Sister of the Bride by Beverly Cleary

disloyal.
    â€œWho’s making a big thing of it?” Mr. MacLane asked in his jovial after-dinner manner. “You said Rosemary said Greg’s father wasn’t terribly intellectual. Well, neither am I. And, I might add, neither is Rosemary.”
    â€œOh, Dad. You are, too, making a big thing out of it,” Barbara informed him. “I’m sorry I ever mentioned it. Just forget all about it.” But she knew herfather would not. This was too good a topic for his talent for banter.
    There was a slight frown mark between Mrs. MacLane’s eyebrows. “What do you suppose Greg has told his family about us?” she wondered aloud. “He really doesn’t know us very well, and there’s no telling what he may think or what Rosemary may have told him.”
    â€œShe probably says her father is a little crude, but a good egg,” suggested Mr. MacLane. “And she probably says condescendingly that you are a good kid who doesn’t use her mind.” Mr. MacLane had never let Rosemary forget that she had once said the trouble with the members of her mother’s club was they did not use their minds.
    â€œI can’t believe she’d say a thing like that,” said Mrs. MacLane.
    â€œWhy not?” her husband wanted to know. “Kids nowadays feel they can say anything about their parents. This makes them well-adjusted, as Rosemary would probably say.”
    â€œFor one thing, now that I have gone back to teaching, I think she has finally conceded that I do use my mind,” said Mrs. MacLane.
    What about me? Barbara began to wonder. What had Rosemary told Greg about his future sister-in-law? She rummaged through Rosemary’s secondhand psychology jargon for phrases that might fit. Something like, “Barbara’s all right but she’s terribly immature.” Or, “Barbara’s all right but she can’t get along with Gordy. Sibling rivalry, you know. She feels insecure.” Then Greg would pass this along to his family, who would arrive expecting a very young girl quarreling with her brother. Barbara resolved to stop quarreling with Gordy at once. When the Aldredges arrived, she would be so poised and so grown-up that they would leave, asking one another, “Was that the girl Greg said was immature? Impossible! She and her brother got along beautifully.” Yes, Barbara was going to have to watch her step.
    That same evening Mrs. MacLane composed half a dozen drafts of a gracious note to Greg’s mother and father, inviting them to come for supper Sunday evening. She read all versions aloud to Mr. MacLane, and when they agreed on the wording, the letter was written and mailed. Two days later an equally gracious note arrived accepting the invitation.
    The acceptance precipitated a flurry of house cleaning and silver polishing. “This is supposed to be a friendly visit, not an inspection,” Mr. MacLane reminded his wife.
    Mrs. MacLane laid down the dust cloth and sighed. “I know, but I can’t keep things looking the way they should when I’m teaching.”
    Barbara thought guiltily of the fluff of dust she had shoved back under her bed with her toe, and went to get the dust mop.
    By late Sunday afternoon the house was shining, Gordy had been persuaded into his gray suit, the table was set, and the salad greens were chilling in a plastic bag in the refrigerator. The family was ready for what Mr. MacLane persisted in referring to as the big powwow.
    â€œDad, please take off that green eyeshade,” pleaded Barbara, trying to see the house and her parents through Rosemary’s eyes. “You know Rosemary doesn’t like you to wear it when her friends come here.”
    â€œThey will have to take me as I am,” said her father, but he removed the eyeshade and tossed it into his rolltop desk on the sun porch. When he was not looking, Barbara closed the top of the desk.
    At six thirty the doorbell rang, and