Page 2 of Totally Wrecked
I don’t think I have an inferiority complex. I gave up trying to compete with Brooke years ago. Probably around age ten, when I was just done with always losing. Dad was forever pitting us against each other: races, puzzle solving, you name it. The winner received a dollar. The loser? A disappointed sigh.
Brooke had a lot of cash in her piggy bank.
“I’m not competing any more,” I’d told her, chewing my ponytail. “I hate it, Wookie. It makes my tummy hurt.”
“Don’t give up,” she replied, hands on skinny hips. “Dad will call you a baby. Keep doing the races and everything, and I’ll split my winnings.”
It’s really hard to say no to my sister. And I hated Dad calling me a baby.
“I’ll give you a quarter for every time we compete,” Brooke said, and we shook hands on it.
I spent the rest of my childhood coming in second for twenty-five percent of whatever my sister gained.
Brooke continues her pep talk and I flop down on the bed trying to retain everything she is saying.
“...and it’s the meet and greet tonight. Don’t you have to get ready?” Brooke is asking me.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the itinerary.”
“Don’t stay long, don’t eat any sugar or have alcohol, minimal carbs. Be aloof, and no one will notice you are not me.”
“Be Brooke who is chilly, not Daisy who’s silly…”
“And no fucking rhyming!”
“And avoid Harvey, right, sis? Because having to fake it with your boyfriend would be more than a little weird.”
Yet another long sigh comes down the phone. “Harvey won’t even be there! I’m just fucking him to get help on the show. Stop making problems where there aren’t any—it willallwork out.”
“If you say so,” I mutter, feeling honestly a little sorry for Harvey Bannister. My sister was using him; I hope she wasn’t going to hurt his heart.
“Alright, call me in the morning before you catch the boat. And Daze?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks, love you.”
“Love you too,” I admit, grumpily, as I hang up.
Checking my itinerary, I see the ‘meet and greet’ is scheduled for 7pm. Drinks in the bar, followed by a sit-down dinner. It starts in fifteen minutes, so I gotta hustle.
Shedding my sticky travel clothes, I try to wash away my tiredness with a quick blast under the powerful shower jets. I’d been traveling for more than 40 hours to get to this point, and only managed a few hours of sleep. My tiny apartment in Rhode Island seems very far away. Lathering myself with hotel soaps, I feel a bit more with-it, and start to think about clothes.
Brooke ‘Action’ Jackson rocks a Lara Croft vibe. Tight tank tops with clumpy boots and heavy belts. And multi-purpose booty shorts. I always thought booty shorts had one purpose: to showcase your booty. But Brooke had started a new trend of cargo mini-shorts.
Shorts and a tank were not going to work for tonight, so what else did I have? Brooke had couriered her bag, and its contents, to me a couple of days ago. But it had arrived barely an hour before I had to leave for the airport, so the contents were mostly a mystery. She’d given me permission (eyeroll) to travel in my own leggings and sweatshirt—so kind.
OK, Brooke, let's take a look at my, or I should say, your cocktail dress options.
I shake out the dress. Oh, come on now.
There really doesn't seem to be much fabric to it. It’s a sludge-green bodycon, with cut-outs over each hip.
Yes, Brooke and I are identical, but she spends a lot of time doing crossfit. I spend a lot of time doing cross-stitch, so cut-outs over hips in skin tight dresses… not really my first choice. My go-to party outfit is a vintage yellow shirtwaister—it’s got tiny stars printed all over it, and Brooke says it makes me look like Miss Frizzle. I love it.
Ten minutes later, I’m shoe-horned into the dress and standing in the entrance to the hotel bar. Time to ‘take chances, make mistakes, and get messy!’ as Miss Frizzle would say.
Ugh. Make mistakes, indeed.
