*Whitley answers her phone*
Whitley: To what do I owe this pleasure?
Kiana: When did you move to Northshore?
W: You’re still Google-stalking me I see.
K: You’re coaching volleyball now?
W: Assistant coach.
K: Well, seeing as you have zero coaching experience, I can’t imagine a Division 1 school hiring you as the head coach.
W: Speaking of which, this isn’t a great time, I need to get to practice.
K: Whatever, your practice isn’t for another hour, at least.
W: How the hell did you know that?
K: You just told me.
W: *inaudible cursing*
K: I can’t believe you still fall for that.
W: And you wonder why we still hate each other.
K: I really don’t.
<Translated from Vietnamese>
Mom: <Do you have a boyfriend yet?>
Krysta: <Hi Mom. How are you?>
M: <You should get a boyfriend. I want to know someone is looking after you.>
K: <I can take care of myself just fine, Mom.>
M: <You get naked on the internet. It should be easy for you to find a man.>
K: <I am not going to start soliciting my subscriber base for dates.>
M: <You are too picky.>
K: <It’s unprofessional>
M: <You get naked on the internet.>
K: <Mom, I don’t get naked. I’m a topless pinup model.>
M: <You make porn.>
K: Jesus Christ…
M: <My daughter graduated from Stanford, and now she is a porn star. Is that what I’m supposed to tell people?>
K: …
Kiana: So, I see you’re still growing.
Whitley: Yes, I’m sure Guinness will be knocking on my door any day now.
K: And that’s, of course, perfectly normal. Nothing worrisome there.
W: I went to the doctor, they said—
K: Bullshit. You haven’t been to a doctor since your last volleyball physical two years ago.
W: …and she said I was fine.
K: She said you should see an endocrinologist. Did you?
W: No, but did win AVCA Player of the Year. Twice actually.
K: Whitley, have you really fooled yourself into thinking a girl in her twenties still growing at all, let alone two inches a year, is remotely normal or healthy?
W: Apparently, I have.
<Translated from Vietnamese>
Krysta: <Mom, can we please, please talk about something else?>
Mom: <Is your kitchen finished?>
K: *sighs* <No, Mom. I haven’t started.>
M: <Why not? You said you would do your kitchen last year.>
K: <It’s expensive.>
M: <Does showing your breasts to strangers not make you enough money?>
K: <It earns me a lot more money than adjunct teaching. I do tutor as well.>
M: <You should get surgery. Make them bigger. Then you’ll get more fans.>
K: <I’m not getting surgery.>
M: <You need more money. You should get bigger breasts and charge more.>
K: <My breasts are plenty big enough.>
M: <Maybe you’re too old.>
K: …
M: <Nobody wants to look at an old woman’s breasts. You need to get a boyfriend and stop doing this.>
K: <Well this has been fun, Mom. I need to go show my old, bare breasts to hundreds of strangers.>
M: <Your father says hello.>
K: <Tell him, ‘hi.’>
M: <He asks if you’ve finished your kitchen.>
K: Bye, Mom.
Kiana: Are you still having headaches?
Whitley: Occasionally, but I have medicine for those.
K: Prescription medicine, or just marijuana?
W: Yes.
K: Have they gotten worse?
W: They come and go.
K: Just like your sobriety.
W: Zing.
K: Seriously, Whitley. Getting stoned off your ass every day is not going to make your problems, however varied and numerous they are at this point, go away.
W: I can’t imagine you’d know since things are so peachy keen for you.
K: I work my ass off, Whitley. For your sake, you’d better be happy I do.
W: *sigh* Yes, Kiana. Thank you for working hard at your fancy studio job, whatever it is that you do—
K: Unit production manager.
W: —so you can finance your twin sister’s drug habit. You’re a God-damned angel.
K: So, a demon.
W: Your words.
K: …
W: …
K: Whitley, I don’t have to tell you—
W: Then don’t.
K: —that I don’t need to be paying for you to smoke your way through life without ever dealing with your issues. Christ, the only reason dad’s still paying for your food is he still thinks you’re going to have another shot to play for the U.S. National team.
W: —and he doesn’t give a rat’s ass if I grow to be eight feet tall in the process.
K: —which leaves me the unenviable role of being the only living member of our family who actually cares about your health and well-being.
W: Lucky you
K: Lucky me, indeed.
Alicia: —and she’s, like, crazy tall. Like seven feet tall. Probably taller, but I don’t know she won’t measure herself and she definitely won’t let me measure her. If I was as tall as she was I’d be measuring myself, like, every morning and every night too because I hear you’re taller in the morning than at night. I know bench more in the morning than I do at night, but I think that’s different ‘cuz height has more to do with, like, bones and gravity and stuff, but the muscle thing is, more of a, I don’t know, muscle thing. I just feel more energized in the morning, ya’ know?
Scottie: Totally.
A: Right? I mean, I measure my arms every day after I work out. You know I’m up to nineteen inches now? How freaking awesome is that? I totally know why. I’ve been working my butt off hitting the weights seven days a week, which is tricky since now I’m training Krysta too. She definitely needs it because she’s started putting on weight and it all goes straight to her boobs. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great for her career and those big mommas are, like, mind-bogglingly magnificent, but she’s pushing thirty and she’s definitely a soft-body. Totally not fat at all, but, like, soft. And no matter what I say she’s all like “I can’t do cardio because my boobs bounce around” and I’m like “hey, no excuses!” just like you told me. Remember?
S: Yup.
A: So then she gets all huffy, but it’s totally worth it because she gives me a rent discount for training her, and before you ask, yeah I’m still doing my cardio. Every morning and some days I do evenings too. Sure, I’m not competing and I have no plans to compete, so I don’t need to cut down on my body fat when all I really want to do is get stronger, but I know it’s healthy and that’s why I’ve even started jogging in the mornings with Whitley—whose legs are crazy long by the way even if she doesn’t tell me how tall she is, I want to know how long her legs are, ‘cuz they’re definitely up to my ribs, if not higher. Anyways, it’s been way awesome catching up with you Scottie. How are you doing?
S: I’m great Allie. Glad you’re doing well.
A: Say hi everyone for me. I’ll talk to you again soon. Love you, Bro!
S: Love you too, Allie.
Whitley: Look, if it means we don’t have to do this again. I’ll set up a damn appointment.
Kiana: —with an endocrinologist.
W: Sure.
K: Are you still on dad’s insurance?
W: Thanks, Obama.
K: Good. Make the appointment, forward me the confirmation, and call me immediately afterward. Send me a copy of the diagnosis.
W: So “trust me” is out of the question then?
K: I have no reason to trust you. Make the appointment, send me the confirmation, then share the results. Do that for me, and I’ll happily let these delightful check-ins come to an end. Do we have a deal?
W: Yes.
K: And what is that deal?
W: I’ll make an appointment.
K: —with an endocrinologist.
W: —with an endocrinologist, send you the confirmation email.
K: —actually go to the appointment.
W: —actually go to the appointment and give you all the damn details.
K: That’s it.
W: Then we can go back to never, ever speaking to each other.
K: Absolutely.
W: …but you’ll still send me money for weed.
K: I may even send you more.
W: You certainly know how to sweeten the deal. Can I go now?
K: Yes.
----Call Ended----
K: *sigh* Goodbye, Whitley.