Chapter 2 | Heaven Is Beneath Us, Not Above
[Song of choice: Marina and the Diamonds // Numb]
I trudge into the kitchen the next morning, clad in one sock, a wrinkled blouse and a threadbare, gold school tie that once belonged to Jack. My eyelids are glued together, a result of nitpicking beer cans and cigarette butts and confetti off the floor until five in the morning. Or it's the bludgeoning hangover I woke up with—probably the hangover, most likely the hangover. Sam resigned to Mum's unmade bedroom after supervising for two hours, which involved way too many curse words and not enough help on her side. At least Lucas made an effort to help a sister out.
"You look like shit," Sam remarks from her spot at the stove, sizing me up with a brief glance over her shoulders.
"Well, you look fat," I bite back, squeezing her subtle love handles, condemning her with a sloppy kiss on her cheek. An old, favourite antic of mine.
She raises a hand to her face, disgusted. "Holly! You can't just—"
"Kiss you?" I input, eyebrow raised.
"Yes!" She shoves me away and I laugh bitterly. "You're in no position to kiss me after the stunt you pulled last night. I mean, what were thinking? Throwing a party for those artsy fartsy freaks and those creepy goths who do nothing in their spare time but practice voodoo?"
"The Millennia Arts School is an established private school that is recognised across the world. All the famous actors and singers have gone there. Few schools can say that they still run classes for aspiring magicians, acrobats and actresses."
"Bullshit. That's just mumbo jumbo for crazytalk." She shakes her head, disappointed. "A party on the first night you're home alone? Didn't I teach you better? You're supposed to wait until the second night. Mum could've missed her flight or she could've forgotten her passport at home."
I pull out a chair and collapse into it, sagging like a deflated cushion. My arms save my face from smacking the table but the effort to sit up still deems too much. I can't remember the last time I sat at the breakfast table sober as a nun.
"Just shut up and make me something to eat," I reply, deeply hungover.
"Make your own food, bitch," she responds, flipping a pancake in the air.
I lift my face from my palms. "OK, then. I guess I'll just have to tell Mum that you're refusing to feed her precious baby when she calls later."
"And I guess I'll just have to tell Mum that you trashed the house less than two hours after she left." Sam pauses to grace me with a wicked smile. "And that you invited the Remington boys over."
I bolt upright. "You wouldn't," I echo, horrified.
"Oh, but I would." Sam shoots me a triumphant look. "Unless you agree to do my laundry tonight."
I shake my head. "No way. I have to fix up Mum's room for you and Lucas. And I still have to do the washing."
"Great. I'll start the washing machine after you leave for school and then you can hang them all up together after school."
I rub my temples and groan. "I hate you."
"Love you too, Monkey-Butt."
"Don't," I hiss, "call me that."
"Why?" She pouts, eyes glinting like jade marbles. "Are you going to cwy and call Mummy and tell her that Sam the Man wouldn't make her pwecious Monkey-Butt breakfast?"
"Call Mum and I'll cut you."
"And I'll kill you."
"Mum will body-slam you to the ground if you try to kill me again."
