“Josephine!” the voice shouts again. This time it’s even louder, like it’s getting closer.
No, don’t come any closer.I pull the pillow out from beneath my head and cover my face with it. If I push hard enough, maybe it will ease the pain in my head. It could also suffocate me, so that’s not going to work.
“Jesus! Wake up, lazy ass!”
And then it hits me. I know that voice.Gisele.
Suddenly, my head hurts ten times worse. Her voice…. I feel as though I may hurl. Luckily, there’s a makeshift bathroom down here that I’ve dubbed the man-bathroom because it’s sort of gross and my dad doesn’t mind showering down here. I don’t even think he notices the mold or anything. Women would prefer to bathe in a mold-free space. Just sayin’. Now, if I could just roll out of bed and onto the floor, I could crawl to the toilet. But how am I going to do that? Everything hurts. Some of it is a good kind of hurt. The rest? Not so much.
“Josephine!”
God, why does she insist on calling me by my full name? Everyone else calls me Jo. Oh, but not my sister. Myperfectsister, Gisele, who’s named after my maternal grandmother while I’m named after my paternal grandfather. I told you I had issues. It starts there.
No matter, Gisele’s glamorous name fits because she’s a snob. Honestly, I’ve been dreading her arrival like I do my annual lady exam. I know Mom already told her I’d been fired because Mom tells her everything. I hope that means she won’t interrogate me about all that. It’s just… I can’t compete with her. She’s literally perfect.
Maybe I’m jealous. We’re opposites in almost every way—from her hair and body down to her drive and tenacity. She’s got lady balls. I guess I admire that part of her a little. Not only that, people say she’s prettier than the Brazilian one by the same name who’s married to the pro football player. Everything about her is long and lean—long legs that go up to her neck, long arms, elegant fingers, and shiny, dark hair that reaches the middle of her back. Then, there are her eyes—cerulean blue surrounded by thick, dark, natural lashes. On top of that, the bitch has got about 5 percent body fat.
She’s smart too, graduating at the top of her class at the University of Iowa School of Law. She passed the bar on her first try. My parents were so impressed, Mom made us all T-shirts with her Cricut machine that said things like “Mother of GiseleFoster, Attorney at Law” and “Father of Gisele Foster, Attorney Extraordinaire.” Mine just said, “Gisele Rocks!” because Mom ran out of that iron-on shit. S’okay. I’m happy to report that mine is wadded up into a ball in the bottom of one of my still unpacked boxes. They tried to make me wear it, but they bought me a medium women’s tee, and that doesn’t cut it. Not by a long shot. Not with these boobs.
Yeah. Okay. I’m jealous.
I’ve always been jealous of my older sister. She was homecoming queen, prom queen, and student council president. She was a cheerleader, a basketball star thanks to her height, and she dated the hot-as-sin quarterback in high schoolandthe one in college.
God, she’s a walking, talking cliché.
On top of all that, she’s also been a vindictive bitch from the moment I was born. Mom likes to joke about it, saying, “She tried to smother Josephine several times when she was a baby.” Then she giggles.
Smothering isnotfunny. It’s a freaking crime.
Deep breath, Jo.
I guess I should apologize. I’ve done nothing but rant, bitch, and moan since the beginning. I’ve got a good excuse, though. I’m a little hungover.
Ha-ha. Just kidding.
I’ma lothung over.
I went out with my best friend, Clancy, from high school last night and we drankALLthe booze at the town bar, Dingus’ Bar & Grill. It’s exactly like you think it’d be—dark, dank, and filled with idiots. Myself included. And they don’t grill shit. Trust me, I asked. Anyway, it was just me and Clancy, whose real name is Shawna Clancy, but she hates her name because she thinks “Shawna” is a stripper name. I can see that. And I get it. I’ve had issues with my name for years. She should live with my name. Walk a mile in my shoes, and all that. Honestly, it’s not so bad.Little Womenwas one of my favorite books, and the main character, Jo, was the bomb.
Anyhoo, back to my hangover. It’s up there as far as hangovers go. I should never have added tequila to the mix of beer, wine, and “just a sip of whiskey.” God, whiskey…. “You’ll love it,” Clancy said. “You’ll thank me!”
I didn’t love it. And No. Thank. You.
Fucking Clancy.
Admittedly, it wasn’t all Clancy’s fault. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to drink like that the day before Christmas Eve breakfast. I knew Mom would frown at me, and Dad would pretend he didn’t notice, and Gisele, well, she’d make little passive-aggressive comments all day long. I’m used to it. But today booze isn’t the only problem. Add to that I only got about three hours of sleep, and we’ve got ourselves a perfect hangover storm.
I’m never drinking again.
All right, I’m off track again. Back to my issues. One was the living in my parents’ basement and the unemployment thing. Two is the fact that I’ve got to spend four days In. A. Row. with my perfect sister. And three? Well, three is a whopper. You see, my sister decided to bring her new boyfriend, William, home for the holidays. “He’s perfect,” she said on the phone last week. “He’s amazing” was one of the texts me and Mom received. “He’s ‘The One.’” She sent that out as a group text to about a million people.W.T.F.?
In high school, she was pretty hot and heavy with Bradley Dean, the high school quarterback. In college, it was other athletes, most notably the division one quarterback. I told you that already. There were a few others in law school, but none of them were serious. Truthfully, none of them ever really meant much to her. They were good-looking guys that she was able to lead around by their dicks. Most of them were nice to my parents but never gave me a second glance. Now, that was one thing I didn’t care about because she and I have opposite taste in men. I like mine with balls, not pussy-whipped pretty boys. Anyway, I think they were just eye candy, people she could prance around with at parties and important functions. They were an accessory, like a purse or a necklace. But it’s been a while since she’s had what I’d call a fuckboy that she calls a boyfriend. Mom thinks this all came about due to pressure at her job to “settle down.”
I laughed when she said it, but by the look on Mom’s face, she meant every word. “Companies don’t do that,” I’d said with an eye roll.
“Don’t roll your eyes a me, Josephine. She works in a family-owned law firm. Of course they could say something like that. Remember, she wants to be partner by—”
“By the time she turns thirty. I know.” God, I’ve heard it too often to count. Hell, I just want a job and my own place to live by the time I’m thirty. #goals.
