So here I was, stuck between a rock and a hard place.


Okay, so maybe it was closer to pink lace and pink silk. Both options were not in my agenda for the day. And yes, that agenda would include at least two hours at the gym and then four hours making an attempt at literary intelligence with a group of high school delinquents in the writing class I taught. Both of those strenuous activities I would take over the fluffy pink insanity I was about to be thrust upon.


I suppose I should fill my dear readers in on the situation. First off, my name is Polaris. Strange name I know, but my parents were into strange things like that. I have a sister named Aquarius and a brother named Gemini. I suppose when you think about it, that makes me the odd one out of the equation. Oh well, I always did like being unique.


Now, being the overly sporty girl that I am, I like to enjoy a lot of tooth-and-nail grinds with extreme sports and fast-paced action movies that not only have the underlying romantic story between the hot main actor and the useless innocence of a waitress, but enough intense background music and red-hot fiery explosions to mask all the lovey-dovey that I hate so much. Oh, and the fact that the useless little waitress girl always seems to get killed in the end is helpful too.


Don’t think badly of me, really. I don’t like seeing anyone get hurt. And of course, this leads me back to the point of interest: The pink. What is this pink for? Well, it’s for none other than my dear darling best friend’s wedding. Her name is Sasha.


Sasha stands about five foot two and weighs only around one hundred and nine pounds. She has obnoxiously perfect blonde hair that flows from the follicles on top of her skull all the way down to her shoulders in fantastic cascading waves. Her eyes are he picture of a perfect ocean blue, always seeming to glitter when she looks at the one thing that I despise even more than that waitress girl in the action movies:


Her fiancée.


His name is Brad. Yes, I did just say Brad. As in, the name of the hot senior boy in all those high school movies. The one that’s always dating the cheerleader until some underdog nobody from the geek table comes and snatches him away. (That never happens in the real world, by the way. Those fantasies do nothing but plant false hope into the already delicate minds of teenagers everywhere. This is why we have teenage suicide people….Learn it.)


Now bear with me. Brad is around six foot, the jock type in build, but everything about him screams politician. He walks around in one hundred degree weather in a black business suit with a black tie and a black briefcase. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything else, and I’m certainly hoping little Sasha hasn’t either (And I swear by all that is good in this universe, if she has before the wedding, I have access to rusty hedge clippers and I know where to use them.)



Now the dilemma I’m in with these two is that (In case you haven’t noticed) I really, really don’t like Brad. Of course it could be either because his unwashed brown hair makes me want to shave all of it off, or maybe it’s because the idea of kids makes him blush and stutter like a baby who has just had peanut butter stuck to the roof of its mouth for the first time.


Oh wait, now I remember what I don’t like about him.


His work. I don’t even remember what big name her works for, but apparently he’s got a leg in the political atmosphere and he isn’t about to back out. Something about being in line for important offices later on. Too bad it takes up more of his time he could be spending on Sasha. It reminds of a cat who found a ball of yarn and refuses to let go until he’s shredded it and taken everything out of it he wants. Stopping when he pleases, not when his fiancée pleases.


Now that I’ve successfully filled in all the details, I can reiterate one of the conundrums I’m facing myself. See, Sasha and Brad were set up on a blind date by a very close friend to Sasha. The question is, who is it? I’m determined to find out. Sasha won’t tell me because she knows what I think of this whole “marriage” deal. I think it’s bad news, and anyone who helped start it is going to get some minor(Or major) violence acted upon them.


I know that Sasha had been out the night she had gotten to phone call from said ‘close friend’. That was around 10::00pm. Sasha, her sister Brianna, my sister Aquarius and I had been…Um….Having fun at local club. And for the younger readers, we drank no alcohol. (For the older readers, it was fun!)


I strictly remember Sasha lighting like a Christmas tree when she heard the first words out of her friend’s mouth. She looks so delightfully excited that I almost wanted to throw up. I knew the type of guys Sasha liked…If she was excited, he was bad news.


