Eliana is a notoriously sardonic person who might have out-cool-girl’ed Molly in high school, were she not three years younger. She is now an A&R executive for an indie music label. She has neck tattoos. (I am equally scared of and aroused by neck tattoos.) That she was tasked with planning a baby shower is shocking.
“One moment, please,” Elle says. She disappears around the side of the house and comes back dragging a giant plastic bin full of balloons.
“Oh God,” an elegant man in short shorts and a sheer caftan exclaims. “Are thosewaterballoons?”
“Correct,” Elle says. “Our first game is called Baby Bumper Cars.”
“Dare I ask?” Gloria groans.
“I will divide us into two teams. Everyone puts a water balloon under their shirt to be their baby.”
Elle demonstrates, shoving a balloon beneath her T-shirt. The balloon is not large. She does not look pregnant so much as afflicted with a small abdominal tumor.
She waggles the fake belly around, causing it to undulate.
“Gross,” the caftan guy says.
I’m inclined to agree.
“What next?” Gloria prompts her.
“A person from each team runs at each other and bumps bellies to try to break the other’s balloon first,” Elle says. “Whichever team breaks the most bellies wins.”
Emily claps her hands in delight. “Ilovethis game.”
“You would, since you don’t have to play,” Gloria grumbles. “Much too violent for a pregnant person.”
“Precisely,” she says.
Elle splits up the table into two teams, and we all pass around balloons.
“All right,” she says. “Team one on the left side of the yard, team two on the right. Emily, you’re in charge of documenting this for posterity and blackmail.”
We form two single-file lines on our opposing territory, with twenty-odd feet between us.
Molly catches my eye and jiggles her belly menacingly. “I’m gonna get you and your little fetus too, Rubenstein!”
I clutch my water baby protectively. “Keep your hands off Seth Junior,” I call back. “He’s my best prospect for an heir.”
“On your marks, get set, go!” Eliana cries.
At her command, twenty well-groomed thirty-something adults go careening toward each other. I sprint as fast as I can at Molly, clutching my belly so it doesn’t go flying out into the grass. Hers is secure beneath her tight one-piece bathing suit, giving her the advantage of speed.
She comes right at me, belly first. Our balloons collide. I cradle mine protectively, choosing a defensive strategy.
“Cheater,” she cries. “Stop that.”
“There are no rules!” I yell, dodging her attempt to smack into me.
“Okay then.” She waves her long nails at me, which are elaborately manicured into pastel-flowered talons. She comes at my stomach, claws-first.
I bend down to my knees to avoid her hands and attempt to pop her belly between my palms.
I use too much force and it surges up toward her boobs instead of bursting.
She lunges and pulls up my shirt. My baby falls into the grass, but remains intact. She lifts her foot to stomp on it but I grab her shoulders and press her into me, tight, to put pressure on her balloon. The balloon pushes up above her cleavage.
I know what I must do.
