![]() ![]() “Well, if you do end up calling the fire department, prop me up on the taller counter so I can see the hot firefighters bust in.” Her eyes shift on her screen away from me, no doubt to look at the unfinished post on the baking blog we run together. I raise my hand to touch my own, and end up streaking the Monster Cake batter all the way down them as Paige winces. She raises a disbelieving eyebrow, then mimes sweeping at her bangs. ![]() ![]() “Under control,” I say, giving her a thumbs-up. I stare at it for a moment, somehow still not quite used to the staggering view even though we’ve been here nearly four years. I grab the stepladder from the pantry to shut off the fire alarm, then open all the windows to our twenty-sixth-floor apartment, where the Upper East Side sprawls out beneath my feet-all the scores of towering buildings with their bright lights burning even long after anyone in their right mind should be asleep. I pull the oven open, and another whoosh of smoke comes out, revealing some seriously blackened Monster Cake. “Nope,” I mutter, crossing the kitchen to shut the oven off, “just my life.” The other half of the screen is currently occupied by the Great Expectations essay I have written and rewritten enough times that Charles Dickens is probably rolling in his grave. I lower the screen of my laptop down, where my older sister Paige’s now scowling face is taking up half the screen on a Skype call from UPenn. To be fair, when the alarm goes off, there’s barely even any smoke rising out of the oven. ![]()
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