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Battle of the Lead Singers
“IS SHE DEAD?” I hear Adam say right before he pokes me.
“Hey!” I flip the blanket off me so I can glare at him.
“Are you eighty?” He stands at the side of the couch, hand on his hip, waiting for an answer.
“What?” I readjust myself, trying to avoid the sunken spot that I am almost sure was there before I got here.
Adam dramatically looks at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock,” he says, as if this should mean something to me.
I ignore him and close my eyes but he keeps talking. “Only eighty-year-olds go to bed at eight o’clock.”
“Who says I’m just now going to bed?” I mutter from under the blanket.
“Good God, okay, this is enough. You need to get out.” Adam rips the blanket off me. I flail my legs and arms in an attempt to pull it back over me, but Adam already tosses it over the back of the couch.
“Hey!” I yell at him.
“Get up and throw on some clothes. We’re going out,” Adam commands.
“I don’t want to go out.” I flop back onto the couch, annoyed.
“Help me out here,” Adam requests and turns to Wade for support, but Wade is looking at me sympathetically. “Don’t be an enabler,” Adam says to him.
“I am not an enabler,” Wade pouts.
Adam points at me. “She’s been on your couch for weeks.” He turns to me, “That sunken-in spot was not there before you got here.”
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering if he can hear my thoughts.
“You really do need to go out, and not just to the corner store,” Wade says to me. The bodega is the only place I’ve been since I got here, and I’ve noticed that Wade spends a lot more time at Adam’s place, obviously because I’m in the way.
I sit up straighter and groan. “Where are we going?” I dare to ask.
Adam looks down at his narrow pointed crocodile shoes. “To a club, of course.” He shakes his head at me.
“You wore that same outfit when you dragged me out of the motel,” I yawn.
“Okay, first of all, I wore leather pants that day and my leopard print shoes. How do you even mix those up?” Adam says, clearly offended.
I hold my hand up to stop him from talking.
“What is she doing with her hand?” he asks Wade, who only laughs and shakes his head.
“If I go, will you please stop talking?” I ask.
“Can I pick out your outfit?” Adam asks giddily.
“No.”
“Well, it better be something good!” he calls after me as I grab my bag and head into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later after I’ve showered and dressed, I emerge from the bathroom.
“You’re wearing the exact same clothes you went in there with,” Adam grinds out as he stares at me.
I look down at my combat boots, jeans, and graphic t-shirt. “No, it isn’t.” I shake my head.
