In Mike We Trust by P. E. Ryan Page B

knows?”
    â€œAbout the pact? Yes, he knows. He thinks it’s crazy.”
    â€œWell, so do I. But I also think it’s a little weird that he’d take you there knowing it’s not what your mom wanted.”
    â€œAs you just pointed out, you offered to take me there.”
    She clucked her tongue. “Yeah, but I’m an irresponsible teen.”
    She’s jealous , he thought. And she’s mad that I didn’t show up at the shelter . He decided to drop the subject—and to not mention the charity work (she’d have plenty to say about that , for sure). It was funny how the people with the toughest exteriors were sometimes the ones whose feelings got hurt so easily.
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    As promised, Mike “fronted” Garth some spending money—fifty dollars, which was nearly a month’s worth of what he allowed himself—and on Saturday, per his uncle’s suggestion, Garth worked his last shift at Peterson’s Department Store. He commemorated the event by unlocking and rolling up the garage doorof the trash pocket in order to liberate as many mice and rats as possible, but they didn’t seem very interested in leaving (which made sense when he thought about it—why give up the safety and convenience of all that rotten food for the big, unknown world?).
    â€œRhhuudd,” Mr. Peterson said as he was about to clock out. “Truck’s coming in next Saturday. I need you to work.”
    â€œI’ve already made plans.”
    â€œGot to cancel them. It’s a big shipment.”
    â€œUm.” Garth punched his card, put it back into its metal slot, and stared up at the old man. He knew what he was about to do was abrupt, but he also heard the echo in his head of Mr. Peterson’s voice saying, “Scrub those faggot words off the bathroom wall.” And once, while complaining about a customer who’d returned a humidifier, the word uppity had rolled out of his mouth, followed by the N word. “I quit,” Garth said.
    Mr. Peterson’s lined face went slack with what seemed to be confusion, then slowly pruned into a scowl. “You ever had a job before this one?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIf you don’t give two weeks’ notice, I don’t have to issue a check for this pay period. How’s that sound?”
    Garth was fairly certain that wasn’t true—or legal. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, surprised athis own boldness. “I quit today, you pay me for the hours I’ve worked, and I won’t call the Health Department about the mouseketeer club in the storeroom, the kitchen, and the popcorn machine. How does that sound?”
    Peterson gauged him for a moment, and his scowl leveled off into a smile that was a half sneer at best. He reached forward to shake Garth’s hand, but with his other hand he took hold of Garth’s elbow and squeezed sharply. He knew what he was doing; the pain shot from Garth’s arm into his chest and even down his legs. “Guess we’ve got each other figured out,” the man said, still squeezing his elbow. “You’re not Peterson material.”
    â€œLucky me,” Garth said, wrenching his arm free.
    â€œYou can pick up your check next week.”
    â€œThanks,” Garth said. For better or for worse—even if the charity work was a flop—he was forever free of The Trash Pocket.
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    Sunday afternoon, Garth rode his bicycle downtown and chained it up next to the footbridge that led out to Belle Isle. Dressed in his bathing suit, T-shirt, and flip-flops, he walked across the bridge listening to the thunder of traffic overhead—a sound that was gradually replaced by the rush of the James River ashe neared the opposite shore. All along this stretch of the island were rocks—light brown and worn smooth over centuries, perfect for lying out in the sun. And there was a lot of sun—too much of it, in fact; by the time he