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I glance at Carly out of the corner of my eye, and by the flash of blue I see, although I can’t be sure, it seems like she might be thinking what I’m thinking—our parents spending time together equals the two of us spending time together while we’re in Florida for the time being.
Am I really going to be spending time with the same woman who stole my fucking taxi when I first arrived?
Three days ago, I would have said that was the worst news to come out of Sunny Creek Village.
But after tonight? I’m thinking it might just be the thing I need to survive.
September 16th, Wednesday
Carly
“Ya girl Stella here! Let’s get this day started off right!”
My mother’s voice pulls me from my sleep, and I swear, those words have become my Sunny-Creek-appointed alarm clock.
“Oh yeah, ladies! Let’s get down with our hot-bitch-selves!”
Fucking hell. Make it stop.
Far too aware that this is only the beginning, I peek one eye open and test a glance at the clock that sits on the bedside table. The numbers 7:55 glow red like Satan, and I’m left with nothing but utter disappointment that I’ve been yanked awake before eight in the morning.
Instantly, I turn over onto my stomach, shove my face into the pillow, and groan.
For the love of everything, what have I done to deserve this?
Though, Stella doesn’t care that she’s ruining my life.
Persistent on getting her fucking groove back, she continues to use her overly excited, outside voice. Think Shia LeBeouf when he did that weird, motivational YouTube video, but only make it high-pitched enough to make your ears bleed, and you’ll get the idea.
“Now, obviously, I can’t shimmy and shake like I usually do, Tokers! But here’s an old-school beat that I want you to twerk your booties to this morning!” And, as if hell had the ability to transform into sounds, my mom’s voice is followed by the opening rhythms of “Stayin’ Alive.”
The music is so loud, the beat so prominent, that it feels like the damn Bee Gees are standing outside my temporary bedroom playing a live fucking show. Why? Why must I now endure the torture of the Bee Gees in the morning, as well as at night? What have I done to deserve this?
And the song couldn’t be any more falsely themed. Stayin’ alive? The longer I’m locked inside this landominium with my mother, the more I question the odds that I’ll emerge from my stay at Sunny Creek in any other form of transportation besides a casket and a hearse.
I can see the obituary now.
Carly Page’s untimely death was due to the Bee Gees Greatest Hits. Well before her time, all that jive talkin’ took her to the edge until she was no longer stayin’ alive.
She is survived by her workaholic sister—whose lack of flexibility could also be implicated in Carly’s unexpected demise—and TikTok-famous mother.
In lieu of flowers and donations, Carly’s mother, Stella Page, is requesting that you follow her TikTok account @StellaGotHerGrooveBack.
P.S. Have you seen her “WAP” dance? It’s the video that made her go viral!
“Oh yeah! Work it, ladies!” my mother shouts, and claps filter into the guest room. And it doesn’t take long before my fate is decided—up and at ’em for another glorious day at Sunny Creek.
Groggily, I slide out of bed, toss on a pair of jean shorts, and snag a half-wrinkled but clean tank top from the depths of my messy suitcase.
No doubt, my good friend Brody would have a conniption fit if he saw this room and the fact that I’ve been living out of a large duffel bag since I arrived at my mom’s place, but why waste time organizing something to other people’s standards when I know where all my shit is?
The answer to the question is a resounding you don’t. You leave it the way it is and give zero fucks about anyone else’s opinion.
After a quick pit stop in the bathroom, I walk out into the living room to spot Stella chair-dancing like she’s Jane fucking Fonda in front of the propped-up screen of her phone. Although, I can’t deny I’m relieved that she’s finally understanding the rules of her tailbone injury—aka the only dancing that can occur is from a sitting-down position. No booty twerks. No hip shakes. No pelvic thrusts.
Why those are rules I actually had to review with my seventy-year-old mother is exactly why I should find a therapist when I make it back to Vail.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah!” Stella sings along with her favorite band, and, with my head down, I avoid the possibility of eye contact and speedwalk into the kitchen before she tries to drag me into the TikTok insanity.
Yesterday, I made the mistake of letting her see me while she was recording, and now my annoyed face is on some video that showcases my mother watching someone else’s video. Of course, that someone else just-so-happened to be a muscly guy taking his shirt off to a Justin Timberlake song and thrusting like his TikTok Creator Fund was linked to every time his penis jolted forward.
