clothes. Everything is a jumbled mess because I packed last minute and I can only find one sock knotted around some underwear, so I give up and decide to sleep in my dirty peanut-salt-covered airport clothes like the heathen that I am.
After I climb under the sheet of the sofa bed, I rest my head on the lumpy couch pillow and call Derek.
“Hey,” he says, answering after the first ring.
His voice is a melody, one syllable that rips straight through me. I love him for answering right away. It’s like he’s been waiting by the phone for my call. It’s like we both hate that I’m away even though I was with him just a few hours ago. He insisted on driving me to the airport. We kissed at the security checkpoint until a little boy yelled, “Ew!” and we broke apart, laughing.
“Hi,” I whisper, knowing my parents have paper thin walls.
“How was your flight?”
I want to tell him about my seatmate, and my dad, and the sink bath, but I can’t do it.
I sit there, silent, throat closing tight.
“Whitney?”
The concern in his voice strikes a chord, but I will myself not to cry.
“Sorry,” I whisper, hoping he can’t tell I’m upset.
“That bad?” he asks, knowing.
“No,” I tell him, trying to pull myself together.
This is nothing. Children are starving in the world. GET IT TOGETHER.
“I’ll be there early on Friday, but I can bump my flight up a day if you need me to?”
“No. It’s okay. I’m just tired and I have to whisper because my parents are asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
And then I hang up quickly, knowing it’s for the best.
He texts me.
Derek: Send me your parents’ address when you get the chance.
After what feels like only a few hours, I’m awoken by the sound of my parents moving around the small apartment. My dad tries—and fails—to be quiet as he makes a pot of coffee. Cling. Clang. Crash. It’s like he’s never been in a kitchen before. My mom has the TV on in their bedroom.
I sit up and wipe my eyes, abandoning the notion of sleep.
My mom steps out of their bedroom, an older version of Avery. Her blonde hair is cropped short at her chin. She’s thin with a round attractive face that she covers in heavy makeup, fully subscribing to the theory that more is more.
“I was just about to wake you up. We’ll need to get out of here soon.”
“Can I shower really quick?”
“I don’t think there’s time. Avery just called and said she’s in a rush.”
What’s another layer of filth, right?
I go into their bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a sweater and jeans, and when I return, I find them at the door of the apartment, waiting on me. Toes tapping.
They’re wearing matching t-shirts. Rush is printed in white—the name of my sister’s musical. Her signature is scrawled in the left-hand corner, over the R. Immediately, my gaze catches on the rolled-up piece of fabric in my mom’s left hand. It’s the same bubblegum pink color as their t-shirts.
Ah, of course.
My dad takes it from her.
“Here, your mom got you a shirt.”
It’s held up in front of me like he’s checking the fit.
“I’ll put it on later.”
I might as well have just told them I’ve been convicted of murder with the way their faces fall. After battling the lumpy sofa bed for half the night, I have no fight left in me. I put the shirt on over the sweater I’m already wearing and the three of us leave the apartment.
On the mat, outside their door, a courier has dropped off a dense bouquet of blood red roses. I lean down quickly to snatch the accompanying note. It reads:
A rose for every time I wanted to kiss you during parade rehearsal. I think you still owe me…
I smile to myself, pocket the note, and carry the flowers back inside so they’ll be the first thing I see when we get back.
My parents assume someone sent the flowers for Avery. I don’t correct them.
Down on the New York sidewalk in our matching pink shirts, we draw the stares of everyone we pass. After a subway ride and short walk later, we find ourselves in the theater district. On the way, I’m treated to a bastardized summary of Avery’s musical. Apparently, it’s a parody of American sorority culture, hence the name Rush. Avery is one of the leads, an incoming freshman hoping to land a coveted spot