Friended

by Kilby Blades

  Friended

  A Nostalgia Songfic

  Kilby Blades

  Copyright © 2018 by Luxe Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between characters, situations, places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental. References to songs are cited with credit to the original artists.

  For permission requests and other inquiries, the publisher, Luxe Publishing, the independent publishing label of independent author, Kilby Blades, can be reached at: info@luxepress.net.

  ASIN: B07LB5DRSK

  Created with Vellum

  For all of those who came before me.

  Contents

  I. Little Earthquakes

  1. Little Earthquakes

  2. Friday I’m in Love

  3. It's a Fire

  4. Drift Away

  5. Call Me Maybe

  6. Love on the Brain

  7. Hallelujah

  8. The Way

  9. Hot and Cold

  10. Iris

  11. I Can’t Wait

  II. Everlong

  12. In a Little While

  13. Everlong

  14. This is Love

  15. Baba O'Reilly

  16. Bad Reputation

  17. Shake it Off

  18. Chasing Cars

  19. Is it Okay if I Call You Mine?

  20. Best Day of My Life

  21. Say You Won't Let Go

  III. Total Eclipse of the Heart

  22. Daughters

  23. Superman (It’s Not Easy)

  24. Apologize

  25. Lover You Should've Come Over

  26. Need You Now

  27. Creep

  28. Something's Always Wrong

  29. Total Eclipse of the Heart

  30. I Want to Know What Love Is

  31. Oh Sherrie

  32. I Still Believe

  33. All of Me

  Epilogue: Thinking Out Loud

  Author’s Note: The Music

  Here’s Where I Thank People

  About Kilby Blades

  Awards and Accolades

  Also by Kilby Blades

  Part One

  Little Earthquakes

  One

  Little Earthquakes

  Oh, these little earthquakes.

  Here we go again.

  Oh, these little earthquakes.

  Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces.

  -Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes

  Roxy

  I picked up my phone to read the tweet that had announced itself with a melodic chime.

  @OfficialStarVega: Just put some video of Adam’s party online.

  Thanks, Mom, I thought, rolling my eyes as I threw my phone back onto the table. Since my mom had become quasi-famous, she was abusing the hell out of social media: posting stuff on YouTube, going overboard with Instagram selfies, and insisting I follow her on Twitter. Unable to be bothered, I turned my attention back to my Hulu show and bowl of Cap'n Crunch. It was the first Saturday in weeks that my dad had gone fishing, the first Saturday I wouldn’t have to endure hours of Love it or List It reruns on HGTV, the first Saturday I didn’t have to work on some lame school project. Fuck if I wasn't going to watch as much Project Runway as I wanted.

  Since leaving my mother to life on the road and moving back to Rye, I'd found relish in things other teenagers took for granted. All my life I'd been the parent—running the household and cobbling together a decent education while she gigged and auditioned her way toward rock star dreams. She’d been tearful in that typical way of hers, and “so heartbroken” that she had to go on tour—that her big break as a backup singer for Selfish Bliss meant leaving me in the care of my father. Never mind its dubious coincidence with her engagement to Adam Jinn, Selfish Bliss’s lead singer.

  The rambling speech that followed had been utterly unnecessary. Her engagement was a bigger break for me than it was for her. I still hadn’t forgiven the stunt she’d pulled a year earlier: moving us into Adam’s beach bungalow two months after she met him; forcing me to leave my friends and change schools. Since then, I’d pretty much been counting the days until I’d be on my own. The proposal had been a stroke of luck for both of us. I loved my mother, but I was grateful to live with my dad.

  There had been arrangements to make, of course. Summer visitation with my father had been changed to sole custody. Years of legal separation culminated, finally, in divorce. I didn’t know the full story behind my parents’ custody battles over the years—only that my dad had tried to see me more, that they’d fought about it, and that he’d always failed. Tucked under his arm, shared relief had been palpable as we’d watched my mother’s limo disappear.

  Six months later, my dad was still overcompensating—giving me all the breaks that came with normal teenage life. He barely let me lift a finger, except to cook a few times a week. He’d helped me design a new bedroom set that he’d had custom-built at his shop, and let me pick out accent pieces for the rest of the house that made it feel like my own. He maintained his truck, paid the bills, and kept the house in good repair. Nothing said “normal teenage life” like days like today: five consecutive hours watching TV in my pajamas and pocket money on the kitchen table.

  Two root beers, a pack of Skittles, and half a bag of Funyuns into the afternoon, I headed for the shower so as not to be late for Zoë. Her favorite boutique was getting new arrivals, and she'd recruited me for the pilgrimage to Littleton. I preferred a good vintage store or thrift shop to any boutique—somewhere I could find something original. Plus, having money for new clothes was, well...new.

