Which is obviously a polite way to say they’re little hells on wheels.
Twelve bucks to tutor some eighth grader in pre-algebra, but that’s all the way in Boulder and the cost it’d take me to get there every week would cancel out the pay.
Los Angeles has started to feel more and more like some fever dream. Some impossible goal I’ll never achieve.
I’ll never save up enough to escape Pulsboro and pursue acting. I’ll be stuck in this town forever like Unc and Moses, except they actuallywantto be here. They have the motorcycle club and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Then there’s me who feels like I couldn’t belong less. It’s gotten even worse in recent days given what went down on Saturday night (if only I could remember).
I keep scrolling, even though I’ve memorized every listing by now. The Rodriguez family needs date night coverage. The Johnsons want someone to pick their kid up from soccer practice. None of the listings pay enough to matter. Not enough to dig me out of this hole, definitely not enough to get me to California.
A new listing pops up, seeking a local babysitter for their ten-year-old son after school. Eighteen bucks an hour. Only a few miles across town.
The mouse hovers over the contact info—Rachel Roberts, 710-233-8917.
This is better than anything I’ve seen advertised in a while. I click on the button and type up an email to express interest.
The sooner I’m able to save up, the better. Then I can finish this semester and transfer to a school out west.
I won’t have to deal with everything that’s been going on with Kel and the others. He asked me out on Monday, but I’m still not sure what to think about it. I’m not sure what to think about anything.
Something’s off… I know that much.
Shay and Yvette have been acting different. Spencer’s been grinning and giving me weird looks.
It could be paranoia—Unc has always said I’m way too anxious—but I swear a few people around campus have been staring at me like they’re in on some joke I’m not.
My stomach churns just thinking about it. It’s almost like I’m drunk all over again.
The present blurs with Saturday night. Suddenly I’m stumbling down a sidewalk, the night spinning around me like I’m on a carnival ride, not my own two feet. The streetlights look like bright, fuzzy dots swimming in front of my eyes.
It makes walking impossible… which is exactly how I end up tumbling to the ground.
The cement catches my fall. I go down with a scream, hands and knees getting the worst of the impact.
But the world doesn’t stop spinning. It goes round and round, circling me and making my head pound even harder than it already does.
Laughter rings out. Whoever I’m with finds it hilarious I’ve gone down.
I try to push myself up, but I don’t have the coordination for it. I crumple back on the sidewalk, the streetlights streaking across my vision like shooting stars.
The buildings themselves lean and stretch like they’re made of rubber.
My phone buzzes and dissolves the memory. I jump so hard I almost knock my laptop off my bed. It’s a text from Shay.
hey blackout u up for mani/pedi tomorrow??
Blackout.
She and Yvette have called me that a few times now.
I blow out a breath and let the phone screen go dark without answering. I can’t deal with her right now.
We’ve always been the kind of friends that joke around and give each other a hard time. But this feels… different. It doesn’t feel like harmless jokes being made for fun.
It genuinely feels like they’re laughing at me. Like Iamthe joke.
I can’t believe I let myself get so drunk. I was hoping the situation would go away when the mystery bruises faded, but it seems like nobody’s willing to drop it.
