Certain Girls Read online

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author

  JENNIFER WEINER

  Certain Girls

  “Weiner delivers the heartbreaking goods.”

  —USA Today

  “Warm, witty . . . Weiner’s hilarious, honest tone comes through in both characters, allowing us to agree with Cannie’s parenting decisions, while cringing on Joy’s behalf . . . Certain Girls is sure to please readers who want a well-written story that makes them laugh, possibly snort, and probably cry.”

  —The Miami Herald

  “A worthy successor . . . Weiner displays her signature wry voice and sap-free knack for capturing heartfelt moments.”

  —People

  “Very funny and very poignant . . . [Weiner is] a smart, smart writer who writes romantic comedies that are hilarious but with a deep river of heart that runs through all of them.”

  —Jacquelyn Mitchard

  “Witty . . . Weiner has always been a lively writer, and her characters brim with sharp humor and tenderness for each other . . . such smart creatures.”

  —Salon

  “Clear your calendar and prepare to read: Cannie Shapiro is back! Weiner is a talented writer who consistently delivers the goods. Readers will laugh and cry . . .”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Weiner is a marvelously supple writer, equally deft at comedy and tragedy, of tenderness and hilarious one-liners.”

  —The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

  “Heartfelt and funny . . . a touching examination of both the touching and tragic moments that mark the mother-daughter relationship.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Weiner has a sharp wit and a masterful grasp of past and present pop culture. Certain Girls is a witty, fun read. The characters are comfy and familiar, like your favorite pajamas. Reading about the latest exploits of Cannie is like checking in with a friend you haven’t talked to in a while. After a few minutes, it’s like no time has passed at all.”

  —The Charlotte Observer

  “Weiner stands out from the pack with her lovable plus-size heroines, her sharp wit, and great dialogue.”

  —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

  “Chick lit grows—and so does Cannie Shapiro—in this humorous and wise sequel to the bestselling Good in Bed. Weiner captures the frustrations and anguish as well as the joys of raising an almost-teen girl whose sole goal in life is to thwart her mother.”

  —Family Circle

  “A daughter’s journey through teen angst to realizations about family, acceptance, love, and the nature of truth.”

  —Elle magazine’s “Elle’s Letters” Readers’ Prize winner

  “Jennifer Weiner returns with a fun sequel to her bestseller Good in Bed. Thirteen years have passed, and Cannie’s sweet little baby is now a teenage spitfire. This is a charming study of mother-daughter relationships.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Angst, irony, and laughter-through-tears abound in Jennifer Weiner’s latest novel, Certain Girls.”

  —Cleveland Free Times

  “Certain Girls, Jennifer Weiner’s follow-up to her chick-lit classic Good in Bed, catches up with unlikely heroine Cannie Shapiro and her now-teenage daughter, Joy, as they navigate their way through family secrets, social hierarchies, and their own changing relationships.”

  —Harper’s Bazaar

  “Sometimes categorized as a ‘chick lit’ writer, Weiner transcends the genre in Certain Girls . . . It will keep you turning pages right up until the end.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Weiner plays for howls and succeeds . . . She is a master observer of family dynamics, appreciating that dysfunctional doesn’t always mean unlovable or unredeemable.”

  —Star Tribune (Minneapolis)

  “Certain Girls is an exploration of female relationships and family relationships that’s lighthearted, funny, and emotionally satisfying. . . .”

  —The Salt Lake Tribune

  “Weiner’s follow-up to Good in Bed is, in a word, fantastic. You’ll laugh, you’ll cringe, you’ll cry as you follow Cannie and her now nearly teenage daughter, Joy. Told through alternating first-person narratives, Weiner’s tale gives mothers and daughters alike a treat to devour.”

  —Romantic Times

  “An honest, amusing look at what defines women in various life stages. The characters and situations in Certain Girls will resonate with readers, whether they have a daughter or have ever been a daughter.”

  —The Tampa Tribune

  “Weiner has a knack for witty, natural-flowing dialogue. Cannie’s tender relationship with her husband is perfectly portrayed through their snappy, familiar banter.”

  —The Globe and Mail (Canada)

  “Fractious, funny . . . Equal parts zaftig and Zola.”

  —NPR

  Certain

  Girls

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  For my family

  Some say a parent should teach a child to swim.

  —The Talmud

  Contents

  Part One: Everybody Knows

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two: Amsterdam

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part Three: Certain Girls

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Reader's Club Guide

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  Everybody Knows

  ONE

  When I was a kid, our small-town paper published wedding announcements, with descriptions of the ceremonies and dresses and pictures of the brides. Two of the disc jockeys at one of the local radio stations would spend Monday morning picking through the photographs and nominating the Bow-Wow Bride, the woman they deemed the ugliest of all the ladies who’d taken their vows in the Philadelphia region over the weekend. The grand prize was a case of Alpo.

