Work Text:
You’ve been sad lately. It’s a shit world you live in. Your little sister drew mustaches on all of your barbie dolls yesterday, and didn’t even get in trouble for it, because, as your mom put it, “Y/n, you haven’t played with those in years.” It’s true, but they’re your barbies. Just because your sister is ten and you’re fourteen doesn’t mean she can destroy your toys. The barbies are actually worse than her drawing mustaches on your One Direction poster last year, because there are still kids out there who play with barbies, but nobody likes One Direction anymore.
You also haven’t made any friends at your new high school because everyone there is a mean jerk. And you’re failing algebra, which your mom doesn’t know about.
It’s a shit world in other, less relevant ways, which are still relevant to you in that you have to live in the world and know that bad things are happening. There’s a lot of war and famine in places you can vaguely pinpoint on a map, and you feel pretty intelligent for knowing about them. Homelessness has increased by 12% in San Francisco, and you’ve actually been there. There’s a recent uptick in parents selling their children to boy bands, which they were covering on the local news last night. As the reporter went on and on while you scrubbed at your barbies’ new mustaches with nail polish remover and cotton balls, you noticed your mom looking at you speculatively.
“Y/n!” your mom calls, “Come down to the kitchen! I have something important to talk about with you.”
You stomp down the stairs, which you know is childish, but it feels like every time you actually get engrossed in something your mom finds a chore for you to do that absolutely must be completed right away. You were writing a really good story. It’s always when you’re writing a really good story.
“What?” you huff, and then amend, less rudely, “What can I help with?”
“Honey, I noticed that you’ve been sad lately about the move. It’s hard moving to a new place and making new friends partway through the school year. I’ve been thinking about it, and you know that news segment that aired last night, the one about boy bands?”
“What?!” you shriek, and this time you feel fully justified in it, “Mom! You’re selling me to a boy band?!? I thought you loved me!”
“Wait, what? Y/n, no. They were just talking on the news about how awful that is; I wouldn't do that.”
You shrug, but you’re mollified. Pulling yourself onto the counter to swing your legs, you prepare yourself for whatever your mom’s about to say. Has one of your old friends from your old town been sold to a boy band? You hope it’s Shelley.
No, that’s a mean thought. Of course you don’t hope anyone has been sold to a boy band.
“You seem sad lately, so I bought you a boy band.”
“Oh my god!” You jump off the counter and run to hug her. “You bought me Stray Kids?! I love Stray Kids!!!”
“Well-l,” she says, slowly, “Actually, I called the manager of that band whose poster you had hanging in your old room, you know, One Way Street, I think it was? Apparently they haven’t made any music in a while so they were pretty affordable.”
You freeze up—One Direction? You don’t want One Direction! Are you going to have to bring them to school with you? Where are you even going to keep them? They’re going to have to live in the backyard and you’re going to have to take care of them, ugh.
The doorbell rings.
“Oh!” your mom says brightly, “That’s probably them right now!”
Horrifyingly, it is. Your mom makes you answer the door, and you all make eye contact for a good five seconds, just looking at each other. They come with matching suitcases, and they're clustered on the landing. There isn't really much space and only the front half of Harry's shoes fit on the concrete; the heels rest over air. If any of them jostle the others in any direction, at least one will probably fall off.
"Uh," one of them says, and you're not even sure if it's Niall or Liam, because their faces on your poster have been covered up with mustaches for such a long time, "Hi. Should we come in?"
You slam the door in their face, but put your ear against it to hear what's going on outside. On the other side there's the sound of shuffling, and then an, "Oh, fuck," and a thud as Harry falls off the landing.
It's going to be such a long four years before you can go away to college.