Omigosh
“THANKS FOR DOING THIS,” DAD SAYS AS MARYANNE BOUNDS INTO MY condo.
She has a purple rolling suitcase in tow. Not a carry-on but a full-size one an adult would take on a European vacation for a month. It’s covered with stickers brandishing ridiculous science slogans, like: UP AND ATOM!
And: SCIENCE IS MY SUPERPOWER.
And my favorite: STEMINIST IN TRAINING.
“Of course,” I tell my father. “You know I love my quality time with the squirt.”
Maryanne tugs on my hand. “Shane, which one is my room?” “There’s only one room, remember? And it’s yours.”
“Really?”
“Yep, all yours for the next two nights.” I gesture to the sectional, where I’ve already stacked sheets and a blanket. “I’ll be on the sofa.”
She bounces into the room, dragging her suitcase behind her. “I’m going to unpack!” she screams.
I turn back to Dad. “How much did she pack? She’s only here for the weekend.”
“Yeah, your mom tried to calm her down, but she’s excited to be spending the weekend with her big brother. It makes her feel very grownup.”
It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary. They’re throwing a huge party for it next weekend, but they wanted a solo celebration too, so Dad’s taking Mom away for the weekend. Maryanne usually stays with our aunt Ashley when they go away, but it’s summer and I’ve literally got nothing else going on, so I offered to babysit.
Dad leans against the kitchen counter, and when he reaches up to run a hand through his scruffy blond hair, I notice his arms appear even slimmer than the last time I saw him. He’s giving me a run for my money with how hard he’s working out this summer. We chat about the Hockey Kings camp, and I tell him how surreal it was being on the ice with bona fide legends.
“That’ll be you next year, kid.”
“I can’t wait.” Excitement surges in my blood. “I’ll make sure you have tickets to every away game just in case you decide to fly out to one.”
The look on his face is bittersweet. “I’m holding you to that. Hey, Princess, come here. Give your dad a hug.”
Maryanne barrels out and wraps her arms around his waist. “Don’t give Shane too much trouble.”
“I won’t. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble too.” God, I love this kid.
After he leaves, I turn to Maryanne. “All right, what do you want to do? I thought we’d go to Della’s for dinner. They have a gazillion pie options and old-fashioned milkshake glasses.”
Her eyes light up. “Okay!”
“But that won’t be for a couple more hours. Unless you’re hungry right now.”
“No, I’m not hungry. I want to make a volcano.” “What?”
“A volcano.” She sports a huge smile. “Don’t worry! I brought all the instructions and all the supplies.”
A minute later, I understand exactly why her suitcase is so massive. At some point when Mom wasn’t looking, Maryanne packed a literal arsenal. I’m talking newspaper, baking soda, vinegar, tubes of acrylic paint,
dishwashing detergent, and every other ingredient and tool required for her secret project.
“Oh my God. How are you my sister?” I sigh.
“You mean because I’m way more awesome than you? I know. I wonder that too sometimes, but I don’t question why God decided to give you to me.”
I burst out laughing. This kid, man. “So why are we making a volcano?”
“Because Daddy and I watched a really cool show last week about a huge volcano eruption.” Her eyes go wider than saucers. “Have you ever heard of a place called Pompeii?”
I try not to laugh again. “I might be familiar with it. Why?”
“It was totally destroyed by a volcano. The eruption lasted eighteen hours! And it covered everything in ash. Ash people everywhere!”
“The more I get to know you, the more I think you really are a psychopath.”
“They died, Shane. I can’t change the past. Anyway, I really want to make a volcano. We did one in school last year and I’ve been dying to make another one ever since, and then we watched the Pompeii show and I asked Mom and Dad again, but they were too busy arguing—”
“Wait, why were they arguing?”
“I don’t know. But then Mom finally came to my room and said we didn’t have the time or the supplies.” Maryanne flashes a big, toothy grin. “Well, guess who has the time and the supplies!”
Spoiler alert: it’s us.
In no time at all, I’m sticking strips of papier-mâché onto a volcano we construct using crumpled newspaper and a cake tray. In the disaster zone that was formerly my kitchen, Maryanne molds our mini-Vesuvius so the top is narrower than the base, while I work hard to create the most epic reconstruction of the city of Pompeii at the bottom of the volcano. Maryanne is more artistic than me, but I think my papier-mâché trees are quite impressive. Despite what some people might say, they do not look like blobs.
When my phone buzzes on the other counter, my hands are too sticky, so I turn to my sister. “Can you check who that is?”
She goes to peek. “It’s a text message from Dixon. Something about Zoey.”
My sister quickly recites Diana’s message before I can stop her, but luckily it’s not R-rated.
“‘Don’t forget to watch foff tonight. Fingers crossed Zoey gets voted back in.’” Maryanne wrinkles her nose. “What’s foff? Who’s Zoey? Who’s Dixon?”
“My neighbor Diana. She’s just talking about this silly dating show we watch.”
“You watch it?” Maryanne starts to giggle. “Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her to come over and watch it here.” “No—”
Maryanne is already typing. I have no idea what, but it’s too late to stop her. She sends the text and darts back to our workstation.