Another things I remember distinctly is the ending words to the phone call. She had said “Goodbye, darling” to the person she was talking with. The fairly obvious would be that it was someone she was close to. Not a parent, because she would have said ‘I love you’. The way she said it sounded like she was talking to female friend. I instantly ruled out all males.


Now determined, I march my way over to the gym for my two hour workout. Sasha and I work out in the same gym, so I know some (But not all) of the same people she does. Looking around, I hope to spot anyone who I’ve seen her talking to recently. Maybe that cute little petite girl she had been with in the pool. Or the long, gangly teenage girl who had bee running on the treadmill. Maybe it was the personal trainer herself.


The first one I spot it the petite girl. I jog up to her, eagerly hoping that she knew something.


“Excuse me,’ I say, “But I’ve got some questions to ask you. Do you mind?”


“Oh, not at all.” The girl responds, twirling her irritating brown hair around her fingers as if she was totally oblivious to the fact I planned to hang her up by her toes in the basement…..Which she probably was.


“First off,” I begin, “Do you know Sasha Aleksandra?”


“Yes ma’am. Me and Sasha are good friends. Did you hear she was getting married?”


Bingo. “Yes, I did. Have you met the groom yet?” I ask eagerly, looking for even the slightest hint of reluctance or lean-way that would give me the smoking gun I needed to take her down.


“Yeah and I don’t like him much. No good ever comes from blind dates, in my opinion.”


But I never did win a game of Bingo in my life, you see.


The next I sought out was the personal trainer. I knew the girl pretty well and I figured I could be more direct about the matter. I mean, I pay her to use the gym. What’s she going to do, kick me out and lose the membership I work so hard to achieve? That would just cost her more money.


“Have you seen Sasha’s new fiancée?” I ask her as I enter the room, starting to do some stretches so she doesn’t think I was totally attacking her. If she was guilty, she would have to be taken down. The violence would come later.


She responds with, “Yeah, I seen him. Nice looking kid. He’s good for Sasha.”


I had my doubts here. It sounded like she didn’t know Brad very well. If she had set them up on a blind date, wouldn’t she know him well? With a sigh of disappointment, I left the second suspect with an irritated face. Now I only had the gangly girl to look for, and then I was out of people in the gym. I hoped that this one would be a winner. I really, really hoped so. I needed to have the sweet revenge that was due on so many parts on this slimy rat for hooking my best friend up with such a…..politician. Yes, politician is an insult.


I found her in the break room with a cup of some kind of juice and a bottle of water. I sat down across from her, knowing that she had to know something. And, tired of beating around the bush like I had the other two, I asked her flat out.


“Do you know who set Sasha up on the blind date with her fiancée?”


The response was, “Who’s Sasha?”


I hate my life. I really do. Apparently I’ve always been overly dramatic about things like this. I suppose it comes with the job, huh? Well, the job of best friend anyway. But if none of my three suspects were the culprit, then who was?


The day of the wedding came fast. Being a bridesmaid, I wore pink lace AND pink silk. I felt like crying. I felt like a dolled up pink Barbie that a young five year old girl slaves over for hours and hours until she looks ready to go out on the stage of Project Runway.


I did survive the ceremony, but not happily. I had to have the flower girl hold me back when Brad went to kiss Sasha. I puked in my mouth so many times I kept having to refill my wine glass to hide it. Luckily, I’m a cheerful drunk.


But it still bothers me. Who set up Sasha and Brad? Who would do such a horrid thing to the poor girl? She was much better than him. She was worth more than him. She deserved better than him.


During my train of thoughts I could hear Sasha chatting. I leaned in to listen, and her tangy little Russian voice rang out in my ears.


“Oh yes, I’m so grateful.” Sasha was purring. “My ten year old sister actually is the cause of this. Brad is her best friend’s older brother. She thought I would be a good match for him and it turned out she was right!”


…..I could feel my eyes twitching, as my gaze slowly and painfully drifted over to the flower girl. The same flower girl who had held me back when I had tried to lunge for Brad’s throat and tear out his jugular.


Little girl or not, she was going down.