Life is Strange by Rosiee Thor

Author:Rosiee Thor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags:  
Publisher: Titan

Spring

Fifteen

For Izzie’s birthday, I get her custom Drugstore Makeup guitar picks and make her a home-cooked meal of store-bought lasagna and apple pie. When I asked her what she wanted to do, she insisted on staying in. It’s been a rough few months for a lot of reasons. Or maybe just for the one very orange, very angry, very presidential one. The year 2016 isn’t something I’ll miss, but I don’t exactly have a lot of hope that 2017 will be much better.

The year is only fifteen days old, but already I’m sick of it. I spend most of my time at the café, working extra shifts. And Izzie spends most of hers on the phone with her mom and tucked behind her laptop, poring over spreadsheets.

“It is a big deal, Mom,” I catch her saying into the speaker when I go to preheat the oven. “I don’t want to argue about this anymore, okay? I love you, but you just don’t get it.”

“What doesn’t she get?” I ask once she’s hung up. “You having a quarter-life crisis?”

Izzie groans and drops her head against the chairback. “I’m having a crisis, alright. I don’t know how she’s not.”

“That’s a mood.” I cross over to the oven and fiddle with the dial. “Is it a specific crisis or…?”

“She wants me to go to the Women’s March next week.” Izzie sighs and presses her fingers to her temples. “She’s riled, I get it. And she should totally go. But I don’t think she understands how scary it is for me. When people start talking about women’s rights and womanhood and feminism…”

“It gets really TERFy real fast.”

“Exactly. I just can’t be there when they start with the gender essentialism shit.” She straightens up and looks back at her laptop. “Ugh. I can’t concentrate. I’m gonna go play for a bit.” There’s a scraping sound as she pushes back her chair and heads for the garage, leaving her laptop behind.

“Dinner in like… I don’t know, a lot of minutes!” I shout after her, searching on the lasagna box for the cook time.

I sit down at the kitchen table to wait for the oven to preheat, but as the minutes tick by, I get more and more antsy. I glance at the laptop across from me, drumming my fingers on the table, a nervous rhythm.

“Screw it,” I mutter, and switch seats. It’s weird how much Izzie’s been glued to her computer lately. She does music stuff full-time—all the admin and bookings for our band, plus she teaches guitar lessons—and she generally prefers her notebook for writing songs. I can’t help but think something is up and… maybe a little snooping won’t be so bad.

The first thing I see is a spreadsheet. It’s full of numbers and dollar amounts from gigs. There’s a sheet with my name on it, too. It’s got my rent and my cut of Drugstore Makeup profits listed by month. Maybe she’s just keeping track of expenses? But then I see several entries for gigs we never played, dates I was working at the coffee shop.

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