pushing me toward the door hard enough to make me trip over my feet and if I don’t watch out I’ll fly right into the glass. “Don’t come back,” he says and now his voice is mean and a new wave of tears and snot comes up from my chest. I shove into the door with my shoulder and stumble away from the hot push of his hand.
On the pavement the first thing I realize is I left my fucking change on the counter, all seventy-three cents, and my ribs jerk in and out again and I crumple down onto the pebbly gravel of the parking lot.
“Hey,” someone says above me, and I can hardly even lift my head to look—I can’t take one more thing. If it’s a cop or some guy hitting on me I think I’ll break into a million pieces and turn to dust. I nod just enough to let him know I heard him, though, so nobody can call me rude. “That guy never cuts anyone a break. I saw through the window. You hungry?”
His voice is nice enough to make the crying wear off for a second; I rub my eyes and look up. It’s just this kid. He’s my age I think and about my height, five eight or so, but bigger. He’s got the opposite body of me: instead of straight-up-and-down skinny, he’s broad through the shoulders and solid, almost stocky, with dark brown hair cut really short and freckles—and he’s dressed like a whole other world. His T-shirt and shorts are faded black like they’ve been in the sun for a year and he’s got patches sewn on everywhere and a knife strapped to his belt loop in a leather case that looks like he made it himself. Down by his boots there’s a big army bag, and tied to the bag is a piece of long dirty rope, and at the end of the rope is a brown pit bull, panting. He smiles at me. “I’ll be right back. You watch the dog?”
I nod and he goes into the 7-Eleven. The counter guy glares but doesn’t say anything, and I watch through the window as the kid microwaves two burritos and buys them and a Mountain Dew. When he gets his change back he looks at it and says something I can’t hear. Then the counter guy opens the register again and gives him three more quarters.
He comes back out, sits down next to the dog, and says “Thanks.” I must look scared because he goes “Germ’s friendly. He won’t hurt you.” I’ve never heard of a dog named Germ, but okay. He hands me the bag with the burritos. “I thought you could maybe use two.”
All the water that was in my eyes before is in my mouth now. I’m starving. I tell him thanks and take the bag, trying not to snatch it out of his hands and rip it open. He watches me and smiles. “My name’s Squid,” he says.
My mouth is so full I can barely chew, let alone talk. I try to say my name, but instead I make some weird kind of grunty noise and then my face turns red. I’m such a loser. “It’s cool,” he goes, and kind of laughs. “You can tell me after.”
After I choke down both burritos and chug half the Mountain Dew I feel like maybe I can breathe again. I have no idea why this guy is being nice to me. “Thanks” is the only thing I can think of to say, but it seems like not enough. He just smiles at me again. He keeps smiling. I don’t know if I’m funny or what. “I’m Rusty,” I remember to tell him.
“Cool,” he goes. “Where you from?” I tell him Bakersfield. I start to explain more, but then remember that I can’t: Jim always said no one should find out, no matter if they’re someone we know or not. I sort of trail off in the middle but Squid doesn’t seem to notice; he just nods and says “I hear Bakersfield sucks.” He doesn’t tell me where he’s from. Germ pants some more and I pet him.
“Oh,” Squid goes and reaches into his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He hands me three quarters. “This is yours.”
“Thanks,” I go, and take the change; then I realize I haven’t spent any money but I still just ate. “Do you want—” I start to say, but he interrupts me.
“Nah. It’s cool.” I keep watching him
On the pavement the first thing I realize is I left my fucking change on the counter, all seventy-three cents, and my ribs jerk in and out again and I crumple down onto the pebbly gravel of the parking lot.
“Hey,” someone says above me, and I can hardly even lift my head to look—I can’t take one more thing. If it’s a cop or some guy hitting on me I think I’ll break into a million pieces and turn to dust. I nod just enough to let him know I heard him, though, so nobody can call me rude. “That guy never cuts anyone a break. I saw through the window. You hungry?”
His voice is nice enough to make the crying wear off for a second; I rub my eyes and look up. It’s just this kid. He’s my age I think and about my height, five eight or so, but bigger. He’s got the opposite body of me: instead of straight-up-and-down skinny, he’s broad through the shoulders and solid, almost stocky, with dark brown hair cut really short and freckles—and he’s dressed like a whole other world. His T-shirt and shorts are faded black like they’ve been in the sun for a year and he’s got patches sewn on everywhere and a knife strapped to his belt loop in a leather case that looks like he made it himself. Down by his boots there’s a big army bag, and tied to the bag is a piece of long dirty rope, and at the end of the rope is a brown pit bull, panting. He smiles at me. “I’ll be right back. You watch the dog?”
I nod and he goes into the 7-Eleven. The counter guy glares but doesn’t say anything, and I watch through the window as the kid microwaves two burritos and buys them and a Mountain Dew. When he gets his change back he looks at it and says something I can’t hear. Then the counter guy opens the register again and gives him three more quarters.
He comes back out, sits down next to the dog, and says “Thanks.” I must look scared because he goes “Germ’s friendly. He won’t hurt you.” I’ve never heard of a dog named Germ, but okay. He hands me the bag with the burritos. “I thought you could maybe use two.”
All the water that was in my eyes before is in my mouth now. I’m starving. I tell him thanks and take the bag, trying not to snatch it out of his hands and rip it open. He watches me and smiles. “My name’s Squid,” he says.
My mouth is so full I can barely chew, let alone talk. I try to say my name, but instead I make some weird kind of grunty noise and then my face turns red. I’m such a loser. “It’s cool,” he goes, and kind of laughs. “You can tell me after.”
After I choke down both burritos and chug half the Mountain Dew I feel like maybe I can breathe again. I have no idea why this guy is being nice to me. “Thanks” is the only thing I can think of to say, but it seems like not enough. He just smiles at me again. He keeps smiling. I don’t know if I’m funny or what. “I’m Rusty,” I remember to tell him.
“Cool,” he goes. “Where you from?” I tell him Bakersfield. I start to explain more, but then remember that I can’t: Jim always said no one should find out, no matter if they’re someone we know or not. I sort of trail off in the middle but Squid doesn’t seem to notice; he just nods and says “I hear Bakersfield sucks.” He doesn’t tell me where he’s from. Germ pants some more and I pet him.
“Oh,” Squid goes and reaches into his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He hands me three quarters. “This is yours.”
“Thanks,” I go, and take the change; then I realize I haven’t spent any money but I still just ate. “Do you want—” I start to say, but he interrupts me.
“Nah. It’s cool.” I keep watching him
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