My suspicions are triggered when a couple minutes later, there’s a tentative knock on the door. Followed by Diana’s cautious voice.
“Lindley, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I holler toward the door. “Why?” There’s a long pause, then, “Should I call Lucas?”
The hell is she talking about? Who’s Lucas? Does she mean Ryder? “Do you mean Ryder?” I say in confusion.
“Shane. As your girlfriend, I need to tell you, I’m very concerned.” Maryanne gasps. “Your girlfriend?”
“Who’s in there?” Diana shouts. “Shane!”
I glower at my sister. “Go let her in, would ya?”
A moment later, Diana appears in the kitchen. Hair in a ponytail, she’s wearing a white tank top and pink shorts.
Why does she always have to wear the tiniest shorts? It drives me fucking crazy. Every time she bends over in those short-shorts, it exposes
nearly her whole ass. And I’m obsessed with that ass. I’ve had my hands and mouth all over it on a nightly basis, and I’m nowhere near sick of it.
Sex with Diana only gets better. The memory of each encounter is like a cold sip of water after a hard workout—it’s so satisfying, you gotta let out a little noise. And she’s been my cool cup of water for more than a week now.
I’m loving this FWB situation we’ve got going on. And it’s not just because she’s a slamming hottie, though she damn well is. But I’ve slept with my share of sexy women, and that by itself is not enough to keep me interested. Nah, it’s that she’s so sassy. I love a woman who will talk back and put me in my place. Dixon does that in spades. I never know what crazy shit is going to come out of her mouth, and I sort of love it.
“What was the Lucas thing?” I ask in confusion.
“Oh, I was trying to use a code,” she explains. “If you played along like his name was Lucas, then I would know that you were in trouble. Being held hostage or something.”
“Why would you think I was in trouble?”
She’s already ignoring me, her gaze shifting about two feet lower. “Hi, I’m Diana. And you are?”
“I’m Maryanne. It’s lovely to meet you.” My sister sticks out her hand.
“The manners on this kid. I like it.” Diana responds with a vigorous handshake, then eyes our project in amusement. “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re recreating the Pompeii eruption.”
Diana’s mouth opens for a second, then closes, then opens again. “Look, I’m all for science. But isn’t that a bit insensitive? A lot of people died.”
“We’re going to say a prayer in their honor before we erupt,” Maryanne says earnestly.
I sigh. This kid is so awesome, you can’t even call her out for being politically incorrect.
“Sure,” Diana says, clearly fighting a smile. “I guess that makes sense.” “Why did you think I was in trouble?” I repeat, not letting it go. I walk
over to the sink to wash off the gluey substance. “Because of your text message.”
I dry my hands before grabbing my phone. I laugh when I see what Maryanne wrote.
ME:
Omigosh. Come over and we’ll watch it here. Omigosh. So excited about Zoey!
Diana’s response is equally entertaining.
DIXON:
I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.
“I do not say things like ‘oh my gosh,’ neither as three words nor one,” I growl at Maryanne.
“But it saves time.” My sister studies Diana like she’s one of Maryanne’s microscope slides. “Are you really my brother’s girlfriend? He said you were his neighbor.”
“I’m both.” Diana turns to me for confirmation, as if to verify whether to tell the truth.
I nod slightly because my sister looks so excited at the notion, I figure we might as well let her have it. I can say we broke up after the summer ends.
“You’re just as pretty as his last girlfriend,” she announces. “Maybe
more.”
Diana’s lips twitch. “I’m flattered. I’ve met his last girlfriend, and she is stunning.”
“You’re stunning too,” Maryanne says firmly.
“Well, thank you. I think you have both of us beat, though.”
Maryanne beams at the compliment and offers an even bigger one in return. “Do you want to help us with Pompeii?”
“Sure. Put me to work.”
I’m not surprised in the slightest that Diana and my sister become fast friends. Our volcano ends up being a smashing success, with Maryanne’s
lava mixture inflicting maximum damage as it bubbles out the top and pours over the sides. The red food coloring adds an extra layer of morbid to the entire project.
Later, after Maryanne discovers that Diana is a cheerleader and teaches girls her age at spirit camp, she begs Diana to teach her some moves. Next thing I know, we’re outside practicing cartwheels, which quickly evolves into Diana coercing me to show Maryanne the tango routine we filmed for our NUABC audition. We’re still waiting for the results, but I have a good feeling about it.
Diana joins us for dinner, and Maryanne is tuckered out by the time we get home, claiming she wants to go to bed early. Or so I think. Apparently, she’s awake enough to text our mother a play-by-play of our entire day. I know this because, ten minutes after Maryanne retires into the bedroom, I receive a message from my mother.
MOM:
I’m sorry, my only son has a new girlfriend and I have to find out from his ten-year-old sister? And you’ve entered a dance competition? This is a betrayal to the mother-son code, and we will discuss it at length when you are home next weekend for the anniversary party.
Then there’s a follow-up.
MOM:
Actually, bring your girlfriend to the party. We’d love to meet her.
