Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(8)

My father stops singing and goes back to yelling. “I remember you, Ryan Daniels—puking in our rosebushes after drinking that crap liquor you brought to Colleen’s sweet sixteen!” Then he does a spot-on impression of Scarface. “You’re not giving me no stinking ticket.”

A pink flush crawls up Ryan’s neck. “Wow. Your dad has a really good memory.” He calls into the room, “Sorry about those rosebushes, Mrs. Carpenter.”

“That’s all right, honey,” my mother’s gravelly voice calls back. “You can regurgitate in my bushes any day—as long as you rally afterwards.”

I cover my eyes. Praying for a tear in the space-time continuum to swallow me whole.

“So, a reckless driving ticket?” I ask Ryan. “Dad’s usually a great driver; what happened?”

“His mind wasn’t on the road, that’s for damn sure,” Colleen answers.

Ryan’s flush burns brighter. “Your parents were being . . . affectionate . . . at the time of the accident.”

“Affectionate?” I repeat, happily clueless.

Until Colleen ruins it.

“Mom was blowing Dad,” she busts out, then folds over with horrified laughter.

I think I scream. Because those words should never, ever be put together in the same sentence.

“We had a good night at the slots in AC,” my mother yells back. “We were celebrating.” Then her tone turns disgustingly proud. “I’ve still got it. Though I think taking out the dentures might’ve helped.”

I’m stunned, speechless—afraid to say anything that could make it worse. With my mom and dad it can always be worse.

“Your parents are so much funnier than mine,” Ryan says, and now he’s cracking up with my sister.

“Oh yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “Wanna trade?”



~



Coming home to Lakeside always feels kind of odd—the way everything seems smaller and yet, no different at all. It’s been longer this time since I’ve been back . . . years. I look out the window as my sister drives us from the hospital to my parents’ house, passing the streets I know so well and the sweet ghosts that live on every corner. Colleen fills me in on the latest happenings around town—who’s having babies, who’s getting divorced. There was a fire at Brewster’s Pharmacy a few months ago, but they rebuilt, painted it an ugly orange color.

It wasn’t really a conscious decision for me to come home less often . . . life just sort of worked out that way. Money was tight my first few years of school; my parents were footing the bill for two full-time college tuitions, and a plane ticket from California to New Jersey wasn’t cheap. I waitressed my way through those first Thanksgivings and spring breaks at a diner near campus . . . only coming home for Christmas.

It wasn’t bad—I liked San Diego—the newness of it, the sunshine. And my mom had, once upon a time, hitchhiked her way from one corner of the country to the other—so she was always encouraging me and Colleen to get out there, see the world, make their own nests, and get to know the birds on all the other branches . . . to fly.

I started doing theater productions in the summers, so coming back to Jersey in May when the semester ended was out. My third year in school was a game changer. Money was better with Colleen having graduated and I got an off-campus apartment. My parents came out to visit and met Snapper, my glaucoma-afflicted, medical-marijuana-card-carrying neighbor. He was like their soul mate—I swear they would’ve adopted him if he wasn’t forty-seven.

He lives in Oregon now and my parents still send him Christmas cards.

The year I graduated, I came home to be the maid of honor in my sister’s wedding. But then, I sort of became my family’s time-share—their excuse to go on a vacation every year. Them visiting California eventually evolved into all of us picking a different place each year to spend each holiday. Sometimes it was Lake Tahoe, sometimes it was Myrtle Beach . . . but only once in a rare while was it Lakeside, New Jersey.

On Main Street my sister gives two quick beeps on her horn and Ollie Munson waves at our car. I smile and raise my hand against the glass, waving back.

My voice goes soft. “Ollie’s still here, huh?”

Colleen makes a duh face at me. “Of course he is. I would’ve told you if something happened to Ollie.”

A few minutes later, we pull into my parents’ driveway—the same brown ranch I grew up in, with the neat front yard, white wicker chairs on the front stoop, and my mom’s dream-catcher wind chimes hanging beside the door.

“So.” My sister turns the car off. “We need to talk about a schedule. How we’re going to handle Mom and Dad’s recovery.”

It’s the “we” that hits me, right between the eyes. A big red flag with a bull right behind it that signals my life is about to change.

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

It’s been like a tornado since her phone call—a whirlwind of throwing stuff in a bag, getting the first flight to New Jersey that I could, and grabbing a taxi to the hospital.

Colleen’s head tilts with disappointment. “Callie-dally. I realize you have this whole shiny, single life going on in California—but you couldn’t really think I’d be able to do this all by myself.”