  From that first day at Trinity High when she’d plopped down next to me in Spanish, Zoë had informed me that we'd be friends. Judging from her blue lipstick and unicorn hair, I’d believed her. It had been a bold move—just because we were the two people at Trinity who looked least like we belonged there didn’t mean we were the same flavor of misfit—but freakishly confident was just how Zoë was.

  Zoë was also freakishly rich, and it still surprised me a little that we got along so well. Rich kids had never been my crowd. Half of what I’d hated about living with Adam had been the kids in Orange County. I’d have taken bonfires on the beach with my crew from Long Beach any day over getting drunk at house parties with top-shelf liquor from someone’s parents’ stash.

  After pulling on a pair of skinny jeans, a snug white long-sleeved tee, and a cropped black leather jacket I loved, I brushed out my shower-damp hair and inspected my function-over-fashion array of beanies. The indoctrinated knew that there were two Californias: Northern and Southern were different in every way. And this L.A. girl still hadn’t gotten used to the Northern California cold.

  I headed downstairs to look for my fashion-over-function sunglasses. I didn’t care that it got so overcast here in the winter that my dark glasses practically rendered me blind. A glance at the microwave clock told me I had five minutes to kill. I cracked my laptop open at the same time I cracked open another can of root beer, and hit all of my usual sites. Some time between watching my mom’s video and snickering at the stupid-ass “single and ready to mingle” meme the class clown, Dutto
n, posted on Instagram, I noticed that I had a new friend request.

  Huh.

  It wasn't that I didn't have friends, mind you. Just that everyone I knew—my loose clique in Rye, my old crew from Long Beach, my mom, my dad, and my cousins—was already connected to me. I was still wracking my brain to figure out who would have asked for access to my private account when a tap of my finger showed me the last profile pic I expected to see. I choked on the soda I was attempting to swallow, sputtering root beer ungracefully through my nostrils.

  Jagger fucking Monroe?

  Still coughing a little, I closed my eyes and tried to even my breathing. When I reopened them, the friend request was still there. His too-perfect face, and his hipster name and even his handle mocked me: @moves_like_jagga. I looked between the "Confirm" and "Ignore" buttons once. Twice. Three times. The sexy but standoffish Jag Monroe was friending me on Instagram? The same Jag Monroe whose cold shoulder froze me out of my seat every day in Civics class?

  "Roxy?" Zoë's quasi-frantic voice called from the hallway.

  I hadn't even heard her open the door. Shaking my head to snap myself out of my trance, I looked up from my computer. She strode in noisily, the teal swatch in her hair slightly greener than the blue of her suede tassel boots.

  "What's going on?" she demanded. "I was knocking for, like, five minutes."

  A guilty glance at the top right screen of my Mac Book confirmed that I'd been staring at the friend request for at least ten.

  "Sorry…" I mumbled, still dazed.

  I pushed the laptop towards her, not yet trusting myself to comment. She slid into the kitchen chair next to mine, and when her eyes fell upon the screen, they widened considerably. I braced myself for an ear-splitting, high-pitched trill.

  "Since when are you friends with Jag Monroe?"

  I felt more like myself when my eyes rolled of their own volition and a snarky retort rolled off my tongue.

  “Yeah, we Netflix and chilled last night…”

  Zoë didn't flinch.

  "Well, don't you want to be?” she demanded.

  The question was purely rhetorical. Anyone who said they didn't want a piece of Jagger Monroe was surely lying. His sage-colored eyes, that silken voice, and the sumptuous aroma that wafted around him drew man, woman and child into his orbit. Yet, the only thing as certain as his magnetic pull was the finality of your position around him. And me? I wasn't even in the Jagger solar system.

  I must've spaced again because, suddenly, Zoë was reaching for the laptop. I surprised myself by the speed with which I swatted her hand away.

  "I can't confirm his friend request!"

  "And, just what is stopping you? He is a total fox.”

  I stifled a groan. Zoë was so used to getting what she wanted that limits were an abstract concept to her. She didn't understand how different life was for people like me. I was cautious…circumspect…skeptical of innocent explanations. I knew that sometimes the light at the end of a tunnel was a train.

  "Zoë…" I said in the voice I reserved for small children, "…people like me are not friends with people like Jagger. And, even if we were, we wouldn't have gotten that way by confirming a friend request on Instagram."

  "But—"

  "It's a joke."

  Speaking the words stung me, even though they were true.

  “Roxx—“

  "Forget about it, Zoë. I have."

  And I hit the 'Ignore' button. And that was that.

  Jagger (The Previous Night)

  Declan’s obnoxious cackle overtook my room, earning a distracted wince from noise-sensitive Gunther and a sideways glare from me.

  "Goddamn, bro. These girls are finger-lickin' hot for you!"

  Ever since Declan got with Annika Smith, he'd been living the single life vicariously through us, his two best friends, and since Gunther was not-so-clandestinely in love with Zoë DuBois, that pretty much left me.

