Got Your Number

pandemonium was about to erupt, Roxann stood and sidled to the end of the pew, compromising a slew of expensive shoes along the way. Then she dashed up the aisle and grabbed Angora's hand, a cold limp thing, with a strange orangish cast to the fingers.
    "Angora? It's me, Roxann."
    Her cousin turned toward her, but her eyes were so full of tears, Roxann doubted she saw her.
    "Come on, I'm getting you out of here."
    Angora nodded dumbly.
    "Hey, who are you?" the groom had the nerve to ask.
    "The black sheep of the family," Roxann said, and made a snap decision, no matter how unfair, that pretty Dr. Trenton would bear the brunt of her pent-up male-directed frustration. "How do you do?" Forgoing a round-off kick in deference to her skirt, she balled up her fist and popped him square in the nose. He reeled backward like a windup toy, blood spurting, and fell off the altar. The wedding party scattered and the guests lunged to their feet for a view.
    Roxann shook her stinging hand while she yanked Angora forward. "Let's go."
    "Wait just a minute," screeched a voice she recognized as her aunt's. "What do you think you're doing?"
    Roxann turned and the sight of her father's sister put a crimp on her intestines. "Hey, Dixie, what's shakin'? Besides your chin, I see."
    Dee gaped and the fuchsia monstrosity on her head bobbed. "What are you doing here?"
    "Rescuing Angora."
    "Take your hands off her, you, you, you...dyke."
    Gasps chorused around them. Roxann lifted an eyebrow. "Dyke? Did you say dyke?"
    Dee took a step backward. "Y-yes."
    "You got a gay radar under that sombrero?"
    Her aunt pulled herself up, her face mottled. "Get out!"
    She saluted. "Gladly." She tugged on Angora, who seemed to be in shock, staring straight ahead, her bouquet hanging from her arm by an elastic strap. Roxann sighed, then gathered the absurdly long train, threw it over her shoulder, and herded Angora toward the exit The climate outside the church looked even less promising than inside. Clouds rolled overhead, and thunder boomed, drowning out Dee's screeching behind them.
    Roxann urged Angora to hurry, but they were only halfway across the parking lot when lightning slashed and the sky unleashed sheets of rain. At least the dousing seemed to revive Angora—she needed only a little shove to tumble into Goldie's passenger seat. Getting the train in was another matter.
    When Roxann finally slammed the door, two feet of beaded and sequined fabric hung out, but it couldn't be helped. She ran around to the driver's side and threw herself into the Naugahyde seat, slammed the door twice before it caught, and heaved a sigh of relief. Her hastily tossed-together outfit—black skirt and orange pullover—were glued to her skin. She looked over at Angora slumped down in the seat, then gave in to the inappropriate laughter welling in her throat.
    Angora pivoted her head. "What could possibly be funny?"
    "You look like the casualty of a carnival dunking booth."
    "Thanks a million."
    "Hey, I'm kidding."
    Angora's bottom lip trembled. "This is the worst day of my entire life."
    When dealing with traumatized women, Roxann had learned to forgo "enabling" small talk. "You escaped marrying a bum. I'd say it's the luckiest day of your entire life."
    "I suppose." Angora sniffled. "Thanks for punching him."
    "No problem." No need to mention she'd decked him as much for her own satisfaction as for Angora's defense. "Who's Darma?"
    "A girl he used to date. She dumped him and married someone else."
    "The gangrene guy?"
    She nodded, sniffling again.
    "Why the heck did you invite his old girlfriend to the wedding?"
    "It was Mother's idea."
    "Oh, that's classic."
    Angora laid her head back, and a fat tear rolled down her rain-soaked cheek. Her hair hung in wet globs around her face. Her face was striped with mascara, eye shadow, and blush. The dress was a droopy disaster.
    Roxann looked up. "What's with the crown?"
    Angora reached up to touch it, then cried harder. "My Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge tiara."
    Of course.
    "I'm a mess," Angora blubbered. "What am I going to do?"
    Roxann fished a purse-pack of tissues from the center console and handed them over. "I don't suppose you have any clothes to change into at the church?"
    She shook her head against the seat and blew her nose. "My trousseau is at home."
    "How do I get to your place?"
    "I...still live with Mom and Dad. And I can't go back there."
    "Where do you want to go?"
    Angora was quiet for so long, Roxann repeated