Prologue
PROLOGUE
Andrew Christiansen
It’s a list.
As if I have nothing better to do with my time, I now have five more things to check off a list. There’s no getting out of it because my mom made me, a grown man , pinky swear before I left California, and I always keep my word, or in this case, my pinky swears. So here I am with ridiculous to-dos as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.
Lie in the grass in the nearest park at 9:17 AM on a sunny weekday.
Eradicate negative vibes from the apartment on the sixth Thursday after arrival.
Perform in front of an audience. (Work doesn’t count, Andrew)
Read Shakespeare on the steps of the New York Public Library just after midnight.
Number five . . .
“What is my mom thinking?” I can’t even bring myself to read number five without scoffing. It’s like she doesn’t know me at all. If she did, she’d realize that’s the last thing on my mind.
I review it once more before tucking the list under a magnet on the side of the fridge. I’ve gone over this list more times than I can count. Would she know if I didn’t follow through? I ask myself that question every time I read it.
This week is not the time to drop this guilt trip on me. I can’t believe I’m even considering it. I can’t. “Sorry, Mom.”
Maybe next week.
Or not.