2
Shawn tossed me a beer that I nearly dropped before clutching its coldness against my chest.
“Close one,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “That would’ve been a terrible way to start off the afternoon.”
“It wouldn’t have spilled,” I protested, well aware that there was no defense to my wretched clumsiness.
“Probably not, but it would’ve exploded in your face when you tried to open it.”
“I would’ve slipped it back into the refrigerator and gotten a new one,” I said, pushing my chin out stubbornly. “And maybe it would’ve exploded in your face when you didn’t know which one it was.”
“Would you really do that to me?” Shawn asked, his warm eyes sparkling.
“Hell yeah, I would,” I said, tapping the top of the bottle emphatically before wrenching it off with an opener. It fizzed dangerously close to the top, but I intercepted any overflow quickly, engulfing the opening of the bottle with my mouth.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “What film did you learn that one from?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I said, lowering my lashes demurely, as I took a chaster sip from the beer bottle. It was a craft beer from one of the local breweries. Shawn had made it his personal goal to wean me off of Miller Lite and introduce me to the finer brews in life. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I loved the craft beers he always gave me when I came over to his house—I just couldn’t afford to buy them on a regular basis. Right now, I was on a Miller Lite budget.
“So, what did you think about the senior projects meeting today?” he asked. I followed him out of the kitchen and into the den.
I tried to play it off, tried not to show it, but every time I came to his house—well, his dad’s house—I was amazed. Shawn lived in an absolute paradise. Anything that a person could want was here. There was an indoor pool and hot tub, a fully-stocked bar at all times, a game room with billiards and everything else, and much more. You could see the bay from nearly floor-to-ceiling windows—and those ceilings went all the way up.
It was a completely different place than what I was used to. I’d grown up with foster parents who were forced to watch what they spent, and I’d become frugal, too. To see a house like this, where no expenses were spared and where whoever had built and bought and decorated this home wasn’t sure what to do with all that money, was amazing.
I remembered a massive toy float that had appeared in the pool one day during our freshman year. It had mounted water guns and drink holders, and I realized that it was probably close to the price of the mortgage my foster parents paid every month to keep on living in the tiny house they owned.
To say that Shawn and I were mismatched as friends was probably an understatement. For one, my academic focus was in photography, and his was in visual arts with a specialty in painting. We didn’t have much reason to cross paths very often on campus, but on the very first day of our freshman year, we had, both of us looking for an introductory art survey course that everyone was required to take.
He was looking around, befuddled, and his expensive jeans were splattered with dots of paint, as he studied a cellphone and a set of papers that were stapled together.
“Are you lost?” I asked him, approaching him because something about his appearance—maybe his dark eyes and dark hair—reminded me of my foster parents. I also couldn’t stand to see people struggling, and he was most definitely struggling.
“I’m supposed to get to the art survey class, but I have no idea where it is,” he said, peering at his cellphone’s screen. He had a smartphone, one of the ones that talked to you, but I had only just been gifted with a flip phone so I could call my foster parents now that we lived apart.
“Is your phone going to tell us where it is?” I asked, looking at it quizzically. He’d pulled up a campus map on the screen
Shawn tossed me a beer that I nearly dropped before clutching its coldness against my chest.
“Close one,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “That would’ve been a terrible way to start off the afternoon.”
“It wouldn’t have spilled,” I protested, well aware that there was no defense to my wretched clumsiness.
“Probably not, but it would’ve exploded in your face when you tried to open it.”
“I would’ve slipped it back into the refrigerator and gotten a new one,” I said, pushing my chin out stubbornly. “And maybe it would’ve exploded in your face when you didn’t know which one it was.”
“Would you really do that to me?” Shawn asked, his warm eyes sparkling.
“Hell yeah, I would,” I said, tapping the top of the bottle emphatically before wrenching it off with an opener. It fizzed dangerously close to the top, but I intercepted any overflow quickly, engulfing the opening of the bottle with my mouth.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “What film did you learn that one from?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I said, lowering my lashes demurely, as I took a chaster sip from the beer bottle. It was a craft beer from one of the local breweries. Shawn had made it his personal goal to wean me off of Miller Lite and introduce me to the finer brews in life. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I loved the craft beers he always gave me when I came over to his house—I just couldn’t afford to buy them on a regular basis. Right now, I was on a Miller Lite budget.
“So, what did you think about the senior projects meeting today?” he asked. I followed him out of the kitchen and into the den.
I tried to play it off, tried not to show it, but every time I came to his house—well, his dad’s house—I was amazed. Shawn lived in an absolute paradise. Anything that a person could want was here. There was an indoor pool and hot tub, a fully-stocked bar at all times, a game room with billiards and everything else, and much more. You could see the bay from nearly floor-to-ceiling windows—and those ceilings went all the way up.
It was a completely different place than what I was used to. I’d grown up with foster parents who were forced to watch what they spent, and I’d become frugal, too. To see a house like this, where no expenses were spared and where whoever had built and bought and decorated this home wasn’t sure what to do with all that money, was amazing.
I remembered a massive toy float that had appeared in the pool one day during our freshman year. It had mounted water guns and drink holders, and I realized that it was probably close to the price of the mortgage my foster parents paid every month to keep on living in the tiny house they owned.
To say that Shawn and I were mismatched as friends was probably an understatement. For one, my academic focus was in photography, and his was in visual arts with a specialty in painting. We didn’t have much reason to cross paths very often on campus, but on the very first day of our freshman year, we had, both of us looking for an introductory art survey course that everyone was required to take.
He was looking around, befuddled, and his expensive jeans were splattered with dots of paint, as he studied a cellphone and a set of papers that were stapled together.
“Are you lost?” I asked him, approaching him because something about his appearance—maybe his dark eyes and dark hair—reminded me of my foster parents. I also couldn’t stand to see people struggling, and he was most definitely struggling.
“I’m supposed to get to the art survey class, but I have no idea where it is,” he said, peering at his cellphone’s screen. He had a smartphone, one of the ones that talked to you, but I had only just been gifted with a flip phone so I could call my foster parents now that we lived apart.
“Is your phone going to tell us where it is?” I asked, looking at it quizzically. He’d pulled up a campus map on the screen
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