"Hey! Get down here!"
You awoke to the sound of your mother shouting up the stairs at you. You yawned, pushing away your threadbare blanket, and stumbled out of bed.
You pulled on a cute striped sweater, ripped skinny jeans, and your worn-out black combat boots, threw your hair up into a messy bun, put on a dash of glittery lip gloss, and traipsed downstairs to see what your mom wanted.
"What is it, Mom?" you demanded, storming into the kitchen. She wasn't there, but your older brother was. "Where's Mom?" you asked him.
He pointed towards your front door, not bothering to look up from his phone.
You walked into the entranceway of your house, following your brother's lazy directions. Sure enough, there your mom was, shaking some guy's hand.
"What do you want?" You crossed your arms over your chest.
She turned around and poked an unsteady finger at you. "Go get your things."
"Huh?" you said.
"I'm out of money for alcohol. We're selling you," your mom explained.
"What?" you said.
"You are being sold," your mom repeated.
"Excuse me?" you said.
"I don't know how else to tell you that I'm selling you for money. Go pack. Your new owner is already here." Your mom nodded at the front door.
You went back upstairs and threw some important things into your favorite drawstring bag. Your sparkly lip gloss, your black skinny jeans, a compact mirror, and a journal that your angelic grandmother had gifted to you before she tragically died, leaving custody of you to your alcoholic mother who was an alcoholic.
With your string bag over your shoulder, you stomped back downstairs. "Bye, loser!" you said to your brother, who flipped you off, still scrolling on his phone with his other hand.
Your mother stood by the door, shotgunning a beer. "Peace out," she said.
"Okay," you answered, and walked out the door. You never saw her ever again. Except for the several times that you did, of course.
Standing on your front steps was a man in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with a white t-shirt underneath, khaki shorts, and loafers with tall socks. He had fluffy gingery blond hair, and facial hair befitting a morally dubious detective from a 1950s crime drama. He was undeniably and immediately recognizable as Logan Aesthetic, known to many as Logaesthetic.
"LOGAESTHETIC?!" you screamed, skidding to a halt. "What are you doing in my front yard?"
"Uh, hello." Mr. Aesthetic waved a hand at you. "I guess you know who I am?"
"I watch your streams all the time," you tell him.
"Oh, thanks pal. I really appreciate that." Logan squinted at your face. "Your mouth is really sparkly. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you sighed angstily, crossing your arms again. "It's my lip gloss."
Logaesthetic nodded. "Cool."
"How much did you pay my mom for me?" you asked.
"Five bucks and a candy bar I forgot I had in my car." Logan turned and pointed to his car, which was parked in front of your derelict house. It was a nice enough car. Blue.
Through the window of your front door, you could see your alcoholic mother shotgunning something else (a can of seltzer this time). Maybe she was just a fan of shotgunning things.
"Let's go drive somewhere," you suggested.
Logan shrugged. "Sure, okay. I was going to meet one of my mods for lunch. Want to come along?"
