carlyinrome

The Zapruder’s new photographer had not taken the warnings about how far away from Mary Cherry one needed to stand if one did not wish their camera to be smashed in a Naomi Campbell-esque fit of celebrity, so the paper’s plucky girl editor arrived home very, very late, after hours of scrounging through old photos and previously uploaded ones, and the occasional very quickly taking a quick snap of something vaguely related to the story.

Sam was exhausted. So exhausted that, entering the bathroom while undressing, she was completely oblivious to Brooke’s whereabouts.

Since Brooke was exiting the shower sans any clothing at all, perhaps Sam should have been paying more attention.

Sharing a school was horrible enough. Sharing their parents was truly disgusting.

Sharing a sleeping space was the ninth circle of hell. Being poked by pitchforks and stuff.

“If you snore, I’ll kill you.”

Sam rolled her eyes, but did not actually look up at Brooke from her novel.

“I’m serious,” Brooke added, displeased that Sam had failed to react.

“And risk getting blood on your cheerleading outfit?” Sam said. She still didn’t look up.

Brooke huffed, and tried to think up something smart to say back. When she couldn’t manage anything, she jumped off her bed and across the room; she grabbed Sam’s book from her hands and threw it to the ground.

“Hey!” Brooke said. “You . . . shut up!”

Sam rose from the bed and faced fair Brookie off. “Nice retort, B. Very clever.”

“Oh my God, I hate you, you mousy, flat-chested, self-righteous . . . brat!”

“Not as much as I hate you, you moronic, insipid, washed-out cow!”

Brooke slapped Sam. Sam slapped Brooke. Brooke pushed Sam; Sam rocketed back and grabbed ahold of a thick chunk of Brooke’s hair.

Brooke shrieked and then, at this point as concerned with the welfare of her hair as she was with getting the better of Sam, tackled the brunette into her bed, so that Sam wouldn’t have enough leverage to damage her ’do, and she was still on top.

“Let go!”

“Make me!”

Sam gave a good tug. Brooke howled and pinched Sam, hard. Sam yelped and released her hold on Brooke’s golden tresses.

“Bitch,” Sam growled.

“Bigger bitch,” Brooke said.

Physicists would not be able to determine who kissed whom first, although they would certainly agree that several land speed records had been broken in the act.

It’s hard to adjust. They’ve had their traditional roles for so long: non-threatening, one-of-the-girls guy for Harrison; always-second-best, never-Brooke for Sam. And now it’s different to have to bloom into the new position of first and foremost, beloved. Birth is always painful, but the overriding quality to the newness is an awkwardness that neither of them has ever felt with the other. Sam spends wasted hours in front of the mirror, wondering if it would be beyond stupid to bleach her hair, if she’d be what he wants if she wears a better eye shadow. Harrison haunts bookstores, looking for the perfect words to soothe his nervous tongue. It shouldn’t be like this: it was never like this before.

But sometimes, when they’re together, they can get caught in the moment, in the experience of one another, and completely forget that they’re supposed to be dating, and it’s almost like nothing ever happened, that no new territory was ever staked out.

And that’s better.

Home economics is totally worth it. Harrison never considered Sam the domestic goddess type, but after little Mac was born, she had a sudden surge of maternal instinct and switched from shop. He changed, too, partly to join her, partly to avoid Brooke, physically fine after the incident with Nicole’s car but not a picnic to be around after the incident in the restaurant preceding it.

As he watches Sam absentmindedly lave cookie dough off her finger, the thought echoes through his mind again: Totally worth it.