  "Which one?" I asked absently, too comfortable in my zero gravity chair to muster any real interest.

  Declan sat across the room at my enormous computer desk, the pièce de résistance that started us calling my room the bat cave. Whereas most kids had modest rooms with a respectable bed, some shelves for books, and maybe a TV, my room was tricked out with a California King, a full living area with sofa and chairs, and professional-grade computer equipment that I used for music editing. I did alright at downplaying how rich my parents were most of the time, but my room totally incriminated me.

  Our Friday night ritual of video games and bong hits had been bastardized by Declan’s new hobby—trolling my Instagram account. It didn't help that it was Gunther’s turn to pick the game this month. "Civil War: A Nation Divided" was no "Guitar Hero", and stopping to strategize every five minutes was killing my buzz.

  "Lauren Calloway, dude. She just PM’ed you a picture of her in a thong. And that Victoria chick sent you a link. She wants you to take the 'What is Your Sex Color?' quiz. Hers is vermillion," Declan murmured, waggling his eyebrows.

  Ugh, gross.

  "Jag—what is your favorite command?" Declan asked in a teacher-like voice, “”Obey”, “please”, “now”, or “follow”?’”

  "It's “shut up”, you dickwad," I said, throwing a lighter at his head. He'd better not be filling out that fucking quiz.

  Even after we resumed the game, I was still a little disturbed. I only got on Instagram in the first place because my cousins from Oregon kept bugging me about it. At the beginning, accepting follow requests from people at school had seemed benign enough. By the time I figured out that half the school was treating it like some sleazy internet pick-up site, it was already too late. I wondered whether you could un-friend people…

  "So, Deck…what's Annika up to, tonight?"

  I swear, 'obvious' is Gunther’s middle name.

  "Roller derby, same as always…" Declan said, too innocently.

  Yeah—practice with the same team that Zoë DuBois just happened to be on.

  "Huh," Gunther uttered, pretending he was just making conversation.

  He was too easy a target for Declan not to throw a curveball. I waited for it.

  "Yeah, she said tonight was a special practice—bikini pudding-wrestling, or some shit."

  Gunther blanched. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. It didn't make any sense to begin with, and if it were true, Declan sure as shit wouldn't be here with us.

  "We should go to her next bout," I suggested helpfully, throwing Gunther a wink. "I dig girls in booty shorts."

  Gunther looked relieved.

  "They're up against Littleton three weeks from Saturday," Declan offered knowingly. "We should definitely go."

  Yeah—we so had our boy's back.

  “Roxy’ll probably be there, too," Declan continued, clearly for my benefit.

  Meddlesome prick.

  “Jesus Christ, Deck,” I mutter with as much annoyance as I can muster, “…I help her clumsy ass off the cafeteria floor one goddamned time, and you think I’m in love with the girl.”

  Declan could give lessons in the righteously indignant eyebrow arch.

  “It’s more than you’ve ever done for any other girl at Trinity High.”

  Benedict Gunther shrugged affirmatively.

  “Come on, man…” I muttered in my get serious voice, “If I went spreading that Prince Valiant shit around, they wouldn’t stop with e-mailing me pictures of their tits. They’d be coming to my fucking house!”

  I only needed to see the look on Declan’s face to know the “t-word” worked.

  “Dude, who sent you pictures of their tits?”

  “No one you need to be thinkin’ about, son,” Gunther piped up. “Annika’d kick you from here to Sunday.”

  Declan dropped it because Gunther was right. Annika scared the hell out of everyone. Problem solved and bacon saved. For now.

  Two

  Friday I’m in Love

  I don't care if Monday's blue,

 
Tuesday's gray, and Wednesday too.

  Thursday I don't care about you,

  but Friday I'm in love.

  -The Cure, Friday I’m in Love

  Roxy

  “Forget about it, Zoë. I have.”

  My own lie played on a loop in my head. But days went by and I didn’t forget about it, not that Zoë would let me.

  She spent part of Sunday doing recon on who else at Trinity High was Instagram friends with Jagger. By Monday morning, she was in full spy mode, with feathered hair like one of Charlie’s Angels as she surreptitiously studied him in the parking lot, cafeteria and quad from behind dark sunglasses. She spent until Friday trying to convince me that Jagger was checking me out just as stealthily as she was him. But, the fact that he had been as standoffish as ever in Civics reinforced what I already knew: none of it was for real.

  Friday night I went to roller derby practice with Zoë—and when I say “went to practice” I mean “stood on the side of the rink eating Skittles and trying to avoid injury”. With the bowling alley and the diner as the only other hangouts in Rye, I didn’t have anything better to do. It wasn’t the first time I’d tagged along, nor was it the first time I’d observed their game with feigned disinterest. Privately, I was fascinated by the girls on her team. They were like Amazon women: tall, coordinated, and muscular, whereas I was short, clumsy and trim in a decidedly non-athletic way.