her, I started to take the hint. But if she’s going to their show…and she knows that I might go to the show (since Conor’s my only friend, although god willing she doesn’t know that little detail)…does that mean she wants to see me?
Zach, stop ignoring me!##!
The guy has to be the most impatient person in the world. I shake my head at my phone, but I have to admit my interest has been piqued. I can’t imagine there’s much chance that May wants to see me, but maybe if she’s there, and I’m there, and there’s rock music playing softly in the background…
BRO!!!!!
The buzz of my phone interrupts my reverie.
I sigh. He’s not going to leave me alone until I respond.
FINE. I’ll go. Now will you please shut the F up?!
He writes back a row of smiley-faced emojis and clappy hands.
Sometimes I wonder if Conor is actually a fourteen-year-old girl.
I open up Instagram, all casual, and click over to May’s account, which I may or may not have found last week. It’s still set on private. I contemplate sending a request to follow her; my finger hovers over the button for far too long, but in the end I wimp out. Maybe I’m being presumptuous, thinking that her coming to the show means something. I should just stay home with Gwen that night and do something really cool, like watch Pitch Perfect for the eight hundredth time.
I click over to my messages to tell Conor I’m backing out, but there’s a text from him waiting for me.
YOU ARE NOT BACKING OUT!!!
I sigh and swipe out of all my open apps, drop my phone onto the Comforter from Hell, and throw my arm across my face. Sometimes I regret having any friends at all.
There’s a soft knock on my door, and I bolt upright. I’m lying here with no pants on, and since I’m pretending to do my homework, there are textbooks strewn all over my bed. It looks like a tornado hit. If this is my mom home early again, she’s never going to let me get away with this shit.
“Zach?” It’s my dad. What in the actual F. He hasn’t knocked on my door in approximately a decade.
I stop panicking, because the last person I care about impressing is my dad. I lie back down on my bed, sprawled out. No pants, legs wide. “What.” I hope I sound bored as shit, because he bores the shit out of me.
He pops his head in. He’s wearing pajamas. I wish I could say that’s because it’s eight p.m. right now, but that would be a lie. He was wearing them at four-thirty, when Gwen and I got home from school.
“Hey, kid.”
Eye roll at the ceiling. “Hey.” I fold my arms across my chest and don’t even bother sitting up.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I roll my eyes again. “Solving Tupac’s murder. What does it look like I’m doing?”
He pauses at my tone and clears his throat. “Uh. Well. I was just wondering if you were interested in catching the end of the basketball game with me? The Clippers are killing it.”
The last time I watched an NBA game was maybe five years ago. It’s so nice to have parents who pay such close attention to my interests.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You sure? It’s a great game….”
I prop myself up on my elbow and meet his eyes for the first time. “I said. I’m good.”
He holds up his hands. “All right, all right, gotcha. Thought it might be fun….” He trails off and stares at me for a second in a way that makes my skin prickle, then shakes his head. “Okay. Never mind. Sorry to interrupt.” He backs out of the room and shuts the door.
Guilt swirls in my stomach after he leaves. I’m tempted to run after him and apologize, but then I think about all the afternoons he’s stayed in his room with the door shut tight, all the times