“Really? You just gon’ victimize a pregnant woman? I know where you live, Jamal!” she shouts from the hallway. “Sleep with one eye open, buddy.”

I turn on the shower. “I’m sorry, Whit. I’m having a hard time hearing you right now because I’m really engrossed in my personal hygiene!”

“I hate you so much! Seriously, you’re the worst!”

“You said you want me to flush your headband down the toilet? Wow, that’s a really strange request but, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I’ve heard hormones get all weird while you’re pregnant, so, hey, if you really wanna flush your headband, who am I to stand in the way, you know?”

“Jamal Anderson!”

“I’m sorry, Whit, but I still can’t hear you. Tell you what, give us two kicks for yes, one for no, okay?”

I pause.

“Jamal, I’m not playing with you!”

I hide the headband underneath the sink cabinet.

Then I flush the toilet, because siblings, amirite?

34

You’re probably wondering wtf is Carpet Denim?

You’re saying to yourself shit sounds made up.

And you’d not be wrong.

See, Carpet Denim’s a by-product of four-year-old Jamal’s inability to pronounce carpe diem. Although I’d still argue that—when said quickly—it sounds more like carpet denim anyway, fight me.

Showered, changed, and feeling extra clean, I track Whit in the kitchen.

“So, you ready to do this?” I open my fist, hold out my palm. “And look what I’ve got.”

“The dice!” Whit exclaims.

And okay, I appreciate we’re this late in the game and you’re totally seeing another side of us. A Whit and Jamal duo prone to excessive exclamationing and insufferable amounts of shrieking. But it’s Carpet Denim day, and if that doesn’t get your blood racing, you’re not human.

I slap her two dice. “You roll first?”

But she shakes her head. “We don’t need the dice.”

I scowl. “Uh, tradition? Whoever rolls the higher number chooses our activity. Then we alternate.”

“Thanks for the rules recap, but we already did all that.”

“Not following.”

So, naturally, she speaks slowly. Like she’s handcrafting each word with the finest materials. “Our last Carpet Denim. We never finished. Which makes it still your day, Jamal.”

I wag my head. “No, no. That doesn’t . . . that’s different. We should roll.”

I reach for the dice, but she slips them into her pocket. “Sorry, no dice,” she says, laughing at her own joke and patting her pocket closed. “Rules are rules, man. And I don’t make them.”

“Umm, except that’s literally what you just did. You just made this thing up.”

“Nope. It’s in the book. Look it up.”

“There is no book.”