Audre & Bash Are Just Friends(46)

These days, he worked part-time at Target. The rest of the time, he posted up on Fulton Ave., belting out tunes from the Shrek soundtrack while playing an accordion. He was neither a singer nor a musician, but he was beloved.

Bash gave him a pound, and Wilder drew him in for a quick hug.

“You two know each other?” asked Audre. “I have to hear this story.”

“We met in Fort Greene right after I moved here,” answered Bash amiably.

“I was performing ‘All Star,’ and he watched my whole set! You were with a Hillcrest girl… was it Delilah Lange?”

Bash’s eyes darted to Audre’s, then back to Wilder’s. “I don’t really remember.”

“Anyway, we bonded on music shit and we got coffee. Bash, you’re a real-ass dude.”

“I appreciate you, man. We need more artists in the world.”

“Yeah, I’m living. I don’t miss school, either. I make enough to pay my parents’ rent. I eat La Villa pizza whenever I want.”

“La Villa smacks,” said Audre, glancing at Bash. He gave her a thumbs-up.

“I just got burned out, man. There are no jobs. The economy is trash. No one’s in charge. Gun violence is gonna kill us all anyway. How’s the Ivy League gonna save us?”

“This is what I’m saying,” exclaimed Bash, gesturing at Audre. “We’re doomed as fuck. So do what makes you happy.”

“Exactly.” Wilder nodded. “Audre, that’s why you’re looking for sex toys, amiright?”

Audre’s face went slack, like she’d stared into the void and barely escaped to tell the tale.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” said Wilder. “Couples experience mad mutual pleasure with toys. Plus, it’s safe sex.”

“Wilder, I love you but please stop talking.” Her cheeks were on fire. “And we’re not a couple.”

“Right, and it was just a dare,” said Bash, wanting to save Audre from embarrassment. “We’re not, like, trying to find mutual pleasure at Target.”

“Who dildo-dared you?”

“Reshma Wells,” she sighed.

Wilder burst out laughing. “Okay, see, that tracks.”





Bash and Audre were so caught up in their conversation with Wilder that neither one of them noticed the redhead peering over at them from the hair aisle, grasping a Dyson blow-dryer. It was Sparrow.

She was too far away to hear what Audre and Bash were saying, but their body language (and the sex toys) spoke loud enough.

And she was outraged.





1, 2, 3, 4… THRIVE!

A Teen’s Rules for Flourishing on This Dying Planet


By Audre Mercy-Moore


Rule 7:

Success is what you decide it is, for you and you only-it’s tacky to force your idea of happiness onto someone else. So play the accordion like no one’s watching.





Chapter 18


Audre felt so fancy. It was the first time all day that her thoughts weren’t consumed with her involuntary crush on Bash. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want him to be her last thought before she fell asleep or to get indescribably giddy with every morning text. But she did.

And he wasn’t even going to live in Brooklyn by the end of the summer. If everything worked out, he’d be moving seven entire states away. She shouldn’t have felt so crushed—after all, they were just friends—but the idea of losing him in a few weeks? It made her nauseous. It made her mood dip.

It made her want to pull away, to protect herself.

Especially when she remembered Wilder saying to Bash, “You were with some girl.”

There’s always some girl, thought Audre. Maybe I’m just some girl, too.

But she abruptly pushed these thoughts out of her head. She was lounging on a plush ivory love seat, sipping a champagne glass filled with sparkling apple cider. Amsale Bridal Boutique knew how to create a glitzy atmosphere. The mahogany floors, the glass side tables, the sparkles accenting the gowns—everything in this boutique glowed. Including Eva.

When she emerged from the dressing lounge, Audre gasped. She looked gorgeous. Holding up her skirt, Eva climbed on top of the little platform in front of a four-way mirror. The strapless lace mermaid gown was the third dress she’d tried on. It was dramatic but elegant—and just right. Audre knew this dress was the winner.

“That’s the one!” gasped Audre.

“I know, right?” Eva primped in the mirror. “Sigh. This day is everything I wanted it to be.”

It’s true. Eva had wanted a gown by a Black designer (Amsale Aberra was Ethiopian American). She wanted both of her daughters to help her pick it out (Baby Alice was zonked out in her stroller, which was parked next to Audre). And she wanted to wear her favorite Jordans with her gown (present).

“You look so pretty, Mom.”

“Are both y’all smoking black tar heroin?” drawled Grandma Lizette from FaceTime on Audre’s phone. Her disembodied head was as glamorous as ever—CoverGirl red lipstick, shoulder-length bobbed waves, and cheekbones kissed by angels. She was sixty-five, looked forty-nine, and sounded eighty with her raspy, cigarette-inflected, Louisiana bayou drawl. In her accent, the line sounded like “Ahh both y’all smokin’ black tahh HAIR-win?”