Wing Girl Chapter IV

Hey guys, I've been a little less than dutiful at posting frequently over the summer. Luckily, however, I haven't forgotten to keep writing. I'm at a workshop now at NC State for young writers. Yesterday, I read the first chapter of Wing Girl, the novel I've been kind of sort of working on. I didn't get to chapters two and three, but I got a lot of positive feedback on the first portion from the brother Doug, of previous socialite prom queen, Nina. The encouragement persuaded me to post just a little more, and so Doug is back with more from his recent chaotic new lifestyle. Enjoy, maybe?

IV

Doug

I stumble over a stray high-heeled shoe on my way through the door. I drop the bag of groceries in my left hand. Hoping it isn’t the one with the container of eggs, I shout up the stairs in the general direction of my vegetable of a sister. “Nina!”

It was fun the first few days having a roommate. It felt more grownup to be forced in tight arrangements with someone you grew up with when it was your own home instead of when you were young and you had no choice. Lately, however, it had become simply a nuisance.

It’s gotten to the point where I dread returning home, afraid of the catastrophe that waits for me in every square foot. A bra is slung over the wooden backing of a chair, a still vaguely water sodden towel thrown half-hazardly on the carpet, dirty dishes are stacked nearly a foot high by the kitchen sink, and coffee grounds litter the floor, leaving a perfect trail from the freezer to the espresso machine. Even Liza Jane is avoiding the newest addition to our home.

I haven’t heard so much as a creak from the floor above, so either Nina is still asleep, or she had gone out already. A glance at the clock reading 5 makes me doubt the latter.

I climb the wooden stairway and march down the hallway straight to Nina’s room. It’s far worse of a disaster zone than the downstairs. It’s like Nina was a bomb, and the littering of her belongings on the first floor is merely the shrapnel of the aftermath.

The piling of clothes on the bed stirs. I reach towards a corner of cotton sheet gasping for air and yank it back. I uncover a furious face half marred by yesterday’s mascara. Nina claws out in search of the covering with faint whines. I rip off the rest of the sheet and then turn my attention to the covered windows. Pulling one up hard snaps in unwelcome light. The room looks even more disastrous when lit.

Nina shudders to enough cohesiveness to aim a hung-over pillow throw at my head. It misses and instead knocks over an open makeup case on the painted drawers by my elbow.

I whirl around to face Nina, and clamber up to the foot of the bed. She’s pissed, I can see. But I need her to hear me out. “Nina, I’m sorry you were evicted from your place, and you know I’m more than happy to get you back on your feet, but it’s been three weeks now, and you haven’t made any effort whatsoever to find a job or another place to stay.”

Her voice is still scratchy, not quite recovered from last night’s concert. “Doug, I’m almost there, I swear. I talked to the stage manager last night, and he says he might be able to offer me something. I got his number. It’s right there.”

She points to a pile of rubbish on the floor. I uncover a slip of stained paper emitting fumes of alcohol with 6 numbers on it. “Uh-huh, Nina, I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

She gives me a disappointed and befuddled look, and then pulls the sheets back over her head, asleep before her head hits the pillow.