Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
“And the car?”
“Hmm?”
“You rolled up in an Uber. The Nova crap out on you?”
“Yeah…it’s been acting up for days. I left it at Marcus’s. He says he’s gonna take a look at it for me in the morning.”
“Well, I guess having a boyfriend who knows his way around an engine has its perks. Tell him to come over for dinner tomorrow night. Your Mom and I want to get to him know him a little better.”
“Dad-“
“How about you drag the guy over here tomorrow night without a fuss, and I won’t make a stink about the fact that I can smell all that booze on you from fifteen feet away, hmm?”
I chew the inside of my cheek, knowing defeat when I see it. “Well played, sir. Well played.”
He turns back to his computer, sliding his glasses back on. “Don’t wake your brother up on your way to bed,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Otherwise I’ll be forced to rethink my very forgiving mood.”
I laugh softly under my breath. “Night, Dad.”
BETTY POV
I wake up to a throbbing, thumping drum beat, pounding somewhere right behind my head. I’m gonna fucking kill my brother. Since when did he start listening to house music? And what the fuck time is it? The kid needs to learn some goddamn manners. Cracking my eyes open, I find my watch on the nightstand and peer blearily at Micky, blinking rapidly when I see that it’s nearly seven fifteen.
“Fuck!
Fuck fuck fuck.” I am so screwed. Like, definitely-going-to-be-late-for-first-period-if-I-don’t-fucking-move! screwed. My bedroom pitches as I sit bolt upright, and the thumping gets even louder, pulsing through my extremities and rattling against the inside of my skull. I realize, misery sinking in, that there is no music, and the pounding is actually my own heartbeat, hammering at my temples.
Just…fucking…awesome.
I haven’t had a hangover in a long time. The effects of all the tequila I drank yesterday might have worn off by the time I sank into bed last night, but was I smart enough to chug a liter of water before I fell asleep? Nope. I was not. I’m so dehydrated, my tongue feels like sandpaper as I peel it from the roof of my mouth.
“I’m coming in, Betty,” my mother calls from the other side of my bedroom door.
“No! Mom, I’m not dre-“
She enters before I can complete the protest. She’s fully dressed, way smarter than usual in a full suit and salmon pink silk shirt. Her hair’s tied back into an intricate braid, and her makeup is on point. Generally, at this time of morning, she’s still rushing around in her pajamas, trying to locate her keys, or a report, or one of her shoes.
She’s holding a tumbler in her hand with what looks like a raw egg inside it. She crosses my room, shoving the glass in my face, and says, “Down the hatch.”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
“Don’t be a baby. Just pinch your nose and swallow it in one. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Or make me hurl,” I counter.
“Either way, you’ll feel better.”
I take the glass, hoping she’ll leave, but she doesn’t. “Fine. Have it your way.” I nearly wretch when I force the raw egg down the back of my throat, gagging on the texture. She takes the glass from me, folding her arms across her chest.
“You’re only gonna get so many hall passes, y’know. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the guy in the boxer shorts at the cabin.”
“You mean the guy who carried you inside, covered in mud and soaked from the rain, because you were having a nervous breakdown? I haven’t forgotten about him either. Dad wants him to come for dinner tonight.”
Mom’s expression falters. She came in here with the tough parent act, ready to try and reassert her position of power over me, but now she’s back to Worried Mom Keeping Secrets again. “That might not be a good idea,” she mutters.
“Tell me about it. Don’t worry. He won’t mention the fact that the two of you have met before.”
“Betty, this can’t go on. There has to be some sort of-“