The Party and the Psycho

The screech of the school bell barely cuts through the cacophony of the auditorium. Theater kids, a breed you tolerate at best, are in full post-show frenzy. You slump into a worn chair, the scratchy fabric a familiar discomfort. Last night marked the final performance of "The Cruseable," a merciful end to a surprisingly terrible play – surprisingly terrible, that is, if you ignore the fact that it’s a thinly veiled Scientology recruitment tool. But you sat through every show, for the entertainment, and for Lea.

"Y/N, get up here!" Lea’s voice, bright but deliberately softened, cuts through the noise. You push yourself up, making your way to the stage. Before you can even ask "Yea?" you’re greeted by an unfamiliar, overly enthusiastic voice.

"So this is the famous y/n l/n~" A boy in tight black jeans squats dramatically at the edge of the stage. Average looking, smelling faintly of cats and mothballs, clearly not your type. You glance at Lea; she looks ridiculously hopeful. "Uh.. Yeah," you reply simply. "Nice to meet you, uh..."