Chapter 10

When we get home, Holly kisses me good night and heads straight into the bathroom. After a few moments I hear the telltale signs of the bath water running—another of her coping techniques. As for me, it's almost 11:30 on a Friday night, and I'm not quite ready to let the evening die. I flip on the TV, hoping to catch some late-night sitcom reruns. Ten minutes later, I hear a key turn in the lock, announcing my dad's return.

"Hey Ky," he greets me.

"Hey Dad," I answer as he hangs up his coat in the front hall.

"Whatcha watching?" he asks as he takes a seat next to me on the couch.

"Nothing much," I say, "Just flipping."

He yawns widely. "Where's Holly?"

"Bath," I answer simply. "She didn't look too good."

My dad frowns slightly, "Okay, I'm going to bed," he says and we do our traditional Three Stooges routine—you know, where he puts his hand vertical along his nose and I try to poke out his eyes? Yup, it's another hazard of being raised around men.

Pretty soon, I hear Holly coming out of the bathroom and I'm alone in the apartment. I give into sleep's pull and head into my room, quickly pulling out a random t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. Fitting it over my head (the t-shirt, obviously, not the pants—it's not Tuesday), I pull down the covers of my blissfully perfectly-made bed, and settle into an almost certainly well-deserved sleep.

I am unceremoniously roused at what I am sure must be an un-godly hour. My brain takes a moment to catch up (at least this time I didn't rush to get ready for school) as I realize that while the two letters "AM" on my digital clock are certainly misleading, the sunlight streaming through my window confirms that it certainly isn't an un-godly hour of the morning. Upon further brain catching-up, I realize that what unceremoniously roused me is a noise coming from the bathroom. (I know, thank God I didn't say bedroom.) Maybe I should be more specific. Not a noise coming from the bathroom, but multiple noises in rapid succession. Crap, I'm dancing around this. It is vomit, dear friends, the sounds of vomit.

I stumble out of bed, only momentarily detained as I stub my toe (and simultaneously issue something slightly resembling a strangled war cry), heading out to discover the owner of the vomit. I intend, not only to possibly hold hair, clothing, etc. back, but to possibly get a look at what's coming up. Seriously, you can learn a lot about a person from their stomach contents—or ex-stomach contents, more like. For example, after one particularly satisfying Thanksgiving dinner, I helped myself to a nice bit of pumpkin pie. Less than twenty four hours later, I ascertained that there was something clearly off about that pumpkin pie, as demonstrated by watching my previously-satisfying-now-plain-disgusting Thanksgiving dinner make a second appearance—in reverse. Something about seeing whole pecans amid the mess put me off pumpkin pie, for life.

Anyway, I stop short at the bathroom upon realizing that my dad has beaten me to the punch, and has taken the coveted position of hair-and-clothing-holder. He's kneeling beside Holly, offering feeble words of encouragement that are drowned out by her retching.

"YOU'RE WHAT?"

"Yes."

"I DIDN'T ASK FOR CONFIRMATION, I ASKED 'YOU'RE WHAT?'!"

I can barely suppress my glee as Holly answers "I'm pregnant!"—an answer somewhat drowned out by my dad's insistence to kiss her.

Okay, okay, back up, right? After catching my parents in that rather odd position in the bathroom (the vomiting one, duh), I was treated to an explanation of such matters fifteen minutes later. That answer ended up being Holly's "Kylie, I'm pregnant!" I immediately launch myself on both parents, not too difficult a task, seeing as how they're practically joined together.

After a long, excited discussion at the breakfast table, I am back in my room thinking to myself, "Hurrah, hurrah, and thrice hurrah!" I've always wanted a baby brother or sister, and (carefully side-stepping the obvious implications, activity-wise, of both my dad and Holly) I'm finally getting one! I won't lie, it seemed touch-and-go there for a while—I mean, they're not exactly young (no spring chickens here!), but still! Hurrah, hurrah, and thrice hurrah!