The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

“Hey, he looks like one of those Angry Birds.”

“Best of all, you could add P-O-C-K-E-T-S.” “Don’t spell shit out this early in the morning, Lina. I can’t deal.” I purse my lips at her. It’s eleven o’clock. “Pockets, bitch. Pockets.” “Ooh, ooh,” Jaslene says, waving her hand. “I need that on a dress. With. Pockets.”

“Natalia, you can’t use your wedding as an excuse for everything,” I say. “Everyone knows you’d stab someone with a stiletto simply for existing.”

“Don’t answer her question with a question, creep.” She takes off an earring, then another, whips out a hair tie, and pulls her long, curly honey-brown hair into a ponytail. She’s getting ready for something, and given the way she’s cracking her knuckles, I don’t think it’s a tea party.

Lina looks from Jaslene to Natalia, and the latter nods as though she’s the Godfather, silently putting a hit out on someone. What an odd trio.

“Damn, if you need more reasons than the ones I gave you, San Antonio, we have a problem.” Now I’m the one furrowing my brows. “You mean ‘Houston, we have a problem.’” “Nah, my last girlfriend was from that city. Refuse to say it on principle.”

Oh, and if we need a tagline, I vote for ‘Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Bitch.’

“God, no. She doesn’t write anything down. Says the best way to learn is to watch and assist. I don’t understand how it comes so easily to her. I ask how much I should add of something—flour, tomatoes, garlic, whatever—and she says, ‘a little bit of this, a little bit of that.’” I turn to him. “Max, my mother doesn’t even own measuring cups.”

The most relatable statement