Unfinished Business Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hayley, but you’d never even get close.”
    I do not ever remember getting so excited about a rude poem when I was eleven.
    Realizing that the only way to get the phone back on my bedside table where it belongs, I sigh and agree with, “Okay, Frankie. Lemme hear it.”
    He giggles then clears his throat as if he is about to recite Shakespeare.
    “There once was a pretty young model,
    Who was often drawn to the bottle.
    She’d drink and she’d drink,
    Till she puked in the sink.
    Then off to the next bar she’d tottle.”
    A reluctant chuckle escapes my throat and wakes me up.
    “See, I told you it was a good one.”
    “Okay, Frankie. That’s a good one. It’s so good I’m going to tell it to my friends.”
    There is another muffled yell, then, “Mom and me gotta go over to your house and help clean out the chicken house.”
    I hear the agony in his voice, and I understand completely. I know what it is to be a kid and scraping up rotting cedar shavings dotted with chicken shit while your mother pretends to be Naomi Judd to your Wynonna. Maybe Frankie won’t have to be Wynonna. Maybe he’ll get to be Clint Black. “Call me again, Frankie. Just try to make it after ten next time.”
    He laughs as he hangs up.
    I hang up. Night, night Mr. Phone .
    With the blanket pulled tightly around me, I snuggle back against the pillow and wonder about Nick’s hand on my thigh.
    Hmmmm.
    What did that mean, exactly?
    The stupid phone hums. Again. I silence it by answering.
    “It’s all set.”
    How can Josie be so awake this early in the morning? Isn’t there a law against that? “What’s all set?”
    “You and Clifford. I called him this morning and gave him your number.” She says something to somebody about color bottle B-23. How can she be at work already? “Don’t worry, I told him to call after ten.”
    Clifford?
    Oh right. Him.
    The fact that Josie remembered—although did not observe—my policy about early morning phone calls does nothing to quell the sensation of frustration churning in my stomach. Or is that confusion? Or the after-effects of the wine? Defeated, I grumble, ”Okay.”
    Instead of speaking to me, she mumbles something to one of the other stylists about capes.
    The horrifying image of Clifford arriving at my door with a red cape hugging his shoulders and a fat C stamped on his broad chest infiltrates my mind. “I gotta go, Josie.”
    “Okay,” she’s back to me. “Let me know when he calls so I can send him a bill.”
    Hmmmmm.
    A bill.
    For calling me.
    Maybe it isn’t such a good idea. I open my mouth but Josie pipes up with a quick goodbye and a speedy hang up.
    Guess I won’t be calling my mom today like I usually do on Saturdays. Hi, Mom. No, nothing’s new. Dates? Oh no. Unless you count some guy who’s paying to go out with me. No, calm down Mom. It’s not like that. I’m not getting the money. See? So it’s okay.
    I don’t even think so.
    With the possibility of Clifford’s call lingering in the air, I accept that sleep will not be coming back. I rotate until I’m out of bed and wobble to the kitchen. Must drink coffee. Need proper food.
    My stomach rolls around inside my body like a water balloon. I regret feeling self-righteous—and fat—last Wednesday, because if that hadn’t happened I’d have three chocolate donuts waiting for me in the kitchen. No, I wouldn’t have cared that they were stale.
    Immediate action is necessary. I go back to my bedroom and sit on my bed. My phone buzzes when Josie sends me a text.
     
    You don’t sound so good, BTW. Perk up before he calls.
     
    I’m not yet in the mood for her attitude. I reply with my custom designed Hangover Recovery Plan.
     
    1. Gently wash face while the coffee is brewing.
    2. Drink coffee and review clip of The Big Red Dog.
    3. Take off the ICP T-shirt and bike shorts I slept in.
    4. Find some clothing that won’t squish my stomach.
    5. Walk down to Pastry Pete’s, get donuts.
    6. Scarf down donuts on