Getting Credit

Chapter 1

It doesn't look like early afternoon. The sky is dark and it's raining hard and heavy, like God is taking a piss. I lean casually against the wall, crossing my legs at the ankles and staring down at my shoes. They're wet.

I inhale, breathing in moist air, the wind still like before a storm. There's something enlivening about the rain. Everything seems clear and sharp under the blackened sky and the world has an almost surreal quality. I exhale gently.

Footsteps. They slow. "Hey, babe, what's a cute thing like you doing out in the rain?"

I look up. Someone is in front of me, his back to the streetlight and his hood up. I can't see his face, but I know that voice. I watch the silhouette lean back on its heels in the rain, looking casual.

"What, you working the corner?" I can hear the laughter in his voice. "Come on, let's get to class."

I let my mouth tilt into a crooked smile, but don't move. I drop my face to look at my feet again. To be real, I'm nervous. I should be taking the Spanish class offered at school. We both should. Only, that teacher and I are like diet coke and mayonnaise – two things that should never be mixed. I had a talk with the counselor and she said I could get the language credits from the community college. I glance up at the boy. He came along to be with me, says that's what best friends are for.

I can feel his smile, even if I can't see it. He can tell I'm not going anywhere on my own and strolls over, slinging an arm around my neck and leading me toward the classroom door. I feel hot breath on my ear as he runs his fingers through my hair.

"You need me to color your hair again? The roots are growing in."

I shrug, beginning to feel more myself. My anxiety remains, however, and I grumble a warning "Kiba," as he rolls a damp lock of my hair between his fingers. If this class doesn't work out for me, I don't have anywhere else to turn to. Kiba disentangles his hand from my head (taking a few pillaged yellow hairs with him) and punches my shoulder.

"Relax, okay? Didn't you say you knew the alphabet already? It's even in your heritage. Dude, chill. Seriously. It's going to be fine."

I squint up at him, nerves getting the best of me. "There're three alphabets. Three! I know half of two of them. That's nothing." My heart is fast. This idea keeps sounding worse and worse. Why had I conned us into it, again?

Kiba shrugs amiably. "It's more than I know."

I grab him, beating my head miserably against his shoulder. "Blahh," I grumble. "We're going to die. You smell good. I want your shampoo."

"Should I interpret that as a come-on?" He sounds amused, but I suddenly feel uncomfortable. There is a squeamish lump in my gut, like guilt. I pull away, squinting self-consciously at the rain cascading off the roof.

"No, it was a request for you to put in your will," I grumble.

He laughs and holds the door for me. We're at the classroom already. I shuffle in first, squinting under the fluorescent lights. There are maybe twenty students, all clustered in the seats closest to the front of the classroom. In a horrifying moment, I realize that Kiba and I are probably the youngest people here; everyone else seems to be in college or older.

Head pounding with nerves, I lead Kiba toward the back of the room where I can see someone who looks around our age. He doesn't look up at us, and I don't say anything. I grab the seat next to him and drape my dripping raincoat over the back of my chair. Kiba drops his shoulder bag on the floor between us and tosses me my notebook and a pencil.

The professor chooses that moment to walk in. She is short, the distance making her appear smaller, and I am suddenly reminded of Edna from The Incredibles. Her face has severe, no-nonsense expression. I fiddle nervously with my pencil. Her dark eyes find me and she frowns. I begin to sweat.

"Hey, you three boy," she calls to the back, pointing to Kiba, the stranger and I. "Why you so far away? You think I let you sit like potato? Come here."

We move forward to the seats she indicated, Kiba following my lead. "What did she say?" He whispers. I shrug and settle down again. Sure, she has a bit of an accent, but Kiba doesn't have to be like that. I flip open my notebook as the professor begins taking roll, writing the names in katakana on the whiteboard. The empty chair beside me pulls back and I look up, meeting black eyes.