Page 19 of Call You Mine
Keeping a teenager alive is easy.
Keeping a teenagerhappyand alive? That’s a whole other beast.
I was kidding when I told Jack that taking care of my thirteen-year-old sister would be harder than caring for a newborn.
But fuck, is the joke on me.
Babies are predictable—for the most part. They cry when they need something, eat until they're full, and sleep most of the day—and Evee was an easy baby. Rumi didn’t breastfeed, so either one of us could feed her, and she was like clockwork when it came to diaper changes and her naps.
I’m not saying that the first year of Evee’s life was easy—Rumi and I were sleep-deprived and basically lived in the same pair of pajama pants for days at a time—but Evee didn’t use all my skin care and not put the caps back on, or go through my closet and leave what she didn’t want to wear on the floor, or eat like she’s going into hibernation while leaving a trail of snack wrappers in her wake.
But you know who does?
Georgie.
I guess it could be worse, though.
She could slam doors, or refuse to do basic hygiene things, or whatever else teenagers do that has their parents convinced they are possessed by the devil and not just in the midst of crazy hormonal shifts.
And right now, Georgie deserves to use all my high-end products, wear all my clothes, and eat all my food. Especially considering she’s squeezed into my two-bedroom apartment, is living out of an overnight bag, and now has a social worker assigned to her.
It’s been two days since I picked Georgie up from my mom’s—who I still have not heard from—and it’s pretty much been just the two of us at the apartment since Emerson offered to work my shifts at Hey Honey’s and take over as interim manager for a few days while I figure out what I’m going to do about all of this.
Especially now that we have our first meeting with Georgie’s social worker tonight.
After Georgie’s teacher called CPS, everything moved quickly. Yesterday, I got a call that a social worker had been assigned to her and that we could expect a visit today. With Georgie finding our mom unresponsive, it’s more than just a misunderstanding or something that can be easily explained away—it’s a safety concern.
Patricia, the social worker, explained that she needs eyes on Georgie as soon as possible, even if it is a Sunday night.
“Is she going to take me with her?” Georgie asks, pulling her legs and criss-crossing them under her from where she sits at the kitchen counter. She’s in a pair of my sweatpants with a matching crewneck sweatshirt. Her dirty blonde hair is twisted in a bun at the nape of her neck, her hazel eyes wide with concern.
“Of course not,” I answer, spraying the counter with an all-purpose cleaner and wiping it down with a paper towel.
“But what if she does?” Georgie asks, but she doesn’t lookat me. Her gaze is on her hands in her lap, her fingers twirling the tie of her sweatpants.
“She won’t. She’s coming to make sure you’re okay, and hopefully she’ll help us make a plan.” With the last pass of the paper towel over the counter, I feel some of my anxiety subside.
With Georgie’s dad gone, her grandparents on both sides having died before she was born, and my mom an only child, I’m the only one left that Georgie can rely on.
My other two sisters are barely adults—Phoebe, who is just twenty-three, and Jasmine, about to turn nineteen—and I could never ask them to shoulder this responsibility. Not that they wouldn’t step up if they could, but their lives are already full, and Georgie can’t wait.
She needs someone steady, someone who won’t let her down.
It’s a decision I came to without much thought—Georgie needs to be with me.
Permanently.
“You really think she’ll help?” Georgie finally meets my eyes as she waits for my answer.
“I do,” I reply, hoping I sound more convincing than I feel. “But we have to make sure we’re honest with her.”
I reach my hand across the counter, holding my palm up for Gerogie to take.
After a moment, she does. “And that means telling the truth about Mom,” I add, squeezing my sister’s small hands, her wrists still too thin for the sleeves of my sweatshirt she keeps tugging down. “Friday night wasn’t the first time, was it?”
Georgie’s eyes glisten, and she looks away, taking her hands with her.
I haven’t been able to get her to open up about our mom and her drinking. Ever since my meeting with Callie, after seeing the assignment Georgie turned in, I can’t help butthink that this wasn’t the first time my mom turned to alcohol since that day thirteen months ago.
