Page 22 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
“Are you sure I’m beautiful?” Irena asked on the verge of tears.
“Of course. What happened?”
Irena threw her arms around him and spat a rapid-fire volley of strange words. Will listened and nodded, holding her against his chest as she sobbed out the details. I could tell they cared about each other. Maybe she wasn’t just marrying him for a visa. He also responded with a tenderness I’d never seen from him before. Perhaps he wasn’t such a goon these days … maybe.
“We’re gonna fix this,” Will said defiantly.
“But no time,” Irena said.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll find another hairdresser if we have to visit every beauty parlor in town.”
Irena gave a painful smile and nodded. Without another word, we raced outside to find a stylist who could fix her hair. We soon discovered that every place within walking distance was closed or booked solid. As twilight darkened behind the mountains, despair set in. If we didn’t find a solution fast, Irena would have to walk the aisle with a hairdo that would make Boris Johnson blush.
I suggested a wig again. The others grumbled but admitted that might be the only option. We marched through a mazeof side streets toward the bridal shop, hoping they’d have one in stock. On the way, we noticed an open salon with no customers inside. I shot an optimistic glance at Will and Irena, and we stepped through the front door.
A dark-haired stylist in her twenties introduced herself. Irena pulled the towel off her head to expose the catastrophe. The stylist covered her mouth and shook her head. Irena’s lip quivered, but the stylist stiffened herself and spoke in a reassuring voice. Irena nodded and slumped into a salon chair.
“She will try to fix it,” Mira explained. “But all she can do is bleach Irena’s hair white.”
“Can you do that?” I asked. “She already bleached her hair twice today.”
Mira shrugged. I gulped. Irena sat stoically in front of the mirror as if facing down a firing squad. The stylist got to work applying more bleach while Will paced back and forth through the tiny room. We waited for the next thirty minutes, wondering if her hair could possibly come out worse than before.
A burden in my chest ached for Will and Irena. They didn’t deserve this on the eve of their big day. I’d never liked my stepbrother—and still didn’t—but he and Irenaseemed right for each other. I grudgingly admitted he wasn’t such a bad guy. He was still a dweeb, of course, but at least he’d matured a bit since his rebel-without-a-clue phase.
Irena squirmed anxiously in the chair. She was a lovely girl, even if I could barely understand her. She was far too young to get married at nineteen, but she looked happy with Will. I was rooting for them, even if I thought my stepbrother was borderline criminal for marrying a girl six years younger than him. I said a silent prayer that the stylist could save Irena’s hair … and the wedding.
A timer sounded as the moment of truth arrived. Irena lay back in the sink to wash the bleach out. I watched over Will’s shoulder, half terrified that the bride would be bald or worse. The stylist turned off the water and patted Irena’s head with a towel. The bride sat up, her hair glowing angelic white. For a moment I thought I’d witnessed a miracle. A smile spread across my face as relief rushed over me.
“Is it better?” Irena asked.
“You look wonderful,” Will said.
He turned the salon chair so that Irena could see her reflection. The bride’s face brightened, her eyes watering.
Will ran his hands through her hair. “It feels like steel wool.”
The stylist responded in Malegonian. I looked to Mira for an explanation.
“Her hair is fried,” she explained. “But Irena will look fine for the wedding.”
I nodded and looked over the bride. You could still faintly see dark streaks where Diana had tried to “fix” her first attempt. The new stylist worked Irena’s hair into a bun to hide the damage. When she stepped away, Irena’s face radiated with joy. She threw her arms around the stylist and muttered something I assumed was thanks. The wedding was saved … so long as nothing else went wrong.
Chapter 9
The next morning, I almost slept through breakfast. When I came down to the villa’s café, Dad and Elizabeth sat with a dark-haired man in a suit who talked like a machine gun. Assuming he was a new in-law, I pulled up a seat at their table. The stranger rambled on about Malegonia’s ancient glory. His English was clear, and his brown eyes shone with ferocity as he spoke.
“Serbia and Greece tried to wipe us out after we defeated the Turks, and now the Bulgarians try to claim us, but they all lie. Only Malegonians will tell you the real history. Everyone wants our land because it’s the greatest country in the world. We have the cleanest water, the finest beaches, and the highest mountains. All European languages derive from Malegonian, and all the greatest artists and thinkers have our blood. Alexander the Great, Constantine, Napoleon, Nikola Tesla,Mother Teresa, John Belushi, Abraham Lincoln, Elon Musk, thirty-six popes …”
I snickered, thinking the man was joking, but he continued his diatribe without missing a beat. I glanced at Dad and Elizabeth. They had resigned expressions and nodded along like captives in a hostage video. The man continued, arguing that the original language of the Quran was a lost Malegonian dialect, until his phone rang. He answered and rose abruptly from the table without acknowledging us.
“Who was that?” I asked as he walked out of the café.
“No idea,” Dad said. “I thought he was a waiter and asked him for a drink.”
Elizabeth gave a whimsical sigh. “He seemed like a very smart man.”
Dad and I shared a look. Elizabeth didn’t notice.
