Puke.

My life is puke.

Literally.

I’m staring at a bunch of puke that used to be one chocolate French silk pie, one blueberry muffin, and two peanut butter cookies, all from Perkins.

“Parker!”

My sister, Danielle, bangs on the bathroom door. One fourteen-year-old sister, one seventeen-year-old brother, and one bathroom.

“I’m almost done,” I call out as casually as possible.

Danielle, grumbling, goes away.

I flush away the puke, meticulously wash my hands and face in the sink, carefully brush and floss my teeth twice, and gargle four times with extra-strength-cinnamon-flavored mouthwash. Then I shove three wintergreen breath mints into my mouth. My pockets hold the world’s record of wintergreen breath mints.

My sister, still grumbling, comes back.

“You’re worse than a girl. It’s time to come out and face your public now.”
Right. I stick out my tongue at my reflection. The eyes are blue-green; the hair’s the color of “orange blossom honey,” says Mom, “like they make in Vermont.” It fits the name Mom and Dad gave me—except for the dead giveaway of Rabinowitz being my last name.

I open the bathroom door.

“At last,” Danielle sighs. “Time to make the hearts break!”

I ignore this comment, shoot past her, duck into my room, and sweep my car keys off my desk.

It happened today because I hardly ate anything at school.
I tried, but I just couldn’t resist.

When I saw the sign for Perkins, I jammed on my brakes so hard the UPS truck behind me nearly ended up in my backseat.

I hated myself for it.

But everything’s okay now.

I undid the damage.

I flushed it all away.