  I heard the disc jockeys doing this on my way to school one morning—“Uh-oh, bottom of page J-6, and yes . . . yes, I think we have a contender!” Jockey One said, and his companion snickered and replied, “There’s not a veil big enough to hide that mess.” “Wide bride! Wide bride!” Jockey One chanted before my mother changed the station back to N
PR with an angry flick of her wrist. After that, I became more than a little obsessed with the contest. I would pore over the black-and-white head shots each Sunday morning as if I’d be quizzed on them later. Was the one in the middle ugly? Worse than the one in the upper-right-hand corner? Were the blondes always prettier than the brunettes? Did being fat automatically mean you were ugly? I’d rate the pictures and fume about how unfair it was, how just being born with a certain face or body could turn you into a punch line. Then I’d worry for the winner. Was the dog food actually delivered to the couple’s door? Would they return from the honeymoon and find it there, or would a well-meaning parent or friend try to hide it? How would the bride feel when she saw that she’d won? How would her husband feel, knowing that he’d chosen the ugliest girl in Philadelphia on any given weekend, to love and to cherish, until death did them part?

  I wasn’t sure of much back then, but I knew that when—if—I got married, there was no way I’d put a picture in the paper. I was pretty certain, at thirteen, that I had more in common with the bow-wows than the beautiful brides, and I was positive that the worst thing that could happen to any woman would be winning that contest.

  Now, of course, I know better. The worst thing would not be a couple of superannuated pranksters on a ratings-challenged radio station oinking at your picture and depositing dog food at your door. The worst thing would be if they did it to your daughter.

  I’m exaggerating, of course. And I’m not really worried. I looked across the room at the dance floor, just beginning to get crowded as the b’nai mitzvah guests dropped off their coats, feeling my heart lift at the sight of my daughter, my beautiful girl, dancing the hora in a circle of her friends. Joy will turn thirteen in May and is, in my own modest and completely unbiased opinion, the loveliest girl ever born. She inherited the best things I had to offer—my olive skin, which stays tan from early spring straight through December, and my green eyes. Then she got my ex-boyfriend’s good looks: his straight nose and full lips, his dirty-blond hair, which, on Joy, came out as ringlets the deep gold of clover honey. My chest plus Bruce’s skinny hips and lean legs combined to create the kind of body I always figured was available only thanks to divine or surgical intervention.

  I walked to one of the three bars set along the edges of the room and ordered a vodka and cranberry juice from the bartender, a handsome young man looking miserable in a ruffled pale blue polyester tuxedo shirt and bell-bottoms. At least he didn’t look as tormented as the waitress beside him, in a mermaid costume, with seashells and fake kelp in her hair. Todd had wanted a retro seventies theme for the party celebrating his entry into Jewish adulthood. His twin sister, Tamsin, an aspiring marine biologist, hadn’t wanted a theme at all and had grudgingly muttered the word “ocean” the eleventh time her mother had asked her. In between pre-party visits to Dr. Hammermesh to have her breasts enlarged, her thighs reduced, and the millimeters of excess flesh beneath her eyes eliminated, Shari Marmer, the twins’ mom, had come up with a compromise. On this icy night in January, Shari and her husband, Scott, were hosting three hundred of their nearest and dearest at the National Constitution Center to celebrate at Studio 54 Under the Sea.

  I passed beneath a doorway draped with fake seaweed and strands of dark blue beads and wandered toward the table at the room’s entrance. My place card had my name stenciled in elaborate script on the back of a scallop shell. Said shell contained a T&T medallion, for Tamsin and Todd. I squinted at the shell and learned that my husband, Peter, and I would be sitting at Donna Summer. Joy hadn’t picked up her shell yet. I peered at the whirling mass of coltish girls until I saw Joy in her knee-length dark blue dress, performing some kind of complicated line dance, hands clapping, hips rocking. As I watched, a boy detached himself from a cluster of his friends, crossed the room with his hands shoved in his pockets, and said something to my daughter. Joy nodded and let him take her hand as he led her underneath the strobe that cast cool bubbles of bluish light.

  My Joy, I thought as the boy shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking like he was in desperate need of the bathroom. It isn’t politically correct to say so, but in the real world, good looks function as a get-out-of-everything-free card. Beauty clears your path, it smooths the way, it holds the doors open, it makes people forgive you when your homework’s late or you bring the car home with the gas gauge on E. Joy’s adolescence would be so much easier than mine. Except . . . except. On her last report card, she’d gotten one A, two B’s, and two C’s instead of her usual A’s and B’s (and worlds away from the straight A’s I’d gotten when I was her age and had more brains than friends). “She just doesn’t seem as engaged, as present,” her teacher had said when Peter and I had gone in for our parent-teacher conference. “Is there anything unusual going on at home?”

