Kids These Days

Chapter 10: Andy

[REVISED - 1/16/23]

I haven't spoken to Talia in three days.

The logical part of my brain reasons that she's busy waitressing at Sorrento's, which is, according to her, chronically short-staffed; but that part is easily drowned out by the rest of my catastrophizing brain screaming, she doesn't feel the same way about you. The news is in: Andy has fallen for yet another straight girl. Locals reported to be disappointed, but not surprised.

She doesn't feel the same. And she never will.

I sit in my room, sulking and flipping through old Seventeen magazines I stole from the library, miserably checking off boxes in a Does He Like You Back? quiz that strikes me as too heterosexual to be helpful. I press my pencil hard against question three, Does he go out of his way to spend time with you? The tip breaks before I can circle my answer.

There's a knock on my door. "Don't come in!" I shout. "I'm busy."

Oliver barges in a second later, meeting my glare with a carefree what can you do? shrug. I shove the magazine under my pillow before he can see it. "There's someone on the phone for you," he signs.

T-A-L-I-A? I fingerspell. He shakes his head. R-O-N-A-N.

I'm not sure if I should feel disappointed or worried. I've only known Ronan for a few days, and we didn't exactly hit it off as best friends. I sign back, "Why?"

Oliver shrugs again. "No idea. You should hurry, though. Mom says she needs to discuss sales with her Mary Kay friends."

My brother insists on calling Joyce mom. It's a weird quirk of his. I don't call Joyce mom unless I need something from her. "I'm not in the mood to chat. Tell Ronan I'll call him back later."

"He said it was urgent." Oliver glances around my room, taking in the scattered vinyl, the empty bag of Red Vines, the broken pencil. All damning evidence of my pathetic love life. "What are you doing that's so important?"

"Girl stuff. And it's none of your business!"

"If it's none of my business, why did you tell me? What is girl stuff, anyways?" Oliver picks up a Joni Mitchell album, raises an eyebrow then drops it on my bed. It lands next to a bowl of half-eaten buttered pasta. "From my perspective, it looks like you're throwing a fit. Feel free to correct me, of course."

I don't dignify this with a response. Instead, I cross my arms, the universal sign for I don't want to speak to you right now.

Oliver's lips curl upwards, but he has enough self-restraint not to laugh. "Fine. I'll go tell Ronan you're too much of a baby to talk to him. Is that okay with you?"

"Fine! You win!" I heave myself out of bed, scattering stray Red Vines across the carpet. Damn. Joyce will kill me if I stain the carpet again. "Whatever," I grumble, storming off to answer the phone. Because I'm the master of witty comebacks.

Oliver follows me into the hallway, watching with amusement as I grab the landline and demand, "Hello? Ronan?"

"Is this Andrea?"

"The one and only. What do you need?"

"Who said I needed anything?" Ronan sounds taken aback, as if the idea that he could lack something-- and I could provide it for him-- is incomprehensible. I roll my eyes. "I'm calling about Finn. He's not doing too well."

"Is he sick?"

"No, not really. It's-- it's hard to explain." In the background, I can hear a familiar voice-- Finn's voice-- ask, who are you talking to? He doesn't sound sick. A little ragged maybe, but not on death's door. I swear, if the boys are calling for a hangover cure... "I need you to come to the Super 8, as soon as possible. I'll explain everything when you get here."