Maya replied instantly: Fake an alien invasion.
Leo went to the audition. He got the part. And somewhere, probably in a different CVS parking lot, Nansy smiled, opened her notebook, and wrote a new line: Phase two: The senior center break-in. For fun, of course. teen funs nansy
The masterpiece, though, was day seven. Nansy decided our local “haunted” mini-golf course was boring, so she staged a fake alien invasion. Armed with laser pointers, a fog machine stolen from the school’s drama department, and a recording of dial-up internet static, she coordinated us via walkie-talkies. We were the “Men in Black” (minus the suits) while she piloted a cardboard UFO from the roof of her minivan. The teenagers working the course actually screamed. The manager called the police. We escaped through a drainage ditch, Nansy leading the charge, her orthopedic sneakers squelching in the mud. Maya replied instantly: Fake an alien invasion
But it wasn’t just the chaos. It was the way she saw us. At night, after the stunts, she’d make us instant hot chocolate and tell stories about her own teen years—sneaking into drive-ins, starting a rumor that a local lake monster was real, forging a permission slip to see The Beatles. She’d pull out the same tattered notebook and say, “The point isn’t to break rules. The point is to remember that you’re alive. Your phone won’t remember the feeling of orange soda in your nose.” And somewhere, probably in a different CVS parking
On the last day, Nansy sat us down. “I have one final fun,” she said softly. She handed each of us a small, handwritten card. Mine said: You are braver than you believe. Go get lost on purpose.
“That,” she panted, leaning against a dumpster behind a CVS, “is what I call teen funs.”
Thus began the summer of Nansy’s Grand Teen Funs Extravaganza .
