“Exactly,” I said, the corners of my mouth curling into a fierce, feral smile. “Everyone will see. Every single one of her snobby country club friends. Everyone will know exactly what she did. If I cry, she wins. If I cancel, she wins. If I hide in a sample dress three sizes too big, she wins. I am not letting that woman take my dignity. I am marrying Daniel today, and I am going to do it in a clown costume.”
Sarah stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The sheer audacity of the plan hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating. Slowly, the panic in her eyes dissolved, replaced by a dark, wicked gleam. She started grinning.
“You’re serious,” Sarah breathed out. “This is… this is the most savage thing I have ever heard.”
“I am completely serious. She wants to make me the punchline? Fine. I’ll be the punchline. But I’m telling the joke.”
Maya spoke up, stepping forward. “If you’re doing this, we’re doing it with you. I’ll take a sharpie to my face, I’ll draw a clown smile. We’ll make it a statement.”
I felt a rush of profound love for these women, but I shook my head. “No. I want you all in your gorgeous navy blue dresses. Look as elegant and beautiful as possible. I need to be the only clown. The contrast will make the point undeniably clear.”
I turned to my makeup artist, Chloe, who had been standing frozen in the corner, clutching a contour brush like a weapon.
“Chloe,” I said, pointing to the chair. “Change of plans. I need you to give me the most flawless, classic, breathtaking bridal makeup you have ever done in your career. I want glowing skin, a perfect smoky eye, an elegant updo with the fresh white roses woven into the pins. I want to look like I am wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar designer gown from the neck up. Can you do that?”
Chloe’s eyes shifted from my face to the rainbow wig on the chair. A slow, conspiratorial smile spread across her lips. “Honey, I am going to make you look like royalty.”
For the next two hours, the bridal suite transformed into a war room. There was no more panic, only a hyper-focused, militant energy. Chloe worked absolute magic. My hair was swept into a sweeping, romantic updo, dotted with delicate white rosebuds. My makeup was luminous, highlighting my cheekbones and making my eyes pop with an ethereal bridal glow.
Then, the moment of truth arrived. I stripped off my silk robe.
I pulled on the oversized, scratchy polka dot pants. I buttoned the yellow-and-red striped shirt to my collarbone. I snapped the neon green suspenders over my shoulders. I bypassed the rainbow wig and the foam nose—the flawless hair and makeup were vital to the psychological warfare I was about to wage—but I did slide my feet into the giant, floppy plastic shoes.
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