“I do,” she says. “I’m starving. I can’t find my mixing bowls, though. Laurel, I need you.”
Vince nods at me as I walk into the kitchen. “Hamburger, hot dog, or both?”
“I hate food,” I mutter.
Carly pops out of her box to scowl at me. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
“I’ll take a cheeseburger,” I tell Vince.
He nods and goes to the fridge, grabbing a few cheese slices before heading out the back door again.
Carly sighs, closing up the box and lifting it, then setting it aside so she can dig into the next one. “This is ridiculous. We really need to finish unpacking.”
“I told you to make sure all the boxes were clearly marked,” I remind her, approaching the box nearest me and pulling out a fuzzy sweater. “This shouldn’t even be in the kitchen. This should be upstairs.”
“All the kitchen ones are labeled ‘kitchen,’” she assures me.
“Why do we need a bowl for burgers?” I ask her.
She abandons the next box in record time and reaches into the bottom box on the stack. “I wanted to throw together some macaroni salad to go with the cook-out food. I already made the noodles and they’re stuck here in food purgatory, waiting for their introduction to mayonnaise and pickle juice.”
“Colonel Mustard wanted to drop in, too, if I recall correctly.”
“Yep. All the ingredients are present and waiting to party, but I can’t find a bowl to mix it all up in. I’m this close to using a clean pot instead.”
“If it means we don’t have to spend the next hour digging through boxes, I vote for that option.” Just as I finish that sentence, Carly pops up, holding a blue bowl into the air.
“I am victorious!”
“The queen of organization,” I proclaim. “We all kneel before you.”
“Peasants,” she mutters, walking over to the counter and unscrewing the lid on the mayonnaise jar. I walk over to join her, watching as she mixes all the ingredients together.
Carly is actually only 23, so she’s certainly not old enough to be my mother, but she’s the person who raised me. Technically, we lived with my grandparents, but they had already raised a batch of kids. It was a place to live, a pair of adults to buy back-to-school clothes and groceries, but when it came down to the actual parenting, it was always my big sister.
When I was 12, she taught me to cook.
When I was 13, she taught me about the birds and the bees.
When I was 14, she nursed me through the first time my tender heart was broken.
When I was 15, she took over the raising of me, financial burdens and all.
When I was 16, she taught me how to drive (and accessorize).
When I was 17, she helped me apply to college and fill out financial aid forms and applications, helped me make sure I was taking the classes I needed to so I could begin my college career strong and chase after my goals.
When I was 18, she paid for me to go to school, supported me financially and emotionally, helped me study for exams—all while working and being a full-time student herself.
My sister is a superhero. My sister is my biggest supporter.
And now I have to tell her I fucked it all up.
I think. I’m not actually sure if I have to tell her or not, but one way or another, I have to tell someone. I have $43 in my bank account, after all.
Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, maybe it’s my sentimental reminiscing, but I take a step forward and wrap my arms around Carly, giving her a sideways hug.
Laughing lightly, she asks, “What’s that for?”