“Come on, Shar,” I interrupt quickly. “You promised.”

She just grimaces at me.

“Listen, Liz,” Chaz says, and reaches for another beer, “I know this guy’s the love of your life and all. But you have all next semester to be with him. Are you sure you don’t want to come to France with us for the rest of the summer?”

“Don’t bother, Chaz,” Shari says. “I already asked her eighty million times.”

“Did you mention we’re staying in a seventeenth-century French chateau with its own vineyard, perched on a hilltop overlooking a lush green valley through which snakes a long and lazy river?” Chaz wants to know.

“Shari told me,” I say, “and it’s sweet of you to ask. Even if you’re not exactly in a position to be inviting people, because doesn’t the chateau belong to one of your friends from that prep school you went to, and not you?”

“A trifling detail,” Chaz says. “Luke would love to have you.”

“Ha,” Shari says, “I’ll say. More slave labor for his amateur wedding franchise.”

“What’re they talking about?” Angelo asks me, looking confused.

“Chaz’s childhood friend from prep school, Luke,” I explain to him, “has an ancestral home in France that his father rents out during the summer sometimes as a destination wedding spot. Shari and Chaz are leaving tomorrow to spend a month at the chateau for free, in exchange for helping out at the weddings.”

“Destination wedding spot,” Angelo echoes. “You mean like Vegas?”

“Right,” Shari says. “Only tasteful. And it costs more than one ninety-nine to get there. And there’s no free breakfast buffet.”

Angelo looks shocked. “Then what’s the point?”

Someone tugs on the skirt of my dress and I look down. My sister Rose’s firstborn, Maggie, holds up a necklace made of macaroni.

“Aunt Lizzie,” she says. “For you. I made it. For your gradutation.”

“Why, thank you, Maggie,” I say, kneeling down so that Maggie can drop the necklace over my head.

“The paint’s not dry,” Maggie says, pointing to the red and blue splotches of paint that have now been transferred from the macaroni to the front of my 1954 Suzy Perette rose silk party dress (which wasn’t cheap, even with my employee discount).

“That’s okay, Mags,” I say. Because, after all, she’s only four. “It’s beautiful.”

“There you are!” Grandma Nichols teeters toward us. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Anne-Marie. It’s time for Dr. Quinn.”

“Grandma,” I say, straightening up to grasp her spool-thin arm before she can topple over. I see that she has already managed to spill something all down the green crepe de chine 1960s tunic top I got her at the shop. Fortunately the paint stains from the macaroni necklace Maggie made for her are somewhat hiding the stain. “It’s Lizzie. Not Anne-Marie. Mom’s over by the dessert table. And what have you been drinking?”

I seize the Heineken bottle in Grandma’s hand and smell its contents. It should, by prior agreement with the rest of my family, have been filled with nonalcoholic beer, then resealed, due to Grandma Nichols’s inability to hold her liquor, which has resulted in what my mom likes to call “incidents.” Mom was hoping to head off any “incidents” at my graduation party by letting Grandma have only nonalcoholic beer-but not telling her it was nonalcoholic, of course. Because then she would have raised a fuss, telling us we were trying to ruin an old lady’s good time and all.

But I can’t tell if the beer in the bottle is of the nonalcoholic variety. We had stashed the faux Heinekens in a special section of the cooler for Grandma. But she may have managed to find the real thing somewhere. She’s crafty that way.

Or she could just THINK she’s had the real thing, and consequently thinks she’s drunk.

“Lizzie?” Grandma looks suspicious. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be away at college?”

“I graduated from college in May, Grandma,” I say. Well, sort of, anyway. Not counting the two months I just spent in summer school getting my language requirement out of the way. “This is my graduation party. Well, my graduation-slash-bon voyage party.”

“Bon voyage?” Grandma’s suspicion turns to indignation. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To England, Grandma, the day after tomorrow,” I say. “To visit my boyfriend. Remember? We talked about this.”

“Boyfriend?” Grandma glares at Chaz. “Isn’t that him right there?”

“No, Grandma,” I say. “That’s Chaz, Shari’s boyfriend. You remember Shari Dennis, right, Grandma? She grew up down the street?”

“Oh, the Dennis girl,” Grandma says, narrowing her eyes in Shari’s direction. “I remember you now. I thought I saw your parents over by the barbecue. You and Lizzie going to do that song you always do when you get together?”

Shari and I exchange horror-filled glances. Angelo hoots.

“Hey, yeah!” he cries. “Rosie told me about this. What song was it you two used to do? Like at the school talent show and shit?”

I give Angelo a warning look, since Maggie is still hanging around, and say, “Little pitchers.” It’s clear from his expression that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I sigh and begin steering Grandma toward the house.

“Better come on, Grandma,” I say, “or you’ll miss your show.”

“What about the song?” Grandma wants to know.

“We’ll do the song later, Mrs. Nichols,” Shari assures her.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Chaz says with a wink. Shari mouths In your dreams at him. Chaz blows a kiss at her over the top of his beer bottle.

They’re so cute together. I can’t wait until I’m in London and Andrew and I can be that cute together, too.

“Come on, Grandma,” I say. “Dr. Quinn’s starting now.”

“Oh, good,” Grandma says. To Shari, she confides, “I don’t care about that dumb Dr. Quinn. It’s that hunk who hangs out with her-him I can’t get enough of!”

“Okay, Grandma,” I say quickly as Shari spurts out the mouthful of Amstel Light she’s just taken. “Let’s get you inside before you miss your show-”

We hardly get a few yards down the deck, however, before we’re waylaid by Dr. Rajghatta, my dad’s boss at the cyclotron, and his pretty wife, Nishi, beaming in a pink sari at his side.

“Many congratulations on your graduation,” Dr. Rajghatta says.

“Yes,” his wife agrees. “And may we say, you are also looking so slim and lovely?”

“Oh, thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much!”

“And what will you be doing now that you have your bachelor’s degree in…what is it again?” Dr. R wants to know. It’s unfortunate about the pocket protector he’s wearing, but then I haven’t been able to wean my own father from the habit, so it’s unlikely I’ll ever make any headway with his boss.

“History of fashion,” I reply.

“History of fashion? I was not aware this school offered a major in that field of study,” Dr. R says.

“Oh, it doesn’t. I’m in the individualized major program. You know, where you make your own major?”

“But fashion history?” Dr. Rajghatta looks concerned. “There are many opportunities available in this field?”

“Oh, tons,” I say, trying not to remember how just last weekend I picked up a copy of the Sunday New York Times and saw that every fashion-related job in the want ads-besides merchandising-either didn’t exactly require a bachelor’s degree, or did require years of experience in the field, which I don’t have. “I could get a job in the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Sure. As a janitor. “Or as a costume designer on Broadway.” You know, if all the other costume designers in the world suddenly died at the same time. “Or even as a buyer for a major high-end fashion retailer like Saks Fifth Avenue.” If I had listened to my dad, who’d begged me to minor in business.

“What do you mean, a buyer?” Grandma looks scandalized. “You’re going to be a designer, not a buyer! Why, she’s been ripping her clothes apart and sewing them back together all weird since she was old enough to pick up a needle,” she tells Dr. and Mrs. R, who look at me as if Grandma has just announced I like to salsa naked in my spare time.