floor. A nasty combination. I need to text Zach. We haven’t spoken in four days. I can’t really blame him after Mom’s show the other night.
Me: Hi Zach. Sorry about my mom the other night. She’s crazy. I did have fun at the party with you though. Want to hang out soon?
“Lucy?” Eric’s light voice calls through my door.
“Come on in.” My little brother is the only person I ever welcome into my room. But he has to ask first.
The door creaks open. Eric wears matching frog pajamas. With red jelly on the corner of his lips and blond hair in a curled mess, he looks like a five-year-old prince.
“What’s up, bud?” I swing him onto my bed. My right shoulder protests in pain. My wrist hurts even more. Crap. Wasn’t fainting, fighting, and the hospital enough? Of course the painting job gets the final say. I stretch out my shoulder as Eric looks at me with a scrunched nose; his thinking face.
“-othing up.” He stands up on the bed to poke at the Band-Aid on the back of my hand. “You got a shot?”
“A little one.” His lips turn into a frown. “But it didn’t hurt at all. It just helped me get better.”
“So you’re -ot sick?”
I give him my best reassuring smile and answer back overenthusiastically. “No, bud. I feel great!” I stand up and do our crazy dance, a complex set of movements that involves spinning and arm flailing. My shoulder muscles beg to be ripped off. He giggles and dances too.
“Good Lucy. -ot sick.”
“Good. Lucy is n ot sick.” I correct him. He has been working with speech therapy on annunciation and full sentences all year. I bend over and tickle him into a fit of giggles.
“Lucy is not sick!” He says between gasps. The doorbell rings and he pushes me away. His new chore is opening the front door and he takes it very seriously. I pretend to hold him captive but let go when I notice his smile turning into frustration. He clobbers down the stairs. “No, Daddy. -y job!” I close my bedroom door, only hearing muffles from below.
Dried sweat cakes my skin. Nasty. I step into the shower, using my loofah like iron wool on the visible layers of dirt on my skin. There, clean. I grab some jeans and a tank top off my floor and throw my hair back in a bun. It’s time to get out of this house. It is only ten in the morning. Marissa is definitely still asleep. Maybe Eric will want to walk to the park with me?
BZZZ. My phone. Zach.
Zach: Crazy is right. Grabbing burgers with guys tonight. You and Marissa in?
My heart relaxes. I had no idea it was so tightly wound. He still wants to see me.
Me: Sounds yummy. I’ll check with Marissa. But I’ll be there.
Zach: Oh, you’ll have more fun if Marissa comes too. It’ll get boring.
My heart twists again. Rejection.
But maybe Zach is right? I imagine myself sitting at the end of a table filled with his lacrosse friends. I’d have no idea what to say and look like an idiot. I send Marissa a quick text. She’ll say yes; she rarely turns down an opportunity to hang out with a group of guys.
What to wear? I find my favorite tank top wrinkled with a peanut-butter smear down the front. I gather the rest of the dirty clothes that carpet my floor and bring them all downstairs to do laundry. Eric’s voice chimes from the kitchen. Talking to himself again. Cute. I swing open the door, but it doesn’t open more than an inch. I hear a low grunt and then the pressure releases, allowing the door to swing open.
My stomach drops. Justin is blocking my view of our white-and-black checkered floor.
Perfect. Am I even wearing makeup? Not that it matters around him. Barfing in front of him trumps not wearing mascara any day. Humiliation.
Justin holds a truck in hand. Eric sits next to him, pointing to his trucks and explaining, “That truck is Bert.” Justin looks up at me and flashes his favorite smile. “Have you met Bert, Lucy?”
I roll my eyes, “Really, here?” His light laugh rolls as he smashes Bert into a gold
Me: Hi Zach. Sorry about my mom the other night. She’s crazy. I did have fun at the party with you though. Want to hang out soon?
“Lucy?” Eric’s light voice calls through my door.
“Come on in.” My little brother is the only person I ever welcome into my room. But he has to ask first.
The door creaks open. Eric wears matching frog pajamas. With red jelly on the corner of his lips and blond hair in a curled mess, he looks like a five-year-old prince.
“What’s up, bud?” I swing him onto my bed. My right shoulder protests in pain. My wrist hurts even more. Crap. Wasn’t fainting, fighting, and the hospital enough? Of course the painting job gets the final say. I stretch out my shoulder as Eric looks at me with a scrunched nose; his thinking face.
“-othing up.” He stands up on the bed to poke at the Band-Aid on the back of my hand. “You got a shot?”
“A little one.” His lips turn into a frown. “But it didn’t hurt at all. It just helped me get better.”
“So you’re -ot sick?”
I give him my best reassuring smile and answer back overenthusiastically. “No, bud. I feel great!” I stand up and do our crazy dance, a complex set of movements that involves spinning and arm flailing. My shoulder muscles beg to be ripped off. He giggles and dances too.
“Good Lucy. -ot sick.”
“Good. Lucy is n ot sick.” I correct him. He has been working with speech therapy on annunciation and full sentences all year. I bend over and tickle him into a fit of giggles.
“Lucy is not sick!” He says between gasps. The doorbell rings and he pushes me away. His new chore is opening the front door and he takes it very seriously. I pretend to hold him captive but let go when I notice his smile turning into frustration. He clobbers down the stairs. “No, Daddy. -y job!” I close my bedroom door, only hearing muffles from below.
Dried sweat cakes my skin. Nasty. I step into the shower, using my loofah like iron wool on the visible layers of dirt on my skin. There, clean. I grab some jeans and a tank top off my floor and throw my hair back in a bun. It’s time to get out of this house. It is only ten in the morning. Marissa is definitely still asleep. Maybe Eric will want to walk to the park with me?
BZZZ. My phone. Zach.
Zach: Crazy is right. Grabbing burgers with guys tonight. You and Marissa in?
My heart relaxes. I had no idea it was so tightly wound. He still wants to see me.
Me: Sounds yummy. I’ll check with Marissa. But I’ll be there.
Zach: Oh, you’ll have more fun if Marissa comes too. It’ll get boring.
My heart twists again. Rejection.
But maybe Zach is right? I imagine myself sitting at the end of a table filled with his lacrosse friends. I’d have no idea what to say and look like an idiot. I send Marissa a quick text. She’ll say yes; she rarely turns down an opportunity to hang out with a group of guys.
What to wear? I find my favorite tank top wrinkled with a peanut-butter smear down the front. I gather the rest of the dirty clothes that carpet my floor and bring them all downstairs to do laundry. Eric’s voice chimes from the kitchen. Talking to himself again. Cute. I swing open the door, but it doesn’t open more than an inch. I hear a low grunt and then the pressure releases, allowing the door to swing open.
My stomach drops. Justin is blocking my view of our white-and-black checkered floor.
Perfect. Am I even wearing makeup? Not that it matters around him. Barfing in front of him trumps not wearing mascara any day. Humiliation.
Justin holds a truck in hand. Eric sits next to him, pointing to his trucks and explaining, “That truck is Bert.” Justin looks up at me and flashes his favorite smile. “Have you met Bert, Lucy?”
I roll my eyes, “Really, here?” His light laugh rolls as he smashes Bert into a gold
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