Feeling frumpy and churlish in comparison, I turned to Olga. “Nice T-shirt, Olga.”

She snorted some type of response that, even though I don’t speak teen angst fluently anymore, I interpreted as, Leave me alone; I’m busy being unhappy.

Taking another tack, I said, “I like your hair color,” I paused. “It’s vibrant.”

She touched her hair, but didn’t respond. Not even a snort. But just when I was about to give up on her, she mumbled, “Oh em.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, leaning closer.

She looked me in the eye for the first time. “O.M. My name’s O.M. Never call me Olga. Ever.”

“No problem.”

Olga—sorry O.M.—must have used up her daily word limit. She was silent for the remainder of the meal. I shrugged and enjoyed the food, watching Bobby salivate over Bree and counting the ways I could tease him about it later. At the next table, Olivia, gathered with her parents and Kirk, organized wedding logistics.

I overheard Mrs. Blocken say, “The doves will arrive early in the morning on the wedding day.”

“Mother, I told you that I don’t want doves. What if they get loose? It’s too much of a bother.”

“What if the birds poop on the guests?” Kirk asked.

Mrs. Blocken gaped at Kirk. I choked on a bite of potato salad.

Olivia gasped. “Ohmigawd. They’ll ruin everything. Mother, cancel the doves,”

“If the bird handler wants the good money that your father and I are paying him, he’ll keep those doves in line,” Mrs. Blocken said.

Considering her tone, if I were one of those doves, I would certainly control myself.

“But Mother . . .” Olivia said.

“Honey, it’ll be charming. I’ll handle it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“How can the handler stop the birds from pooping?” Kirk asked. Obviously he hadn’t spent much time with Mrs. Blocken. It was probably a very good thing that he and Olivia lived in Virginia, hundreds of miles from Stripling.