“I have never tried to act like I’m perfect, or that my son is. Mama’s the guilty party there, and I wish you would understand that.”

“Yeah, well, she sure did a good job of it.”

“I’m not Mama, Charlotte! And stop acting like she did it on purpose, because she didn’t!”

”Well, how come we don’t never hear about your problems?”

“Because I don’t blab ’em all over the place.”

“I’m your fucking sister, bitch. If you can’t tell ’em to me and Janelle, then who can you talk to?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Now you shut the hell up. The real deal is, you want everybody to think you so together ’cause you make all that fucking money, which you good at throwing in our face every chance you get, just ’cause you can take trips and buy a Mercedes or a Lexus or whatever the fuck you drive, and your son gets letters from all kinds of universities, but, hey, Paris, you ain’t got everything under control, ’cause you ain’t fooling me. Exactly what kinda pills is them you been popping all day anyway? Huh? They damn sure ain’t no Advil or no Tylenol. Janelle told me they was prescription. You got a problem with pain? Or just pills? Stressed out about something, Paris? Why don’t you tell your little sister what it is? You lonely? Wish you had a husband? Is it something your money can’t fix, is that it?”

“Fuck you, Charlotte. What kind of pills I take is my business, and, for your information, I’m not lonely and, whatever the reasons, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see, won’t we? Miss Fucking Perfect!”

“I wish you would stop calling me that!”

“Mama always thought you was perfect, and you think you know everything and go around acting like can’t nobody do nothing right except you. That’s how you always been, Paris. You just gotta run the whole goddamn show, and you don’t give nobody credit for nothing they do.”

“I told you: I know I’m not perfect, and I don’t always feel like I have to be in control.”

On that note, I grab my Sock-It-to-Me cake and throw it at her, but it hits her in the face. I didn’t mean for it to get her there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Yes you did!” She’s crying.

“What you crying about, Paris? It didn’t hurt. But if it’ll make you feel better, go get another piece and throw it back in mine.”

“I don’t want to do anything to hurt you, Charlotte. I never have and never will. But I’m so out of here it’s not funny. I was trying to help clean up, but just fuck it!”

“Fine, then, leave. I don’t need your help. And by the way: don’t look for me at Thanksgiving.”

And then, out of nowhere, I hear Janelle say, ” You’ll be there or I’ll throw more than some goddamn cake in your face, Charlotte. And, Miss Leaning Tower of Pisa, you better lay out the red carpet when she gets there.”