California. December, 2010

Oh fuck no.

I hear the first slicing sounds of an accordion, like polka dot nails on a chalkboard.  The familiar grating up and down, see-sawing notes increase in pace and volume, spiking my already percolating cortisol levels flowing through my bloodstream. I suck in my breath and close my eyes. No, no, no.

My mom suddenly grasps my arm, "Oh, the Chicken Dance! Fun! Come on, Leigh, let's do it!"

Dancing in public, especially to this song, is practically a phobia of mine. I'd rather walk over Lego bricks on fire, please, and thank you. "Hard pass."

"Really? Are you just going to drink wine and hide behind this flower arrangement the entire reception?"

"Plants and flowers are my kind of people, Mom, so yes."

She sighs heavily, "Fine. Suit yourself," and jogs out to join the other group-dance freaks in the center of the room.

Holy hell. Especially THAT dude.

My eyes are assaulted by a guy who is so personally invested in the dance that you'd think he'd been paid to be here as Mr. Chicken Dance himself. I know he's not, though; he's one of the two best men to the groom, and watching him crouch and flap his wings in his penguin suit is nearly comical. What a freakin' weirdo. Doesn't he even care what people think? I feel personally embarrassed just watching him. 

A few more guests run to join the spectacle, and the synchronized clapping begins its onslaught.

I'm out. 

Where though?

There is no way I feel comfortable mingling with the crowd in the adjoining room without my parents as a buffer. Parties and large social gatherings are my version of earthy hell.  I forget everyone's names as soon as they tell me, and thinking of questions to ask people I don't know gives me anxiety days in advance. 

So, heading in the opposite direction of all the intimidating strangers, I whisk myself away to the empty ladies' room to try to block it out. The washroom door closes behind me with a dull thud, and with it, the chicken dance. Fucking finally.

Downing the last of my red wine and setting the glass on the counter, I straighten my off-the-shoulder black dress. I know—it's a wedding, but I don't do color. Scrutinizing myself in the mirror,  I bare my teeth, checking for a stuck bit of salad, then fix my make-up, brushing away some stray mascara flakes off my cheek. Damn, my dramatic feline-esque eyeliner still looks flawless. I may not know how to small talk, but I do know how to rock some kick-ass cat eyes.

God, how much longer is this reception going to last? 

I flew out yesterday for my cousin's wedding in rural northern California and will fly home in the afternoon tomorrow. The bride, Ren Baker, or Regali, I should say now, married her childhood sweetheart twelve years after they broke up in high school, and the whole story and wedding is just so... sickeningly sweet. 

Slight nausea swirls in my stomach as I think about their teary eyes as they say their vows, the way they smiled at each other at their first dance—like eating a whole bag of cotton candy to yourself. I can only take so much. Weddings usually underscore how terrible my love life has been, and I'd rather not think about it.

I mean, I'm happy for her. Really. I am.

But the thing is, I don't even know her that well. She's seven years older than me and my only cousin on my dad's side. But the age difference isn't the main reason we're not as close as I am with my mom's cousins. Ren's family is American, living in California, while I'm Canadian, living in Ontario. I never really get a chance to see her very often, and when I do, it's at big functions I'm forced to go to like this, and it's always been... hard to connect.

That's more my problem than hers. I think I've already reached the end of my minuscule social limit. I like to call it 'Fun-sized,' actually. Short and sweet.

Typically, as soon as I get to a large social event, I'm already planning how and when I can get back to my apartment. I'd much prefer to be at home with my cats and my plants, watching Netflix or reading a book. And dating? At this point it's like I'm just waiting for the perfect guy to accidentally knock on my door and fall into my life. Good luck with that, right?

And the worst thing is that after my experience with my first boyfriend in high school, I have a hard time trusting men in general. They might look like the perfect guy on the outside, feeding you all lines they know you want to hear, but they only want one thing, and they'll say anything to get it. 

Since then, I've only dated three other guys, all emotionally unavailable and practically holding a sign that they are in Trouble with a capital T. You know, those oh-so-hot and sexy, brooding bad boy types? I probably should have steered clear of those as well, but I seem to be attracted to danger, and at least I knew what I was getting into. Unfortunately, my last relationship was as disastrous as Chornobyl, and the meltdown that ensued left toxic elements behind that I just can't seem to destroy. 

"Damn. I wish a sexy devil of a man would find me... but with a kind heart."

"Not sure those exist," I hear, along with a loud flush.

My eyes go wide as heat spills over my cheeks. Shit, Did I say that out loud?

I spin around to see a girl in a light green satin dress who looks more like she should have walked out of a cover of Vogue than a bathroom stall at a rural wedding venue. 

The model is none other than one of Ren's bridesmaids who comes to wash her hands beside me. My heart rate ticks up, and I look down at the sink in front of me to try not to attract more of her attention.

A second flush sounds a moment later, and my breathing halts as a redhead in a matching green dress emerges from the other stall, reflected in the mirror. "Well, maybe Leigh just needs to conjure one up," she says cooly, coming to the sink on my other side, sending another wave of cortisol through me.

Shit. Shit! Ren's other bridesmaid. Goddamnit, she remembered my name! I should know their names. Ren introduced me right after the wedding ceremony. Fuck, why is my brain like a sieve!

"Conjure. Ha!" The model's laugh is like the wind on a summer day. "Like another one of your love spells, Sydney? You know that's not really what made Gio and Ren get back together."

Sydney's her name! That's right.

"How do you know it didn't help? I think we sparked fate that night, Chiara."

Chiara! Thank god! I'm saved.

"What do you think, Leigh? Want me to do a love spell for you? I'm really good at it now."

Oh no. That sounds like a center-of-attention thing. Deflect. Deflect.

"You did a love spell for Ren to find Gio?" I say with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it glance in the mirror to Sydney.

"Yes. But behind her back," she shakes her head, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. "I think it would have worked much quicker if she'd been part of the incantation." 

Chiara leans forward, opening her eyes wide as she applies more mascara in the mirror. "It would have worked quicker if we just invited them both to a party." 

"Whatever! That would have been too obvious," Sydney waves off dismissively. "They needed to feel in control of the situation. And I don't care what you think, I know we invoked something that night!" 

She whips around suddenly to me, her brown eyes wide and flickering like ancient torches, her mouth pulled into a strange, enigmatic smile. "Leigh, you look like someone in touch with their inner sorceress. Let's prove Chiara wrong about the power magic and make that wish come true!"

WTF. Is she saying I look goth? I'm not in touch with an inner sorceress. My hands fly up in front of my chest, "Oh, I don't know. I wasn't serious."

"Come on, party pooper! It'll be fun. Better than dancing to the chicken dance, right? I bet they'll do the Macarena next."

She's not wrong.

"Okay... I guess."

She grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. "Great! I have everything we need in my bag in the back room. Follow me."

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(1,470 words)

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