Page 249 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I invented that shit in preschool.

No one can mindfuck me when I’ve been mindfucking myself first.

I win. By default.

Celie nods, serious, one gasp away from stress-vomiting on the dashboard. “They Italian, right? They gonna kill me if they find me in their son’s room?”

I lube my lips with the ChapStick.

“Eh—fifty-fifty chance. One’s got liver failure. Only thing she gettin’ up for is her last round.”

Celie’s stare slices into me.

I snap the cap back on with a click.

“Don’t gimme that face. If I can’t laugh about death, then the grief will rip out of my eyes. Is that what you want?” She groans into her palms as I fix my earpiece and yank on the door handle. “Strap in, bitch. Hoodlum Shit starts now.”

Wind slaps me across the cheeks when I step out of the car. Sky’s sad and gray. Sidewalk’s iced and ready to break ankles.

By the time I reach the front stoop,

my thighs are numb.

Celie branches off, crouch-walking along the side of the house, chanting “fuck-fuck-fuck” under her breath, moving like she’s breaking out of prison after getting fucked in the ass.

I shake my head and knock.

Seconds go by with no answer.

Before I’m about to knock again,

the door swings open,

heat blasting in my face.

Paola stands there, face blank,

hair in a witchy black-silver halo.

“Yeah?”

Skepticism. Judgment.

For a split second, I think she genuinely doesn’t remember me.

“Hi… it’s… Allison?”

A second passes.

“From Thanksgiving…” I add.

My stomach’s falling,

only for a beat⁠—

Then she breaks.

Her whole face lights up. “Oh for Christ’s sake, I’m bustin’ your chops. Get in here, city girl.” She yanks the door wider with her hip. “Andrew ain’t here. He’s down at the hotel, kissin’ rich people’s asses.”