  Peter and I had shaken our heads, unable to think of a thing—no divorce, certainly, no moves, no deaths, no disruptions. When the teacher had folded her eyeglasses on her desk and asked about boyfriends, I’d said, “She’s twelve.” The teacher’s smile had been more than a little pitying. “You’d be surprised,” she said.

  Except I wouldn’t. Other mothers, maybe, but not me. I kept a close watch on my daughter (too close, she’d probably say). I knew her teachers, the names of her friends, the horrible, whiny boy singer she likes, the brand of twenty-bucks-a-bottle shampoo on which she blows the bulk of her allowance. I know the way she struggles with reading and is a whiz at math, and that her favorite thing in the world to do is swim in the ocean. I know that apricots are her favorite fruit, that Tamsin and Todd are her best friends, that she worships my little sister and is terrified of needles and bees. I’d know if anything had changed, and Joy’s life, I explained, was the same as it had ever been. Her teacher had smiled and patted my knee. “We see it a lot with girls her age,” she’d said, putting her glasses back on and glancing at the clock. “Their worlds just get bigger. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s got involved parents and a good head on her shoulders. We’ll just keep an eye on things.”

  As if I don’t do that already, I’d thought. But I’d smiled and thanked Mrs. McMillan and promised to call with any concerns. Of course, thirty minutes later, when I’d gone straight to the source and asked Joy whether anything was wrong, my interrogation had been met with the shrug/eye-roll combination that is the hallmark of adolescent girls everywhere. When I’d said, “That’s not an answer,” she’d replied, “Seventh grade’s harder than sixth,” and opened her math book to let me know definitively that the conversation was over.

  I’d wanted to call her pediatrician, a psychologist, her old speech therapist, at the very least the school’s principal and guidance counselor. I’d made a list of possibilities: tutoring centers and homework-help websites, support groups for parents of premature children or kids with hearing loss. Peter had talked me out of it. “It’s one quarter of seventh grade,” he’d argued. “All she needs is time.”

  Time, I thought now. I sipped my drink and shoved the worries away. I’ve gotten good at that. At the age of forty-two, I’ve decided, ruefully, that I’m slightly inclined toward melancholy. I don’t trust happiness. I turn it over as if it were a glass at a flea market or a rug at a souk, looking for chipped rims or loose threads.

  But not Joy, I thought as I watched my daughter shuffle back and forth with the boy’s hands on her hips, laughing at something he’d said. Joy is fine. Joy is lovely and lucky. And in the manner of almost-thirteen-year-olds everywhere, my daughter has no idea how lovely, or how lucky, she is.

  • • •

  “Cannie!” Shari Marmer’s voice cut across the crowded atrium of the Constitution Center, where guests were clustered, waiting to take their seats for dinner. I clutched my shell and my drink and gave a halfhearted wave as she hustled over, all bright red lips and blepharoplasty, a new diamond solitaire trapped in the Grand Canyon of her cleavage. “Yoo-hoo! Can-nie!” Shari singsonged. I groaned inwardly as she grabbed my arm with her French manicure. When I tr
ied to pull away, her hand came with me and ended up lodged beneath my right breast. My embarrassment was instant and excruciating. Shari didn’t appear to notice.

  “You and Peter are sitting with us,” she said. She swept me into the dining room, where I saw thirty tables for ten draped in aquamarine tablecloths with seashell centerpieces, topped with glittering disco balls.

  “Great!” I said. Why? I wondered. Shari and Scott had relatives, grandparents, actual friends who should have been sitting with them. And it wasn’t as if Shari and I needed to catch up. Our kids were best friends, and even though we’d never become friends ourselves, we had years of shared history and saw each other plenty. Just last month we’d spent an entire day together, rehashing our latest reality-TV fixation and grating thirty pounds of potatoes for our synagogue’s annual preschool Latkefest. Peter and I could’ve been over at Gloria Gaynor with the Callahans, or at Barry Gibb with Marisol Chang, whom I’d loved since I’d met her ten years ago in Music Together class.

  “What do you think?” Shari asked me, waving her toned, sculpted, and possibly lipo’d arm at the room as we made our way toward the head table.

  “It’s fantastic,” I said loyally. “And Tamsin and Todd did a wonderful job.”

  She tightened her grip on my arm. “Do you really think so?”

  “They were great. You look amazing.” That, at least, was the undisputable truth. Eight years older than me, Shari had been in advertising in New York before marriage and motherhood. Her job now was self-maintenance, and she worked at it harder than I’d worked at any paid employment I’d ever had. Frying potato pancakes in the synagogue’s kitchen, I’d listened, awestruck and exhausted, as Shari had described her rounds: the personal trainer, the yoga and pilates, the facials, the waxing, the laser treatments and the eyelash tinting, the low-cal, low-carb meals delivered each morning to her door. It was, perhaps, the one good thing about never having been beautiful—you didn’t have to kill yourself trying to hold on to something you’d never had in the first place.

  “And the party?” Shari fretted. “It’s not too much?”