The Numbers We Defy

Chapter 1

"I'm not wearing that."

"Why not, Maya?" my mom replied angrily. It was a week before the wedding and my cousin was getting married. The problem was that he and his immediate family were strict orthodox Jews and the dress code was very conservative.

"Mom, I look like a 30-year-old business woman in this," I replied. I was wearing my mom's old dress and a blazer, which was a wrong fit for my age. My mom and I had gone through my entire closet, looking for something that hits me below the knee and covers my shoulders, as is required by the dresscode. I, conveniently, did not have any dress that fit those criteria.

"You could always wear the silver dress." The silver dress was completely skintight, with silver and white fabric. The design was simple, and it would have been sluty if not for the fact that it covered more than enough skin. 

"You can see my belly in it."

"What belly? You have nice curves!" 

"I have a belly. That dress makes it visible," I grumbled.

"Maya, first of all, this is the only dress that fits the dresscode. Secondly, you look great in it. You should wear more dresses like this while you still have you sixteen-year-old body."

Deciding to at least try it on, I realized that I didn't really have much of a choice of what to wear. We tried styling different jackets on top of dresses to conceal more skin, but I ended up looking like a flight attendant. It would have to be this. 

The dress itself was quite pretty, actually. We bought it while in Germany on vacation a year ago, but I didn't really have anywhere to wear it until now. My pale skin seemed to fit in with the silver fabric and my waist seemed tiny. 

I'm not sure how to describe myself. I don't think I'm very pretty, with my big nose and chubby cheeks. People tell me that I'm pretty, but I think that that's either out of politeness or because I simply don't look like other girls. Other girls have cute little noses and pretty-colored eyes and sharp cheekbones and small foreheads, and I have none of that. It's alright, though. I've come to learn that I wouldn't want to look like anyone but myself. 

The drive from Virginia to New York was long. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, so the highway was everything but empty. I, of course, had my playlist connected to the car speaker and was rereading Wuthering Heights for the tenth time. What can I say? I like my Bronte. My brother spent the car ride on his phone, just as any thirteen-year-old boy would, and my mom was behind the wheel. My dad decided to pass on the trip, since he didn't care for New York City and didn't want to "waste" an entire weekend there. I, however, am fully convinced that New York City is the most beautiful place in the world, and nothing can convince me otherwise. 

"Are we there yet?" my brother asked from the back seat of my mom's Infinity SUV in his usually annoying manner. 

"Leo, stop asking every half hour. We'll get there when we get there," my mom snapped.

Thirty minutes later, we were pulling up to my cousin's apartment in Brooklyn. He lived on the same floor as my other two cousins, who were all well over forty years old. One of them had a daughter named Megan, who has become a sister-figure to me, regardless of the fact that she lived a four-hour drive away. 

Seeing Megan made me squeal as we both tackled each other. She was on the taller side, with black curly hair and pale skin with freckles spotting it. She was twenty, already in college, working to become a pharmacist in some accelerated program. In other words, she was an absolute genius.

The plan for the weekend was as follows: we would spend the remainder of Saturday exploring the city and running a few errands and Sunday was for getting ready for the wedding. 

After running from department store to department store with my cousins, doing some last minute shopping for the wedding, we returned to the apartment and ended the night with a rom-com and an ice cream can that Megan and I devoured. 

My family was loud and crazy but in a good way. My mom was from Georgia, which was a small European country formerly owned by the Soviet Union. Her entire side of the family was also Jewish, which meant that we were constantly confused for Middle Eastern. For some reason, Georgian Jews were almost always loud and crazy, like it was a genetic trait or a cultural characteristic. My dad was from Russia, which would explain why my features were slightly lighter than theirs, although not by much. He was more calm and reserved than my mom. Both of my parents were immigrants, which made me and my brother first-generation Americans.

Sunday was a mess. Everyone was rushing to get their hair and makeup done, trying on every dress in their closet and running around asking for opinions. I didn't have much to do, since I had previously decided on the dress, had blow-dried my hair the night before, and had liked myself better with minimal makeup anyways. It took me about thirty minutes to apply a bit of makeup and put on the silver dress and brush out my hair. For jewelry I'd opted for silver diamond earrings, which dangled an inch bellow my ear, and a thick silver bracelet that matched the dress.

Regardless of the short time that it took to get ready, I looked put-together and quite pretty for my usual self. 

Megan came out wearing a dark blue gown with flowers along the shoulders. She went all-out with hair and makeup, styling her curls in thick waves and applying glitter to her eyelids to bring out her eyes. She looked beautiful. 

"Wow," she said as we saw each other.

"Wow yourself," I replied. "That dress is gorgeous."

"This is going to be a fun night."

"Yeah, it is," I said as we headed downstairs towards to parking garage. 

"You know we're going husband shopping, right?"

"Speak for yourself. You know I'm too young to be looking for that."

"Whatever. More for me."

We hopped in the car, realizing we should have left half an hour ago, and drove to Queens where the wedding was being held.

I haven't been to many weddings, but this has to be by far the most beautiful one I've ever seen. Bouquets of large, white flowers were everywhere. There were waiters with finger food near the entrance. A projector with the bride and groom's names in beautiful cursive letters decorated the large wall to the right of the entrance of the synagogue. To the left were the doors to the room in which the ceremony was to be held. I stepped inside. There were more flowers decorating the sides of the benches leading up to the front of the room where a large hupa stood. According to Jewish tradition, a wedding ceremony was always held under a wedding arch known as a hupa. It was traditionally a cloth held by four posts, but this one was nothing like that. This hupa was made of intertwined branches dotted with flowers climbing up and joining together to create a roof. The sight took my breath away.

And then I saw him.