to look.
Sandra had stacked so much turkey, ham and cheese between the bagel slices that he had a hard time pressing the halves together as he ate, but after two hours of aimless wandering in Oldtown, he was hungry again. He tried not to think of the long trip back up as he headed toward the harbor and some fast food, but Mickey D prices were much more in line with his financial standing than any of the cafés in the fixed-up parts of the city.
He was about halfway back up when the clouds blew in, a quick, sudden, soaking shower. He’d been planning to find some place to get clothes, and when he saw the Goodwill store sign ahead, he knew he’d found something in his price range. He ducked in, shaking the rain out of his hair, wiping his face on his already-soaked sleeve.
The woman behind the counter looked him over and went back to thumbing through a magazine. A vicious combination of shame and guilt floated the burger in his stomach on waves of acid. He shouldn’t be in here when other people needed it, and yet his cheeks flamed with the knowledge that he was one of those people. Needy people. People who had to buy a pack of underwear marked “irregular”. What made underwear irregular? Did it have an extra leg hole?
The jeans—at least the ones that looked new—were between five and ten dollars. The ones that would fit him were all ten. He held them up to check the length and grabbed a few T-shirts and a pack of socks. Maybe when Yolanda sent the check, Kellan could afford some “regular” underwear.
He couldn’t look the woman in the eye as he paid out most of the cash he had left. Everything in the store had a funny mold-stale-cigarette smell to it. Maybe he could find a laundromat on the way home and blow the rest of the five dollars in his pocket, but he would rather deal with the smell than give up the rest of his cash. He thought the people he used to hang out with were too focused on money. They should try living without it and see how much they thought about it then.
When he started up the stairs to Nate’s apartment, a complaining simple rotation of guitar chords made him think someone, probably Nate, had a folk-music station on. But it was Nate, sitting on his sofa, making a painstaking effort at the basic GDC chords of what might have been “Margaritaville”, except that he had trouble on the chorus.
Kellan kicked off his shoes. “You know, if you can play an F chord, you could play Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted’.” Nate had always liked Bon Jovi, though it was totally old when compared to Dave Matthews. That should have been an indicator of gayness, Kellan realized now. It had been more about crushing on a good-looking singer than the music.
Nate glanced up for a second. “I’ve tried but—”
“I could show you.” Kellan tossed his shirt next to the basket where Nate kept his mail, remembered the wearing-clothes rule, rolled his eyes and pulled a T-shirt out of the bag. Despite being soaked, he was hot from his long walk back uphill.
“You can play?” Nate tried the chorus again, but the G to D shift on “woman” got him every time. He stopped and turned the guitar over on his lap. “Wait. Why are you back? I thought you worked until closing.”
This was another reason Kellan had spent all that time wandering around. Because Nate was probably not going to listen to much after I quit , and Kellan wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. He’d had enough from his dad today.
He filled a glass of water from the tap and looked around for Yin. “I quit.”
Nate put the guitar on the sofa, effectively blocking Kellan from having a seat anywhere but on the floor. “Why?”
Maybe Kellan had been hoping for a fight with someone, because the fact that Nate was waiting and listening pissed Kellan off as much as a sigh would have.
“My dad called.”
“The café?”
“He sent his driver to track me down and hand off a cell phone.”
Nate made a disgusted sound and shook his head.
“So
Sandra had stacked so much turkey, ham and cheese between the bagel slices that he had a hard time pressing the halves together as he ate, but after two hours of aimless wandering in Oldtown, he was hungry again. He tried not to think of the long trip back up as he headed toward the harbor and some fast food, but Mickey D prices were much more in line with his financial standing than any of the cafés in the fixed-up parts of the city.
He was about halfway back up when the clouds blew in, a quick, sudden, soaking shower. He’d been planning to find some place to get clothes, and when he saw the Goodwill store sign ahead, he knew he’d found something in his price range. He ducked in, shaking the rain out of his hair, wiping his face on his already-soaked sleeve.
The woman behind the counter looked him over and went back to thumbing through a magazine. A vicious combination of shame and guilt floated the burger in his stomach on waves of acid. He shouldn’t be in here when other people needed it, and yet his cheeks flamed with the knowledge that he was one of those people. Needy people. People who had to buy a pack of underwear marked “irregular”. What made underwear irregular? Did it have an extra leg hole?
The jeans—at least the ones that looked new—were between five and ten dollars. The ones that would fit him were all ten. He held them up to check the length and grabbed a few T-shirts and a pack of socks. Maybe when Yolanda sent the check, Kellan could afford some “regular” underwear.
He couldn’t look the woman in the eye as he paid out most of the cash he had left. Everything in the store had a funny mold-stale-cigarette smell to it. Maybe he could find a laundromat on the way home and blow the rest of the five dollars in his pocket, but he would rather deal with the smell than give up the rest of his cash. He thought the people he used to hang out with were too focused on money. They should try living without it and see how much they thought about it then.
When he started up the stairs to Nate’s apartment, a complaining simple rotation of guitar chords made him think someone, probably Nate, had a folk-music station on. But it was Nate, sitting on his sofa, making a painstaking effort at the basic GDC chords of what might have been “Margaritaville”, except that he had trouble on the chorus.
Kellan kicked off his shoes. “You know, if you can play an F chord, you could play Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted’.” Nate had always liked Bon Jovi, though it was totally old when compared to Dave Matthews. That should have been an indicator of gayness, Kellan realized now. It had been more about crushing on a good-looking singer than the music.
Nate glanced up for a second. “I’ve tried but—”
“I could show you.” Kellan tossed his shirt next to the basket where Nate kept his mail, remembered the wearing-clothes rule, rolled his eyes and pulled a T-shirt out of the bag. Despite being soaked, he was hot from his long walk back uphill.
“You can play?” Nate tried the chorus again, but the G to D shift on “woman” got him every time. He stopped and turned the guitar over on his lap. “Wait. Why are you back? I thought you worked until closing.”
This was another reason Kellan had spent all that time wandering around. Because Nate was probably not going to listen to much after I quit , and Kellan wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. He’d had enough from his dad today.
He filled a glass of water from the tap and looked around for Yin. “I quit.”
Nate put the guitar on the sofa, effectively blocking Kellan from having a seat anywhere but on the floor. “Why?”
Maybe Kellan had been hoping for a fight with someone, because the fact that Nate was waiting and listening pissed Kellan off as much as a sigh would have.
“My dad called.”
“The café?”
“He sent his driver to track me down and hand off a cell phone.”
Nate made a disgusted sound and shook his head.
“So
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