1st 5 Pages January Workshop- Evenson Rev 1

Name: Emma Evenson
Genre: YA contemporary
Title: Tourist Attractions of the Upper Midwest

Rachel Reichert has the persuasive powers of a future cult leader.

I realize this about five minutes after she’s successfully lured me to the dumpster behind the Arby’s and convinced me to break up with her boyfriend for her.

Well, technically we’re still arguing, but we both know I’ll end up doing it. I’m not exactly what most people would call ‘a strong personality.’

“Um, what?” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “I’m sorry, but you’re insane. You can’t move away without telling him.”

Rachel rolls her eyes skywards and takes a hit off the joint we’re sharing.

When she invited me out here to smoke with her, I mistakenly thought she was being nice. I thought we were celebrating the first day of spring break. Now, of course, I see the joint for what it really is: a bribe.

And okay, it’s a decent bribe. But that still doesn’t mean that I want to be the guy who tells my best friend that his girlfriend moved away in secret. I’d like to point out that this isn’t even a thing. Nobody moves away in secret.

Except Rachel, apparently.

Her opening line was, “I have to tell you something,” which in hindsight should have been a warning. Nobody’s ever like, ‘I have to tell you something-- I bought you a milkshake,’ or ‘I have to tell you something-- I just saw a really cute video of baby otters playing in a bathtub.’ It’s always something terrible.

“Actually, I can move away without telling him,” she says. “And I didn’t have to tell you, either. I just thought you should know, because--”

She breaks off, because finishing that sentence is pointless. I feel like she just took a jigsaw puzzle that I painstakingly assembled and kicked its pieces all over the room.

Not that I have anywhere near the amount the patience required to do a jigsaw puzzle, but you know. If I did.

Point being, I’m going to be the person picking up the pieces and making sure Parker doesn’t do anything crazy. Which is pretty much par for the course, seeing as how most people have this inexplicable tendency to treat me like I’m Parker’s dad, or his babysitter.

When he got caught making those fake IDs at Kinkos, the Kinkos guy cornered me in the back of the store. “Fake IDs are a felony,” he hissed, brandishing a staple gun in a very threatening way. “You better tell your idiot friend, because I know he’s not listening to a word I say.”

Not that I actually have much sway over Parker.

But there are a surprising number of optimists in the world.

“So basically,” I say, “you’re asking me to tell him that you up and left in secret. Which is almost the same thing as asking me to break up with him for you.”

She frowns. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Jonah. I’m not asking you to break up with him. Tell him whatever you want. Tell him I was abducted by aliens. Tell him I died. I seriously don’t care.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. She says it like she’s giving me some awesome array of choices here. Like I might actually tell him that she died. But the truth is obvious: by telling me, she’s forcing me to tell him. The amount I know about relationships could fill a Dixie cup, but I do know that there’s no way Parker will accept Rachel disappearing without an explanation.

I switch tactics. “You know he’s going to lose his mind,” I say, which is definitely a massive understatement. Six months ago he pushed me off a roof because I told him that he laughs like a donkey. “He’s, like, really into you.”

Rachel snorts. “Trust me,” she says, “he really isn’t.”

I guess it’s possible we’re employing different definitions of “really into,” with my definition being a tad more literal than Rachel’s. I couldn’t really say whether Parker, like, cares deeply about her or not, but I can say that the two of them have been hooking up relentlessly for the better part of two years. Parker seems to view any empty room as a personal challenge, like the universe is daring him to have sex in as many places as he possibly can. I’ve walked in on them at least a dozen times in the last three months alone.

It’s hard to say whose nudity grosses me out more-- Rachel’s, because she’s a girl, or Parker’s, because he’s my best friend and I’m hardcore not into him like that.

It’s a testament to my incredible willpower that I haven’t stabbed my own eyes out yet.

Rachel takes another hit off the joint and then exhales smoke, which mingles with the smell of old fryer grease and rancid meat. She passes me the joint. “It’s just not working out,” she says.

I’ve always known this moment would arrive, so it’s not a huge shock. Rachel is pretty and smart and popular, and Parker is a rude borderline-nymphomaniac with the emotional maturity of a gerbil. Their relationship has long been one of the great unsolved mysteries of Clintonville.

Fortunately, I am one of the least curious people alive. I have no interest in mysteries.“Don’t put me in a crappier position than you’re already putting me in, okay? I don’t want details about your breakup.”

She scowls. “Trust me, Jonah. You’re nowhere near number one on my list of people to talk to about my problems.”

I realize normal people would probably take this as an insult, but I’m actually pretty relieved.

I must look it, too, because Rachel makes a face and puts the joint out. “Well, it seems like we’re done here,” she says, grabbing her backpack off the ground.

And now I officially feel like crap.

Rachel and I have always been friendly, but not quite friends. There’s a thin veil of awkwardness coating all of our interactions, which I blame on the number of times I’ve seen her naked.

But I don’t want this conversation to be the last conversation we ever have.

“Rachel--”

“You know,” she says, turning around, “you could make other friends, Jonah.”

This is also the kind of thing that would sound offensive to some people, but it’s also the kind of thing you get used to hearing when everyone thinks your best friend is a total douchebag.

And it’s not nearly as simple as she makes it sound.