Hometown by Marsha Qualey

used when he bought the Snickers.
    “Just a dollar, you bastard. Just one.”
    “No money.”
    “Got a smoke?”
    “No.”
    “Then get out of here. This is my place. You’re big but I could still hurt you.”
    Border believed it and hurried on.
    Two A.M. The lights above got bright, a wide yellow haze. He crawled up to the top, slipping once, scraping his hands again. Two blocks away, a cop car cruised through the parking lot of a shopping center. Border knew where he was. Nowhere close to home.
    He felt raindrops and decided to stay out of the ditch. Walked along, looked up at the sky, but no more rain wet his face. Puzzled, until he noticed he was near a bank, and a sprinkler was watering grass. The drops made him thirsty. He knew about an all-night restaurant nearby and he headed that way.
    Border ordered coffee, his first cup ever, and he made a face when he sipped. As soon as the waitress breezed by, he called out for a Coke, but by the time she brought it he’d gone back to the coffee and finished the cup.
    Two older girls sat in the booth behind his. The girl closest to Border turned around and said, “You’ve got gum in your hair.”
    “God, that’s great hair,” said the other. “I could spend forty dollars at the shop and never get a blonde that rich. Is it natural? I bet it is.”
    The first one kneeled on the bench of her booth, right behind Border. He hadn’t said a word, but she picked at the gum with one hand. The other hand rested on his neck.
    Border sipped his Coke.
    “Can’t get it,” she finally said. “It’s really stuck.”
    “Thanks for trying,” he said, without turning around.
    “What else can I do for you?”
    He dug money out of his pocket, set it on the table, and left. He could hear the girls laughing.
    He walked east toward home, and got there as the sky lightened behind the Sandias. Silhouetted by the sunrise, the mountains resembled a gray slumbering beast hovering over the city.
    Just as he crawled into bed his father rose. The light in the hall went on; the bathroom door closed. Whistling in the shower. A new day, get on with it, go to work.
    Border slept.
    Already? —
    His father was home with the groceries by the time Border reached the house. Cold hands, numb feet. Chided himself about buying boots. Do it, just do it, he commanded.
    Dana came out with Jacob, and they stood holding hands in the driveway.
    Already?
    They didn’t see Border until he called. Jacob took a step from Dana; their hands slipped apart.
    “Where have you been?” his sister asked.
    “Walked home from the store. Is Dad angry?”
    “Sort of. But not at you.”
    “At you?”
    “The grocery bagger. Eggs were broken. I’m going to Jacob’s to meet his family.”
    Already?
    Inside the house, Border kicked off his shoes and leaned over to rub his feet. His socks were wet, and he pulled them off. His toes flamed red.
    Sweet Boy—
    He recovered his car keys and all privileges. There was no formal declaration; his father just asked him to do an errand the next day, tossed him the keys, and didn’t ask for them back. Border resumed driving to school, and he always came home to find Dana on the sofa, watching TV.
    “You’re not a real good advertisement for early graduation,” he commented.
    “I have two fathers and don’t need a third.”
    She bestirred herself enough to visit Jacob’s house a few times, and often went with Border to the basement of Christ Fellowship.
    “The old ladies like you almost as much as they like me,” said Border one night after they’d been to the church.
    “Not so, they like me best.”
    “Me.”
    “Me.”
    “Me.”
    “It would be you,” said Dana, “if you’d play for them. Why don’t you ever play anymore? I never hear you practice.”
    “Lost interest, I guess.” Not the truth, exactly. What the truth was, he didn’t know.
    Next day, after school he did play, the first time in days. Pulled the recorder out of the case, warmed it up. It was his