Cupcake by Rachel Cohn

Jell-O for the ride. Folks, they're too smashed and turned on to bother using the condom.
    Amnesia, come back and stay awhile, why don't you? At least lodge long enough to drown the feeling of PANIC PANIC PANIC shoving its way into my hellacious hangover. Please?
    Kids, do not try this at home.
    I went off birth control when Shrimp left for New Zealand.
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    The pill made me feel bloated and crazy, which, because irony loves making a fool of me, was the same feeling I had today. Only now I had a 100 percent better chance of trouble like I had before, at least based on the red dot calendar calculations shooting poison darts into my throbbing head. Kids. No.
    Danny followed me into my room. "Sleep it off," he said. "Because when you wake up, we're having a serious talk."
    Who did he think he was anyway, my father?
    Danny slammed my bedroom door behind him as he stepped out. HARD.
    Alas, he thought he was my mother.
    I stared up at the ceiling from my bed. How did Gingerbread get into a sitting position up on the ceiling fan? Right. Luis = tall. Luis = frisky.
    "I'll get you down when I wake up," I promised Gingerbread. "Hang in there. And sorry 'bout the pun."
    No worries, she intuited back. From up here I can enjoy the view out your bedroom rear window. Notice the row of empty Dixie cups lined up along the windowsill? You don't even like Jell-O, you poser with the sweet tooth. Yessiree, it's a fine view up here. Much better than the one you left me with last night, that beautiful Luis writhing around on this bed with you, and you--
    "Shut up," I said, and fell into the sleep of the dead.
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    "Cupcake?" Danny asked zombie CC several hours later, dusk time, vampire time, HAMMER TIME, after I'd awoken and pulled off the miraculous feat of a return lap across the Walk of Shame, this time to the living room. Danny held out a tray of the previous night's party cupcakes to me. He must truly hate me.
    Stomach. Lurch.
    My love affair with cupcakes: Officially. On. Hiatus.
    I fell onto the sofa and placed a throw pillow over my eyes. "Be gentle, Danny," I murmured. "Please?"
    "Gentle?" Danny asked. I felt him plop down onto the end of the sofa. He placed my bare feet on his lap. "Gentle to the same girl who ditched the party that was being thrown in her honor last night? Gentle to she who disappeared for hours with no explanation?"
    "I tried to tell you," I whispered. "I went back up to the party after hanging out with Max. I was going to tell you I was meeting up with Luis. But you didn't see me. You were making out with Jerry Lewis. You were--"
    "I'm not finished," Danny interrupted. "Be quiet because I have a lot to say, and I don't want to hear your sorry defenses."
    Ah, here was the harsh. Brother, that is.
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    ***
    FIFTEEN
    Rules .
    In my mind I'm eighteen years old, independent. In Danny's mind we may not have grown up in the same household, but I'm still his little sister, and he's "responsible" for me.
    And so he decreed: If I'm going to stay out all night, I have to check in to let Danny know where I am. I shall never be thrown a party again, or invited to one he's going to, if I'm just going to ignore everyone, and then bail. The broken leg drama is over, done, finito, and given that I'm enrolled for only one culinary class (um, right), I'd better get myself a damn job to get some structure for the rest of my time, or I should think about moving back home to San Francisco until I'm grown up enough to accept the responsibilities that come with sharing this apartment with him. And by the way,
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    CC, you're not independent if your parents are paying your rent and you're not being held accountable for your actions.
    Also, drunken hook-ups are not cool when brought back to an apartment shared with a roommate--especially a roommate who's a brother. Don't do it. He wouldn't do it to me, so I shouldn't do that to him--that is, leave Danny in awkward morning-after conversation with the object of my previous night's affection, or