins. I could go my whole life
without ever being at peace the way she is now. And maybe I will.

            ​I first had the pleasure of meeting her at Rosie’s highschool graduation party. Eddy had
brought her home from college where they had met. I was almost mesmerized by how pretty she
was. I watched, quietly, as she worked the party with her kind eyes and inviting wit. She floated
around the picnic pavilion with grace and ease; she could have anyone wrapped around her little
finger within just a brief few words. I boiled at how she’d fallen right in with Eddy’s sisters. The
three of them seemed like best friends, as though she’d been there all along. Yet, she hadn’t
always been there—I had.
            ​When I wasn’t watching her, I was watching Eddy watch her. He was so proud. I think I
physically flinched when he swept up behind her to hand her a drink, his hand finding the small
of her back with ease. When their eyes met, they shared a dulcet gaze that made me queasy. I had
to turn away.
            ​I decide her confidence is disgusting. No one is that safe. Her waterslide floor could fall
away at any moment. What would she do then?
            ​I decide to hate her.

            ​As they pass our row, Eddy flashes that smile of his and waves–almost knowingly. Do I
look visibly distressed? Maybe he just assumed I would be sad. I am the one that’s alone, after
all. I can’t tell if that is arrogant or sensitive of him. Maybe he was literally just waving, but it
makes me smile a bit brighter.
            ​Anticipation tingles through my stomach and climbs into my chest. My fingers tremor
eagerly in my lap–burning to act.
            ​The girls, Emma and Rosie, dance back up the aisle in their pretty pink chiffon gowns.
They’re so grown up, so beautiful, so different from each other. They’re young women. They
each make eye contact with me and smile hugely. I’m reminded how much a part of their family
I once was.
            ​Out from behind the broad shouldered man in front of me emerge two little flower girls
toddling their way up the aisle. Their faces are round and joyous, their hair in tight blonde pin
curls. Their dresses nearly match the bride’s exactly; big and poofy, with a little bit of pink–a
flower girl’s dream.
            ​I smile at them, kindly, and I let myself breathe.
            ​I think of the precious, perfect bride, and how I hate her. I clutch the pew in front of
me–my raw nails digging in.
            ​I decide it’s not too late. Now, all eyes really are on me. My mother’s face is purple. My
heart races, but my mind is calm.
            ​With confidence, I stand.




Jane Dieadra Cook is a second year BFA Creative Writing student at Otterbein University, with minors in Dance and Film Studies. Her work has previously been published in Otterbein's Literary Journal, Quiz and Quill, where she was a recipient of the Second Place Fiction Award. Jane has also enjoyed her involvement in Otterbein Theatre and Dance productions, both as a performer and Assistant Choreographer.