“Oh, no. He hasn’t messaged. My coworker texted me. Vicky? She’s the one a bit older than me. She’s been working at my school for almost twenty years.” I’m picking at my nails now. My phone is on my stomach—the message left unanswered.
“The one who dresses crazy and has a peacock in her yard and is both a lunatic and a bitch?”
“No, that’s Ms Jill. I’m talking about the one that’s a little wild, a lot sweet. With the short haircut? Think Jaime Lee Curtis in the nineties but dresses a bit like she should teach astrology.”How did my nails get so gross?
“Becks, I wasn’t even born in the nineties. I know her from Halloween, though.”
I roll my eyes.This hoe and her horror flicks.
“It’s not a horror movie.”
“I didn’t even say?—”
“I know you, Becky.”
“Okay, well, that’s not even the point. The point is that she’s really cool, older than us, saw tweedle dee and tweedle dumb last night, and she is offering vodka and violence.”
“Ohhhh.”Pause.“I like her.” More eloquence and insight from her side of the room.
I pick my phone back up and stare at that message for longer than any normal person would before I come up with a response.
Me
Thanks.
That’s it. That’s all I wrote.Thanks.
Lord help my sister and me.
The message dilemma is enough for me to get up and crack open a bottle of wine.
“Becky, honey. It’s the morning. The AM time.”
Again, the insight.
“Thanks for the heads up, Lenny. Now go turn on Pandora or Youtube and let's listen to some breakup music. I’m sure we can make a drinking game from it.” I know this isn’t my best idea. But it’s going to be a step. A movement away from this suffocating silence.
“I shoulda known, nothing good comes from being a cakeeater.” I sing into my hairbrush like we’re in a classic eighties or nineties movie while my sister pretends to film me like I’m a damn pop star.
“Just a delicious way to say,” I pause and take a giant glug of my wine. “He’s a stupid fucking cheater! Fuck, you, dickhole, youhad to eat your fucking cake!” I go offscript and my sister pauses her filming.
By this point, it’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m completely sloshed. Gonezo. I am turnt all-the-way-up and currently riding the alcohol high for the first time in alongtime. I stop singing and look at Lenny. “Do you think Nick Pylot is a cakeeater? That would be sad. He’s a hottie.” I lift my hairbrush—no, bottle of wine—to sing anotherof my favorite Savage Sixty8 songs, but pause again and look at her with a giant grin. “You know what? I’m basically that cool girl in that movie. You know that movie? When they sing the song and dance?”
Lenny just sighs and hands me a bottle of water. “Here, you delicious piece of cake. Drink some of this.”
I stop singing some T-Swift and sit down to my third or fourth slice of pizza. I hid when it got delivered in case it was the older sibling of one of my students delivering it. That’s the last thing I need to start the school year.
I swear, the conversation would go something likeMs. Duchamp, my brother said he saw you shit-faced a few weeks ago. Are you an alcoholic?
Next thing I know, Jolene comes on the radio and before Dolly—bless Dolly—but before she can really get going I shout, “Fuck you JOLENE, but you can have the ho-man!” And then I break down crying. Again.
The rest of the day continues in a blur of wine, singing, pizza, yelling, and crying. At one point I’m pretty sure I receive a message from Paige, Carter’s bestie’s wife, but I don’t really internalize any of it.
I try not to internalize anything.
A knock at question-mark-o’clock has the dogs racing to the door, ruining our cuddle huddle we had going. With a headache alreadybrewing, I drag my feet to the door with my wallet. One of us probably decided to order more pizza. We will not talk about how many slices of pizza or glasses of wine we have consumed by this point. Even my babysitter is blitzed out of her mind. Whenever she handed me water, I made her drink my wine.
I open the door and freeze. He’s here. Carter.
