Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

“Could I come in?”
She was pretty sure it was Krista.
No, you can’t. “Uh, yeah.”
The door opened tentatively. “Carmen? It’s, um, dinnertime?
Are you ready to come down?”
Only Krista’s head came through the doorway. Carmen
could smell her lip gloss. She suspected Krista was an
uptalker. Even declarative statements came out as questions.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Carmen said.
Krista retreated and closed the door.
Carmen stretched back out on her floor for a minute.
How did she get here? How had this happened? She pictured
the alternate-universe Carmen, who was polishing
off a burger with her dad at a downtown restaurant,
before challenging him to a game of pool. She was jealous
of that Carmen.
Carmen trudged downstairs and took her place at the
elaborately set table. Multiple forks were fine at a restaurant,
but in somebody’s own dining room? There were
matching white covered dishes that turned out to contain
all kinds of homemade food. Lamb chops, roasted potatoes,
sautéed zucchini and red peppers, carrot salad,
warm bread. Carmen jumped when she felt Krista’s hand
reaching for hers. She yanked it away without thinking.
Krista’s cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she murmured. “We
hold hands for grace.”
She looked at her father. He was happily holding Paul’s
hand on one side and reaching for hers on the other. That’s
what they do. What do we do? she felt like asking her father.
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