Page 17 of The Fangirl Project
8
I am in Jake’s bedroom,sitting on his bed, alone with aboy.
I feel like the universe is laughing at me.
Max clears his throat and goes back to his textbook, and while I’m a little put out that he thinks algebraic equations for projectiles are more interesting than talking to me, I’m also relieved. He clearly doesn’t like me very much, either, which suits me just fine.
Still, as the silence stretches on and the only sounds in the room are the quiet indie-rock playlist on Jake’s speaker and the scratch of Max’s highlighter, I feel almost claustrophobic. His indifference grates on me, prickles along my skin, and my leg bounces agitatedly against the side of the bed.
How long can it possibly take to make some grilled cheese? Has Jake suddenly turned into Gordon Ramsay, attempting a full gourmet experience?
Unable to bear the silence any longer, I fumble for the only thread of conversation I can think of—which, somehow, isOf Wrath and Rune.
“I started reading the books, you know.”
Max glances up, not quite lifting his head from the textbook. “Did you get very far?”
I flush, although I should’ve expected that question. “No.”
I’ve been carrying the first book around in my bag for the past week, waiting for the perfect moment when I’ll suddenly pick it back up and make it beyond the fifth page. I’ve studied the map a few times on the bus, though. It’s actually quite pretty.
Max laughs, a low, scoffing sort of sound that makes me bristle. “Many more intrepid adventurers before you have failed in this nigh impossible quest.”
I don’t know if it’s a quote from the series, or if he sincerely talks like that. I’m not really sure which is more cringey.
“Well,” I say, thinking about my chat with Jake in the Discord, and hoping it’ll make me sound like I know what I’m talking about to show Max up. “Once I’ve watched a few more episodes and really get to know the characters, the books will be a fun way to learn more about them.”
His mouth cracks in what Ithinkmight just be a smile, and I feel a flare of triumph.
Maybe this fandom isn’t really for me, and I’m only trying to get into it for Jake’s sake, but I refuse to let Max feel any kind of superiority just because he’s a “true” fan and I’m not. He’s not smarter than me for having read these doorstop novels, and he’s notbetter than me for liking this series.
Finally there’s the tromping sound of Jake’s feet heavy on the stairs, and I let out a sigh of relief. My best friend enters the roomcarrying a tray laden with steaming mugs of tea and plates of grilled cheese, holding a giant bag of Doritos between his teeth.
“Give us a hand!” he mumbles. Laughing, I hop off the bed to help him out. Max sets aside his textbook and pens to come grab his portion of the snacks.
When he reaches for the green mug that saysJust Dandywith a bright yellow dandelion painted beneath, I practically slap his hand out of the way.
“That’smymug.”
It’s technically Jake’s, but I got it for him one Christmas as part of some in-joke I barely even remember now and I’ve used it every time I’ve been over his house. Even his parents will grab it for me if they make tea when I visit.
“Oh,” Max says awkwardly, looking at Jake. “My bad, I…”
I look at Jake, ready to share a laugh about that forgotten joke, but he looks away from me quickly and cringes. “Sorry, Cer, that’s on me—I’ve been using it for Max, he’s sort of…commandeeredit.”
Now the two ofthemshare a look, and chuckle.
Max explains, “I fell on my face at soccer the first time Jake played with us—Iliterallyate dirt, except I mostly got a mouthful of dandelion. One of the big ones you blow on, you know? I was spitting the fluff out for days, I swear.”
“Any time he coughs, we’re all like, ‘Make a wish!’ ” Jake adds, and the two of them crack up again. Jake pushes Max in the shoulder playfully, making a show of pretending to find some more dandelion fluff in his long hair and blowing it away.
It’s like a knife in the chest, carving a jagged space out wheremy friendship with Jake belongs. I cast about for our own story, but it dances at the edge of my memory. Something about Jake making fun of a teacher who used some outdated slang? Which teacher was that? Was it even Jake who started it?
“Yours is this one,” Jake tells me, now that they’ve both stopped laughing. He prompts me to take one of Ginny’s mugs. It has a cartoon pug on it giving the middle finger, which is about how I feel right now. “Max doesn’t take sugar in his, so…”
So there’s no swapping, and I’ve been downgraded, ousted.
I pick the mug up and force a smile. “That’s okay! Thanks,Jake.”
