Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [27]
SARA D’ABRUZZI & SCOTT GLAZER.
ALWAYS & FOREVER & DESTINY
BEGINS JUNE 24, 2007.
(FOREVER. Is your final postcard on its way?)
nineteen
“BOOM—pssh—BOOM-BOOM-pssh-BOOM-pssh-BOOM-BOOM-pssh!”
Shea’s beat-boxing brought me back to the conversation in a most unpleasant manner. High-hatting spit was spraying all over the Cupcake.
“B-b-b-babymama, g-g-g-go head be g-g-gone wit dat thang,” Shea rapped into her cupped hand/mic. “G-g-g-g-get dat thang c-c-c-cut out…”
“Get that thing cut out?” Manda screamed. “It’s a human being, not a tumor!”
“To -may- to, po -tay- to, fuck -fuck- yo.”
I am living with K-Fed’s retarded half sista/brotha.
Manda turned to the more civilized participants in this conversation.
“Sara is, in fact, scheduled for a C-section today,” I said, remembering what my sister had told me. “I bet she’s pissed that Destiny’s late. I mean, she’s lost two weeks of workouts before the wedding. That is, if Scotty ever—omigod! —quote technically unquote proposes.”
Hope giggled because she loves my nasally Sara impression, but she refrained from further comment. Manda remained serious. That is, as serious as one can be when one is wearing booty shorts before nine A.M.
“It’s so weird,” Manda said. “Like while we’re sleeping all day”—because Manda seemed to be under the impression that we all sleep during daylight hours—“Sara will be having a baby. Today. Sara. A baby. I mean, she’s a total bitch and I hate her, but she was my best friend. It’s so weird that she’s having a baby.”
“Scotty’s baby.”
And we muttered various incredulities.
“Well,” Hope said, ever the optimist, “I hope they’re happy together.”
“Me too,” Manda said without a trace of meanness.
And I was just happy that all this talk of Destiny had drawn the attention away from my own hypothetical milestones.
Heavy footsteps stomped on the ceiling.
“Ursula!”
We are united in our fear of Ursula, that if any of us says or does the wrong thing, she’ll kick us to the curb with one of her pointy-toed roach killer boots. We froze, hoping we would be spared her morning wrath.
“Yo, I’m headin fo’ bed before she come down.” Even Shea knows better than to fuck -fuck- yo with Ursula.
“Me too,” Manda said. Then to me: “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your situation.” She tapped the ring finger on her left hand as she backed out the door.
“Crap,” Hope said, looking at the clock. “I’m getting picked up in ten minutes. Another Sunday, another Long Island wedding…”
“Speaking of weddings…”
“This is too big to talk about in ten minutes or less.”
“I know,” I replied. “But what were you going to say before we were interrupted?”
She jumped from the top bunk and stuck the landing. She had to wind her way through the maze of unpacked boxes to get to the closet.
“Do you think you can finally put these away?” she asked, pointing to a stack of taped-up cardboard boxes, all unhelpfully labeled. For all my anal-retentive tendencies, I have a rather aimless and unorganized packing style, as one box claims to contain SOCKS, COFFEE FILTERS, PSYCH BOOKS.
“I will, I will,” I promised, as I’ve promised for the past three months. When I moved out of Bethany’s guest room in June, I stuffed all my summer clothes and shoes in my duffel. My bedding came along in a Hefty Cinch Sak. Everything else was sealed in those cardboard moving boxes, which have remained sealed and triple-stacked since you helped lug them here on move-in day. That was your first trip to Sammy. (Do you realize that you only visited once more before your seven-day visit last week?)
I watched Hope as she pulled a sleeveless black dress off a hanger and over her head. She slipped her feet into a pair of unadorned black flats with a thick rubber sole. Since getting the job with Capture the Moment, she’s built a whole wardrobe designed for comfort and blending in with the background, the latter of which is pretty much impossible when you’re nearly six feet tall with miles of orange hair.
“So what do you really think about