Alyssa shrugs. “Who knows? But I have to admit, I’m kind of excited about flying home. I miss Dad.”
“Me too,” the other two say, nodding.
As they chat about their amazing father and how wonderful it is to have such a loving daddy, I put the ice cream away and head to my room to pack. It doesn’t take me long, mostly because all I have to do is shove pretty much everything I own into the large purple suitcase my mom got me when I first moved out here and I’m good to go.
Sherry Lacombe wasn’t thrilled about me leaving our home in Louisiana. She wanted me to stay nearby, and for good reason. I’m her beloved daughter and friend, of course, but I’m also her helper. I have three younger sisters at home: four-year-old Shyla, six-year-old Raine, and sixteen-year-old Penny.
When I was twelve, my mother decided to become a foster parent. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but Mama couldn’t help herself and just kept falling in love with the baby girls she took in and managed to adopt each one. By the time I was eighteen, she was a single mother of four.
My younger sisters are a lot of fun, but they can also be quite a handful. I know my mom really appreciated my help when it came to raising them and running the house, especially after Grandma started “dying” and moved in with us. We were a very happy—and very broke—female family of six, and my waitressing job in New Orleans provided just as much household income as my mom’s job at the medical clinic. We were strapped for cash and I was going nowhere, looking at a future of waiting tables and living paycheck to paycheck just like my mom.
I’d been out of high school for almost two years and was starting to lose hope in myself, and my dream of someday opening a gallery to display my sculptures, so when Arizona State University offered me an art scholarship—and the prospect of a better future—I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for free schooling.
Mom was not pleased when I announced that I wanted to go to school out of state. But once she accepted the fact that I needed to move away, not just for school, but so I could make something of myself and secure some kind of future for my family, she was completely on board. Hence, the awesome purple suitcase.
And it ended up being better than I could have imagined because I met Pixie. Even though I’m a year and a half older than she is, we’ll both be starting our sophomore year of art school this fall and I couldn’t be happier. Arizona was definitely a good move for me.
I pack until it’s overflowing and I have to sit on the luggage to get it zipped up. Then I change into my jammies, say good night to the gaggle of hens in the living room, and crawl into bed.
4
Jack
“Why do you insist on looking like a douche bag every time you leave the apartment?” I say, frowning at Ethan’s attire.
After we left the bar, we came back to our shitty apartment where Ethan immediately changed into what he calls his “Peacock Smock”—yes, it’s as horrible as it sounds—and started making faces at himself in the mirror of the single bathroom we share. And because I keep walking past the bathroom on my way up and down the hallway as I start packing for the road trip Jenna doesn’t know I’m joining her on, I can’t not look at him.
“This,” Ethan says, gesturing to his skintight purple jeans and the black dress shirt he’s left deeply unbuttoned to reveal the three gold chains hanging down his chest, “is an attention grabber. First I capture the ladies’ eyes with my outfit. Then I reel in their hearts with my charm.”
I shake my head as I yank my duffle bag from the hall closet. “I don’t know where you read that bullshit, but you look ridiculous. Which in turn makes me look ridiculous. Please stop making me look ridiculous.”
“Sorry.” He places a fedora on his head at a very precise angle and shucks his shoulders at his reflection. “No can do. I’m going clubbing tonight and I don’t want to jeopardize my game.”
I roll my eyes and, turning away, head down the hall for my room, calling back, “Clubbing? What are you, a teenage pop star?” I snort. “Jenna was right, dude. You have no game.”
I hear him scoff. “At least I have my own balls.”
I drop the duffle bag on my bed and glare at him through the doorway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He flicks up his open collar. “It means Jenna has your balls in her hand and you let her squeeze them as tightly as she wants.”
“Fuck you.”
He raises his hands. “Hey man, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying that Jenna could claim bird shit was delicious and you’d probably think she was ‘right’ about that too.”