Going Nowhere Faster by Sean Beaudoin

Chopper farted near my sweater and I tried spraying it with Lysol, but it smelled even worse, so I had to pick a different one. Olivia stood in the doorway and coached me on my choice of footwear. Sneakers or sneakers?
    “The white ones.”
    “Are you sure?” I asked, holding up my trusty blue Keds.
    “Definitely white,” Olivia said, moving to the edge of the bed, her toes dangling in Chopper’s fur. She squeezed and kneaded his ribs. He occasionally winced, but otherwise just lay there.
    “How about this shirt?” I asked. It was a black button-up. Black seemed right, from Johnny Cash to Mötley Crüe, I couldn’t go wrong.
    “Definitely not black,” she said, really giving Chopper the works. “Makes you look like a funeral guy.”
    “Mortician,” I said.
    “Who?”
    “Never mind.”
    I put on a red shirt and then picked out my favorite jeans.
    “Too wrinkly,” Olivia said, scrunching up her nose.
    I opened the closet and rooted around in a pile of Belt Turbines and Tie Engines and Perma-knot Knot Machines and Talking Shoehorns, and finally found the Smith’s Instant Iron-a-rama. It looked a lot like a waffle press, but bigger.
    “Are you sure you don’t just want an iron? I bet Mom has an iron.”
    “Mom has never ironed anything in her life,” I said, and stuck my jeans into the contraption. There was a large yellow switch on the side. I flipped it and nothing happened.
    “It’s not on,” Olivia said, pointing to the cord.
    I plugged the Iron-a-rama in. It made a loud wrenching sound before a huge billow of steam rushed out, almost scalding off my eyebrows. Chopper barked. Olivia yelped. A buzzer went off and I pulled out the jeans, which were at least twice as wrinkled as before.
    “Try again,” Olivia suggested.
    When the buzzer went off the second time, my jeans were four times as wrinkled as before, and had a long black stain on the back. Olivia shrugged.
    “Want to see what eight times as wrinkled looks like?” I asked, almost positive I had an extra pair of khakis somewhere at the bottom of the closet.
    My mother was downstairs in the kitchen with Prarash. They were eating noodles out of the same huge bowl, a handmade ceramic one that had monkeys linking arms all the way around. I’d always liked that bowl. Not anymore.
    “Stan!” my mother said. I could see in her eyes she was still upset about the park and the yelling and the Fry Mobile. So what? I was still upset, too. She was about to say something, then thought better of it.
    “The young bee wears a jacket,” Prarash said, slurping up a final long noodle, and then wiping soy sauce from his beard. “A yellow jacket. Ha-ha.”
    My jacket was black. “My jacket is black,” I said.
    Prarash looked at my mother indulgently. “Humor and the young, yes? But they will learn.”
    It was so annoying I wanted to scream. Instead, I said, “Mom, can you cash my Happy Video check? I don’t have any money.”
    “Only if you tell me where you’re going,” she said, then started rooting through her bag. “Why so dressed up?”
    “Umm . . . ,” I said, aware of Prarash staring at me, and trying to ignore him. “Just a thing. For school.”
    My mother nodded, pulling handfuls of junk from her enormous pocketbook. Scarves and a brush and hemp tissues and a change purse and homemade beeswax lip balm and a scissors and pens and pencils and a pear and bracelets and a book (about Che Guevara) and a melted string cheese and another book (about Vietnam) and a can of dolphin-safe tuna and a barrette and a tire-pressure gauge, but no wallet.
    “I can’t find my wallet,” she said.
    “Didn’t school end two months ago?” Prarash asked.
    “Um . . . yeah,” I said. “Summer school.”
    “You’re not in summer school,” my mother said.
    “Listen,” I said, resisting the urge to stamp my foot like OIivia, “I’m going to be late. Can you please just lend me some money?”
    My mother looked at Prarash. “Is there any cash in the