They’re so dumb. I can’t help but laugh, and as they trail out my room, I reach for my phone.
There’s a bunch of birthday messages, but not a single one from Carrie.
I slip out of bed and rub my face nervously. I’m super stressed for tonight. And I don’t know what’s freaking me out more—my sister, or Carrie.
I PLANNED ON PICKING HERup at six, but there’s been a plot twist. Once I get off the phone with Dad, I try calling Carrie again and again, but she’s not picking up, and I go straight to voicemail.She really needs to learn to answer her fucking phone. Too bad for her—surprise visit it is.
I hammer on her door, and I know she’s there—I can hear the music pounding on the other side.
I knock three more times before she opens up. She’s wrapped in a robe, tousled hair piled high on her head, a toothbrush sticking out her mouth, her eyebrows raised disapprovingly.
“Can I helpff you, Folinski?”
I step into her room, ignoring her.
“Change of plan,” I start. “We need to leave. Like, now.”
She freezes, gesturing at herself with the toothbrush, and I get what she’s saying—no, she doesn’t look ready to go. At all. She dashes into the bathroom and returns, wiping her mouth dry with her sleeve.
“It’s not even four! We said six, and I’m alreadythisclose to changing my mind. Don’t push me.” She flaps me away. “Get moving.”
“My mom and sister were supposed to land at lunchtime, but their flight got canceled,” I explain. “So, they jumped on a plane to Cleveland, instead. Dad’s gone to pick them up. That means we need to go get dinner ready for him.” I eye her. “So, ‘get moving,’ yourself.”
“Your dad’s driving? With his heart problems, and everything?”
“What? He’s okay to drive. And anyway, there’s no way he would’ve let me stop him. Trust me on that one.”
It’s sweet that she cares, though. It makes me want to wrap her in my arms.
“Go get dressed,” I continue. “We have a lasagna to make.”
She brings a hand to her forehead and starts coughing.
“I don’t feel so good,” she splutters. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it, you know…” She trembles. “You go on without me. Don’t let me slow you down…”
“No man gets left behind!” I bark, military style. “Come on, Carrie. Go get dressed. You said yes—it’s too late to back out now.”
She tries one last pathetic cough, and when that doesn’t work, she rolls her eyes at me.
“Asshole,” she whispers, stomping to the bathroom.
“I think you mean ‘Happy birthday, dear Asshole…’?”
“Crappy birthday to you!” she sings.
She slams the door shut.
Little Miss Sunshine is back in the house, I see.
While Carrie gets ready, I check out what books she’s got, and when I get to the top shelf, I notice a photo placed face down. I flip the frame over. Carrie, with some woman. They look exactly alike—her mom, then. I smile. Mrs. Wolinski is hot!
Carrie has never mentioned her parents before, beyond their divorce, and it makes me think—I still have so much to find out about her and no clue where to start.Step one—survive tonight.
I put the photo back the way I found it and spend what feels like hours pacing around her room.
“Comeon, Carrie!”
She cranks the music up in response, and I fall back on Becca’s bed to wait it out, scanning the walls for inspiration. Carrie has so much stuff pinned up—old ads, black-and-white photos, snaps of her posing with women I’m guessing must be her favorite authors. It all feels authentic, but at the same time, I’m still not getting a sense of who she really is deep down—like there are pieces of a jigsaw still missing.
