Free The Test by Patricia Gussin Page A

respond, and Carla knew she’d have to get the stuff herself. Just the effort of climbing out of bed made her heart race. She felt wobbly, but she stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Brushing her teeth made her woozy so she set the toothbrush down and sat on the toilet to run a brush though her tangled hair. Shit, her hair needed styling and highlights. She looked down at her nails, broken, the red polish chipped. She looked like hell, and she felt like crap.
    â€œYou got the shit?” Carla pushed off the toilet as Bunky shuffled into the bedroom suite. A vision of a Calvin Klein model in a silk robe, he’d showered but not shaved, orange-red stubble peppering his chin and curls tumbling across hazel eyes.
    â€œYeah, babe, but your sister’s coming. Sara’s out there getting ready for a feast. Can you eat anything yet? I had rye toast. Settled my stomach.”
    â€œJust get me the rocks. I gotta get fucked.”
    â€œSeriously, babe, I’m gonna split. No way I’m mixing it up with your family.”
    â€œI can’t face her like this. Look at me. And Ashley, with that dressed-for-success look.”
    â€œAll you gotta do is act normal, babe. Say whatever the fuck she wants to hear.”
    â€œSo she’s really coming?” Carla sank onto the dressing room bench.
    Bunky sauntered into her closet and returned with pressed wool slacks in gold tones and a matching silk long-sleeved blouse. “Wear this and put on some makeup. Here, let me pull your hair back.” He reached for a jeweled clasp and pulled her lank hair off her neck.
    â€œThat’s better, and remember, babe, don’t get into the AIDS thing. You do, they’ll grab you right out of here. You know what I mean?”
    Carla did know. She and Bunky had gone back and forth. Should she ask her family for help? Or tough it out herself? To her huge relief, when she’d gotten up the guts to tell Bunky about her HIV test, he said he didn’t give a fuck. Refused to get tested. Refused to wear a condom. After all, they had drugs that cured the virus. He knew all about drugs. He’d been off and on them since he turned fifteen. Mental drugs, he’d explained. For schizophrenia. But he was cured now. Same thing would happen with AIDS, he said. Carla knew better, but what good would it do to argue? Bunky’s confidence was infectious and they’d dialed up their lives, getting stoned every night, using more and more of the white powder to the point that their life together was a blur. So this is what it had come to, Bunky and her, their brains fucked up. Her body infected. She tried to recall what Bunky had told her about her money getting low.
    â€œI’m not going to tell anyone,” she said. “But what about money? Should I ask Ashley for more?”
    â€œFind out how to get that inheritance, babe.”
    Bunky went over to the drawer where they kept their stash—same place she kept Dad’s letter. He picked up the letter. “Says here that you used to be daddy’s pride and joy.”
    â€œThat’s crap. My whole fucking family always thought I was a spoiled brat. All the shit I got into at that prison of a girls’ school. Booze, pot, sex in the backseat, sneaking into motels. Rory and Ashley, perfect little ladies. Carla, the fuck-up, the nuns kept telling me, but not in those words.”
    â€œHey, it says, ‘Imagine how proud we were of you when you became a fashion model. You had so much talent, so much beauty.’”
    You wouldn’t be proud of me now, Dad. Good thing you and Mom aren’t here, Carla thought.
    She didn’t need to rehash the rest of the letter. Complaints about her mood swings, her inability to focus, not meeting her fucking commitments.
    â€œCome on, Bunky, quit reading that crap. I’ll never be what he wants. So why keep going over this? Just fire up the pipe.”
    Bunky ignored her and