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FourWINNIE
“Can we get chocolate shakes and fries?” my ten-year-old sister, Garrett, asks, shoving my bag to the floor and dropping into the passenger seat before slamming the car door shut. She stares straight ahead, tossing her long, auburn french braid over her shoulder without bothering to wave goodbye to any of the other kids waiting for their rides.
“Hello to you, too.”
She grins, her freckles scrunching together. “Imean,” she says, “hello, Win. How was your morning?”
I smirk at her redirect, easing away from the curb. “Eventful. Mab was in rare form.”
“Fun,” is Garrett’s polite response, though she couldn’t care less about horses. If I didn’t remember the day she was born, I might question our relation. “Can we get fries and shakes from McDonald’s?”
I slip my sunglasses down over my eyes and do the mental math. My dad was paid this week and I immediately took care of the mortgage, so that took most of that. I don’t get paid untilnext Thursday, but I budgeted for groceries. I can’t afford the snack on top of a trip to the Piggly Wiggly, but if we use it in place of an early dinner, I could probably make it work, then meal plan starting tomorrow for breakfast.
Except I have work tomorrow.
I could get up super early. Walmart is twenty-four hours.
“Make it linner,” I say, using our word forlunchanddinnercombined, “and you’re on.”
“Can I still get a small shake?”
“On two conditions.” I hold up two fingers and drop one. “You have to eat your chicken nuggets first. A six—make it a ten-pack.Linner,” I repeat. It’s late afternoon, and I want to make sure she’s eaten enough to last the day. I think I might have some mealy apples left over. I could cut them up and make cinnamon-sugar apples later tonight for dessert.
“Deal,” she agrees easily.
“And you can’t rub it in Jesse’s face,” I warn, talking about our fourteen-year-old brother. “I have to get him two Big Macs these days, he’s growing so fast.”
“You got it!” She reaches forward and turns up the radio volume on some song I’ve only ever heard in sound bites on TikTok and starts dancing in her seat.
After getting my dad’s text with his order, I pull through the drive-through, double-checking the screen and grabbing my debit card as the cashier confirms my total.
I hand my card through the window and eventually pass the chocolate shake to my sister. She frowns, taking it.
“What? You said chocolate, right?”
“I did,” she insists. “But you didn’t order anything for you!”
I press my lips together and reach for the bags the cashier ispassing to me, tucking them on the floor near Garrett’s tiny feet. Her shoes look nearly worn through. I want to say something like, “We can’t all eat chocolate shakes and two Big Macs apiece,” but that’s not helpful, and it’s not Garrett’s fault we’re broke.
Instead, I shrug lightly and gesture to my empty hot cocoa cup between us. “Camilla bought me lunch. I’m full.”
Which isn’t a total lie. Anxiety can be very filling.
I climb the cinder block steps of our front porch and swing open the door. “Linner is served!”
Garrett flicks on the lights, and I drop the deliciously greasy bags of food onto the clean Formica table that triples as our office, kitchen, and dining room. A minute later, my dad comes out of the bathroom, rubbing his damp, receding hair with a worn towel.
He smiles at us tiredly. “You two are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Garrett chirps.
“Where’s Jesse?” I ask, emptying the bags and setting the table.
My dad sighs, and I tug out my cracked iPhone 6 to text my brother.
I BROUGHT HOME DINNER. WHERE R U?
Thirty seconds later, he writes back:FREDDIE’S. PUT IT IN THE FRIDGE, I’LL EAT IT LATER.
