Free Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) by Kathleen Irene Paterka

fine.” Twins are supposed to have a psychic connection. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I can think her upstairs. Go to bed, Priscilla .
    “You’ve been lying around on the couch all night.”
    “I’m tired.”
    Go to bed, Priscilla. Go to bed now!
    “Maybe you should get your blood sugar checked.”
    I stuff the pillow over my ears, muffle out the sound of her voice. Low blood sugar isn’t my problem. More like those three candy bars I wolfed down earlier this afternoon.
    And the other three hidden in the bottom of my bag, waiting until she disappears upstairs.
    “Maybe you should see the doctor. Your sugar could be all out of whack from this diet you’re on. Would you like me to make you an appointment to see Dr. Brown?”
    “For God’s sake, forget the doctor business, would you? I’m not sick, I’m just tired.” I fix her with a furious glare. “And I think I’m entitled. I work hard and those kids take it out of me. But some of us don’t have the luxury of staying home.”
    I hate myself the minute the words slide out of my mouth. I hate myself a thousand times more after just one glimpse of her wounded, drawn face. How could I have said it? It’s not Priscilla’s fault I feel like this, all jazzed up and nursing a sugar buzz. Feeling like I’m about to crash if I don’t get a fix.
    Damn candy bars. I never should have bought them.
    “Priscilla, I’m sorry.” God, now I feel even worse. Living with the guilt will be horrible. “I didn’t mean to—”
    She tucks her knitting needles into a soft puff of yarn. “You don’t have to explain and there’s no need to apologize. I know how upset you are about this money thing. But you can quit worrying. I called Dr. Brown today and he’s promised to send me more work.”
    I prop myself up on the overstuffed cushions, think about those three candy bars waiting for me. Damn chocolate, anyway. Priscilla thinks this is all about money. I should tell her the truth. I think of Sam Curtis’s business card tucked in my wallet. I still haven’t phoned him since we talked. Next week, I promise myself. Meanwhile, I need to deal with Priscilla. None of this is her fault. “Please don’t overdo it. We can’t have you getting sick again.”
    “You always think you have to carry the load by yourself.” Her voice is firm. “But there’s no need.”
    “You’ll get sick…”
    “No, I won’t.” She stands. “You can’t stop me, Patty. Mama always thought she knew best and maybe she did. But you’re not Mama. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can do this.”
    Fine. Let her get sick. There’s no use arguing with her when she’s like this. I slump back in the cushions and eyeball the television. Looks like we’ll both be starting new projects tomorrow. Priscilla, more work. Me, another diet.
    “Quit worrying, will you?” She brushes a soft kiss on my head as she slips by the couch and heads for the hall. “Things will work out. They always do.”
    I sink deeper in the cushions, feeling like a crumb for letting Priscilla take the blame. Letting her think we were fighting about money. Letting her think this is all about her failures.
    Let the guilt trip begin .
    She hesitates at the doorway. “Sweet dreams, Patty.”
    “Sweet dreams to you, too,” I mumble in return. It’s our nightly ritual, traded back and forth since we were little girls.
    Sweet dreams, all right. Sweet dreams of chocolate .
    I stay on the couch, not daring to move until I finally hear the creak of her footsteps on the second floor and the firm click of her bedroom door closing. Finally I creep from the couch, unable to stop myself. Every step brings me closer to the hallway closet where I stashed my school bag and the sweet forbidden treasure. Chocolate-covered caramels with crunchy cookie underneath. A six-pack assortment, minus the three I devoured after school.
    I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. If chocolate is like a drug, I probably qualify for