"You're telling me that you got Captain America-the War Hero, Steve Rogers-to become best friends with a thirteen-year-old kid? What, is this supposed to slowly introduce him to how irritating Generation Z is? Project Training Wheels or something?"
...
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When Lizzie woke up that Saturday morning, she'd felt similarly to when her and Taylor got regrettably drunk in her mom's basement for Christmas last year. Vodka, Grey Goose she remembered, which had been a gift for Ma that the whiskey-drinker swore to never drink again (MJ and Taylor would also never drink it after profusely vomiting all morning). The only difference being that instead of alcohol, she'd shotgunned lake water and had to save Peter Parker's life right after. Her alarm pierced its way to her eardrum as she shuffled around her sheets, trying to find the charging cord so she could locate her phone and turn off the alarm with a loud groan. In the process, an eyeball opened with a squint, clocking the time to be ten a.m. above a barrage of texts. Softball conditioning at noon.
A wave of nausea crept up her throat, and she thrashed around her sheets to run to the bathroom, nearly stepping on Sammy's Legos and the dog on the way. Poor Lady, who'd started growing grey, had recognized the behavior from a teenage Sharon and moved much faster than she had in years. Not much came out when she hunched over (grateful for whatever rat's nest of a bun she woke up with), but it was enough that tears started to burn her eyes. Luckily, the one-time got out what it needed to, and she winced, shifting over to the sink and turning on the faucet so she could run her mouth under it.
"Sharon was a lot less graceful."
Lizzie lowered her head shamefully at the sound of her mother's voice, sighing as the cool water covered her entire face now. Sophia Carter likely looked how her daughter pictured her in their terracotta-infused hallway: it was a Saturday, so she had the mornings off while their father took the early shift—Baby Sammy, either on her hip or playing on the living room floor—and she had on one of Dad's old, ratty T-shirts and a high ponytail as she cleaned. Lizzie couldn't forget the look of disappointment, and probably amusement, at her middle child's current position the morning after a high school party (oh, how wrong she was).
