by Trish Cook
I know. I don’t get it, either.
But it doesn’t matter because once Anastasia and I broke up (Okay, after she dumped me. There may have been tears. There may have been some rather embarrassing and unmanly pleading.…), I had like three girls suddenly sending me messages on the old social networks. Even Chantelle started talking to me again. Too bad for her—she had her chance.
So I’ve got three prospects right now, or four, I guess, if you count Chantelle, which I don’t, probably, and I don’t feel particularly desperate to have a girlfriend right now, which probably will attract even more girls.
I will now stop talking about girls because it’s about to lead to me bragging about some of the various activities Anastasia and I engaged in, particularly on occasion four, and apparently people get really annoyed and/or disgusted when you brag about such things.
And, anyway, there was another big event that took place after Neilly’s dad’s wedding.
I got this text from Dad during fifth period: Carmen’s in labor. Come to the hospital after school.
This was followed almost immediately by one from Neilly: No f-n way are we waiting till after school. Meet me in the hall.
So we excused ourselves from class and went straight to the hospital. I figured we could probably talk our way out of it, and if not, detention was better than sitting in biology class trying to memorize the stupid photosynthesis formula while my little sibling was entering the world.
But of course we got to the hospital and nothing much was happening. Dad popped out of the delivery room and announced that Carmen was fully dilated. “Like, her pupils or something?” I asked.
“Her cervix, idiot,” Neilly said, and, I mean, I like Carmen a lot—I may even love her in a totally parental kind of way—but I really wasn’t interested in any more updates on her lady parts.
Which was good, because Dad then disappeared for an hour and a half. Neilly and I sat there doing nothing, bored out of our minds from waiting and yet too excited to focus on anything. Here’s how bad it was: I couldn’t even read the sex columns in the women’s magazines.
I worried and fretted until Neilly got sick of it and barked, “Will you stop pacing, sit down, and shut the hell up? Everything is fine!”
And it was. Dad came out looking as haggard as I can remember seeing him, tears running down his face, and said, his voice breaking with emotion, “So do you guys want to meet your little sister, or what?”
“Ha!” Neilly said. “Sister! In your face!”
We went into the room and Carmen, all flushed and sweaty, was holding our baby sister. Who was, of course, perfect and beautiful. “Dec, Neilly, this is Ramona.”
“Oh my God, Mom! That is so sweet!” Neilly said, then turned to me and said, “We read every single Ramona book together when I was little. Mom used to read them to me at bedtime.”
Well. She could think what she wanted, but I knew my little sister was named after a Ramones song. The only thing cooler would have been if they had named her Lemmy, but you really can’t do that to a girl.
Neilly held her for a while, then passed her over to me. “Support her head, Dec,” Dad coached. I figured he’d just been through a lot, so I did not remind him that he’d instructed me on the proper way to hold a baby, like, eight million times in the last two weeks.
I held my baby sister in my arms, and she was so light and warm and sweet and perfect, and at that moment I really just wanted to protect her from everything in the whole world—from hurt and fear and pain and grief and everything bad.
But, of course, you can’t protect anybody from everything bad. Not even my little sister Ramona. All you can do is hope she’s tough enough to get through the bad stuff. I figured Ramona might need the toughness more than I did at that point, so I pulled the pin off my shirt and stuck it on Ramona’s onesie, while Dad squealed about a sharp object being so near to her.
I handed Ramona back to Carmen, and there she was, my little sister, badass-in-training, named after a Ramones song and sporting a Minor Threat pin before she was even an hour old.
We hung out for a while, but then Dad and Carmen and sweet, sweet little Ramona needed some sleep, so they booted Neilly and me out.
We argued in a good-natured way about whether Ramona was named after some girl in books or a Ramones song, and about whether she was going to be a badass or a girly-girl, but since I knew I was right on both counts, I let it drop.
We stopped at the store, got some mango smoothie ingredients, and went back to the Mansion of Metal. Or, as our family likes to call it, home.
ACKNOWLADGEMENTS
Trish thanks:
Steve-o, for being my lifelong partner in crime; Courtney, for being such an inspiration; Kelsey, for always making me laugh; my mama, for always being on my side; Charlotte, for being my twin from another mother; Holly, for being cool like that; Greg, for his enthusiastic support; and Suzanne, for being my BFF all these years and encouraging me to write with her awesome and awesomely talented husband Brendan (and a special shout-out to both of them for letting me play guitar at their wedding).
BRENDAN THANKS
Trish thanks:
Suzanne Demarco, for support, inspiration, and for introducing me to my coauthor; Greg Ferguson, for editorial awesomeness; Doug Stewart, for continuing friendship, support, and agential awesomeness; Casey Nelson, Rowen Halpin, and Kylie Nelson, for inspiration and support; and Trish Cook, for being so much fun to work with.
Trish Cook is the author of So Lyrical and Overnight Sensation. In her real life she’s a communications consultant, but for fun she writes songs, runs marathons, tries out for random reality shows, and plays guitar and sings for The Holly Llamas, a local pop-punk band. She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and daughters. Visit her at www.trishcook.com.
BRENDAN HALPIN is the author of How Ya Like Me Now , Forever Changes, and Donorboy, an Alex Award winner. He has been featured on the Today show, NPR’s Fresh Air, and Rosie, as well as in Good Housekeeping, the New York Times Modern Love column, and several other prominent magazines and newspapers. He lives in Boston with his wife, Suzanne, their three children, and their dog. Visit him at www.brendanhalpin.com.