I don’t know if you’ve ever watched Spanish soap operas, but I’m going to assume you haven’t because who the fuck watches Spanish soap operas? Oh right, me. Every show is the same, the plot is as cliché as any love story goes, the humor is worthy of regurgitating my own kidneys, and the characters are so flawless I wonder which furniture polish they use on their skin. Why am I telling you this? Because as of right now, I’m watching a Spanish soap opera, and I have nothing better to do but bitch about it.
You’d think the culprit behind me watching these shows would be my fully Hispanic mom, but no, you’d be wrong. The person who’s brought upon this injustice to my manhood is none other than my friend, Morgan. As of right now, we’re both draped over her living room couch. She’s watching El Amor Es Pobre, observing intensely to figure out if Catalina will choose the poor, but kind hearted Mateo or rich, darkly secretive Alejandro. I’m surfing the web on my laptop, which is promptly placed upon my lap. Her mom and dad are at work, trusting us both to keep our teenage urges in our pants. I'm pretty sure Morgan's mom thinks I'm gay anyways.
I occasionally look up from my screen, since it has been scientifically proven one cannot ignore the TV in the room, and catch glimpses of the melodramatic drama that only takes place in Mexico. Want to know the best punch-line? Morgan doesn’t even speak Spanish, nor is she from Spanish descent.
To be honest, I should have never left her alone with my mom.
“Who needs Spanish class when I have Telemundo?” Morgan replied when I asked her why she turned off the subtitles.
I rolled my eyes, went back to typing upon my screen, and remember Hayden and I’s conversation. It still made me mad, even though it was the day afterwards. I swear on the U.S Constitution, he must have gotten sticky keys from all the goddamn smiley faces he was typing. Listen, I’m a narcissistic, pessimistic pedant, but at least I don’t sugar coat things with fucking colons and parentheses. I’m currently working on the character information, which is what we came to common terms with. I’m just writing vague character ideas, not specifying because I don’t quite know the specifics of the plot yet.
Still, I came up with a plausible main character and three side characters. We still need to establish a protagonist and antagonist, although I already have a couple ideas. I’ve also kept a note to myself to avoid metaphoric analogies from Hayden, since he loves crushing them and my creativity.
“Hey, Morgan?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we be American for a second and watch Breaking Bad?”
“Yo no hablo Ingles.”
I sighed, gave up, and continued writing up my next chapter for the current book I was working on. Just then, Morgan’s phone beeped, indicating she had a message. My phone doesn't do that.
I watched her expression and the littlest of smiles popped onto her lips. I had a few vague guesses on who decided to text her and was worthy enough of ripping her attention away from her Hispanic melodramas. Just so you know, I am not one of them.
Unfortunately, she is one of mine.
You see, I don’t quite enjoy human interaction. How original; a teenager who hates society. Well, even if you’re an anti-social egoist like myself, you have to be social sometimes. So, if I have to spend my time with a fraction of a fraction of humanity to avoid seeming like a complete waste of oxygen supply to the rest of the world, I’m glad it’s her.
Why?
Morgan has done many things everyday teenagers haven’t had the chance—or frankly don’t want—to do. Morgan has a summer job of being a plus size model for a plus size clothing brand (“Beauty isn’t limited to a size three”), occasionally visits her father in Tokyo, helps out with her mother’s animal rescue program, runs a successful YouTube gaming channel, and shares the same music taste as yours truly.
See, she’s so busy all the time she rarely has time to hang out with me. It’s perfect.
“Theo, Ian wants to know if you want to come hang out with us and a couple friends on Friday night.”
“Ian, like your boyfriend Ian?”
“Yeah!”
“Ohh, then no.”
I don’t have anything against Ian Keagan, except his odd-sounding name. Him and I are just not compatible, if that makes any sense. We clash on a lot of topics, including our very own personality. He’s an optimistic, church-goer who believes in lecturing me on my flawed morals, often suggests I use my time more wisely, and asks uncomfortable questions to get a rise out of everyone. He’s good natured at heart, but holy crap does he make my skin peel.
“C’mon, you should take this opportunity to tan that bleach skin of yours. Aren’t you supposed to be fifty-percent Mexican or something?” Morgan retorts while texting Ian back.
I roll my eyes, not really caring if my skin has been exposed to cancerous rays, “Honestly, I feel like I’m attending a church service whenever I’m around him. Although, I do want to ask him how it tastes to kiss the ass of something that doesn’t exist.”
See, another thing that’s made Morgan the closest thing to a candidate for a friend is that she isn’t fazed by my lack of belief. Usually, Atheism isn’t something to talk about at the dinner table. Trust me, I’ve tried.
“Don’t insult him like that! He’s my boyfriend and you’re my best friend; you can’t keep ignoring each other.”
I scoffed, silently telling Morgan “dare me?”
“Fine,” Morgan sighed, putting her phone down, “I guess talking to a person that’s really important to me isn’t worth being on your agenda. I get it. That’s fine. It’s not like I ever attend your family reunions or anything.”
I narrow my eyes and look at her, “My family isn’t important to me.”
Not my distant family, anyways.
“You’re a dick,” Morgan insinuated.
“No, but I do have one,” I replied.
“It’s just one afternoon! You can bring a book or something; you just have to say hi and pretend to enjoy yourself!”
The idea already tires me. I can see the social gathering now; Morgan motions me through a dense crowd of people I do not know and will inevitably dislike. She excuses herself once she sees one of her female friends. “This is dangerous territory,” I think to myself, “I must act fast!” But my lack of physical coordination triumphs and before I know it, Ian has caught me by the shoulder. I gulp, preparing myself for another lesson he’ll regurgitate from his pastor and bite my tongue the whole conversation through. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to find shelter. I am drowning in an ocean of teenage testosterone and Starbucks frappuccinos.
A shiver runs down my spine.
“No, I have to take care of the cat.”
“What cat?”
A silent pause.
“You're right, I have to go buy a cat.”
YOU ARE READING
weak wi-fi
Teen Fiction❝are your parents mean?❞ ❝there are mean parents and then there are parents who turn off the wi-fi at night.❞ ❝damn, poor you.❞ ✎ ✎ ✎ a short story following two polar opposite amateur autho...
