Page 2 of For the Fans
Ah, the introvert’s paradox. Waiting for other nerds to come to you.
So sure, I haven’t made any real friends yet—except for Kyle—I’m not doing well in school, and I’m constantly aware of how Boston is sonotBrooklyn. But still, I won’t be deterred. After all, we’re here toSubway start fresh, and I wouldn’t say it’s gone as stale as that nasty bread just yet. So I’m optimistic.
My phone buzzes in my pocket while I’m stepping off the bus. I pull it out once I’m across the street, opening Instagram to check a new notification. Walking up the block to our apartment with only peripheral vision on the sidewalk, my eyes are mostly fixed on the direct message.
HollyLang333: Your drawings are so sick *heart eyes emoji*
A tiny smile graces my lips. Until I trip and almost drop my phone because I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking.
Holly is a girl from school. She’s in my art class. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw her peeking at one of my sketches earlier… But I guess I wasn’t. Because now she’s creeping my Instagram profile and messaging me.
Oh snap! Loser Avi hooks one!
I’m excited, because like I said, this never usually happens. Holly is definitely cute, and she actuallysmiledduring the few times we’ve exchanged real words, which I have to assume is a good sign. But more than anything, I like that she’s complimenting my art. This whole thing is an ego boost I could definitely use right now. It feels good.
Maybe not floating in my dreams good, but I’ll take what I can get.
Speaking of being up high, that joint, though.Mom’s at work for another hour, so I’ll have time to blaze before she comes home and yells at me about it.
She knows I like to smoke for my anxiety, and she’s not crazy about it, only because Hannah Vega has never done a drug in her entire life—she barely even drinks. I’ve tried explaining to her a million times that weed is legal now, but she just keeps on with thatunder eighteennonsense.
What difference does that make??
I’m almost eighteen… In two years and one week, but who’s counting?
I really don’t think those two years will make a huge difference in the grand scheme, but I guess parents see it differently.
Mom looks the other way when I come home smelling like weed on weekends. She still gets on me about it, but for some reason, it’s not as much of a capital crime in her eyes to smoke a little gange on Saturday as it is on a school night.
I don’t get it. But apparently, it’s one of those things that only makes sense to moms.
Typing back a causalthankswith a smiley face emoji to Holly, I stuff my phone away as I approach the front door to our building, waving at our landlady, Rosemary, who lives across the street. She’s always out there, watering her flowers and mowing her eight-foot patch of grass, wearing this weird straw hat that makes her look like a poorly dressed extra onLittle House on the Prairie.
Strange lady. I like her. Plus, I’m still not over the accent.
Paahhk the caahhh. Wicked good chowdaahh.
Hilarious.
Taking out my keys, I unlock the door with one hand, using the other to fish a joint and lighter out of my backpack, juggling everything while walking up all the stairs to our third-floorapartment. The second I’m inside, I’ve got the joint between my lips and I’m flicking my lighter over and over, trying to get it to light.I think maybe it’s time for a new one…
I finally get it lit as I’m stalking through the living room, toward the door to the back deck. Unfortunately, I come to a fast halt when I find my mother sitting on the couch, staring up at me with her brow raised.
My eyes widen and I quickly pluck the joint from between my lips. “Oh shit… how’d that get there??”
My mom rolls her eyes while I stub the joint out on my tongue. “Avi…”
“What are you doing home so early, mother?” Flashing her my most innocent smile, I bat my eyelashes, really laying on thelook how sweet and adorable your son isact.
I’m anticipating the admonishing, so I dump my backpack on the floor and just wait for it to come. But when it doesn’t, I pay a little more attention to her face. She’s smiling, but she looks kind of tense as she pats the couch cushion next to her.
“Come sit, son of mine,” she says, calmly. “We need to talk about something…”
Gulp. Okay…
I already don’t like this.
My mom is my best friend. That probably makes me sound like a huge loser, but I think we’ve already established that I am, so if the worn Converse sneaker fits…
