Sam walked around the neighborhood with his head held higher than it'd been as of late. Granted, his life hadn't improved by much. In fact, it'd grown slightly worse though his mother refused to admit as much. The Evans clan could no longer afford the family chef that prepared their morning and afternoon meals. He knew the time was coming, when the quality of the meals began decreasing little by little as the weeks went by. Eventually, the meals would come just once a day as opposed to the usual two. Mary Evans decided to let Francisco go and - though it was far more unhealthy - let Sam and Stevie receive their lunch and breakfast from outside like everyone else. That is, if there wasn't any time for the standard cereal and milk during the week.

It was easier for Stevie to adjust to the change, as he'd been using his gradually decreasing allowance to buy lunch since school started a month earlier. He explained that no one in 8th grade brought lunch to school, and that their parents let them go off campus to eat. He resorted to giving his lunch away and eating outside like everyone else. Knowing that hiring Francisco's services cost over $500 a week, Sam felt a twinge of irritation at his brother's antics. One less meal for the chef to cook would've cut the cost down a considerable amount.

But what would a thirteen year old know about the value of a dollar? And it wasn't like Mary ever instilled the importance of conscious spending to his younger brother. Why would she, as she'd only learned about it within the last 6 months? But the point was moot. The chef was gone. Back to Italy...or maybe the Bronx. Wherever it was that chefs went.

For Sam, the loss was a bit more difficult to cope with. He was used to specific regimens and meal plans to keep him in top shape for the swim team. Now that he was on his own, he came to the somewhat embarrassing conclusion that he wasn't as independent as he believed himself to be. In fact, he heavily relied on others to accomplish his tasks for him. Looking at the people he surrounded himself with, he knew that he was possibly the least mature of the group. The others were 21 and younger, living on their own and learning how to survive on a fixed amount of money. He was still living with his mom who would do anything he didn't want to at the drop of a hat. Not that it was uncommon for people his age to live with a parent. But shit. He was in the same position he was in at sixteen, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

But that was all going to change after tonight, because for the first time in his life, Sam had a job interview. Sure, it was at Holliday's, and though they paid slightly better than the other coffee shops in the area due to their selective nature in hiring practices, it was hardly the most well paying place in the city. He figured that every little bit helped. And it was sure as fuck a step up from doing nothing.

In the North lounge of the student center, Sam watched as Mercedes Jones stretched on pointed toes to tack a bright yellow flyer onto a corkboard. Her dark curls sat gathered atop her head in a neat bundle, and his eyes trailed down to her leather jacket clad torso before resting on the form fitting blue jeans that stretched around her hips and ass. Self conscious that she may have caught him staring at her (mixed with the slight shame of being leery, something he never did), he returned his gaze back to her face. He noted her furrowed brows as she stuck a tongue out and tried to pull an old thumbtack from the board to make room for the new one. He heard her grown in frustration when the tack slipped from her fingers. As amusing as it'd been to watch her scowl like an angry kitten, he pushed himself to his feet to make an attempt at helping her. He wasn't even entirely sure she'd accept his help, as she had the air of stubbornness about her. For whatever reason, he felt inclined.

For a brief moment, as he crossed the room, he wondered how she viewed him. He wasn't exactly willing to ask, as they barely knew one another and he rarely gave a shit about what people thought of him.

Bullshit. He mentally corrected himself.

He cared. Even a little. Pride was a powerful thing. But he had to let people think that he didn't give a fuck. Because the absence of a fuck somehow made people give a fuck. Then it clicked.

Was he drawn to Mercedes because she didn't give a fuck about his lack of fucks? And did he give a fuck because she didn't give a fuck about his lack of fucks? He gave a fuck. And suddenly it mattered whether or not she gave a fuck. But he couldn't pinpoint why. He just wanted her to give a fuck.

"Hey," he called to her, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, "Need any help?"

The tiny brunette made no effort to face him, but he could see from the small rise in her cheek bones that she was grinning.

"I feel like I'm gonna have to get a restraining order soon," she replied, "Once is a coincidence, twice is suspicious- god damn it." She hissed when the thumbtack slipped from her fingers once again. He reached over her head and plucked it from the cork board, to which she huffed softly and brushed her bangs from her forehead.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

"Don't mention it."

There was a brief silence between them, and in that time he took the moment to see what exactly it was that she was passing around. Something about a poetry slam.

"What's that?" He asked. He could've read for himself, but any excuse to have her say something that wasn't injected with sarcasm was one he was willing to make. After successfully securing the neon green page to the board, she turned and handed a fresh one to him.

"Holliday's is having their weekly poetry competition this Saturday. It has a pretty good turnout, but this time we've got a monetary grand prize. Someone donated some money. We don't know who. Holly won't tell us. But it's pretty damn big," her voice hitched a slight octave, exposing her excitement. Charmed by her enthusiasm, he felt the corner of his mouth quirk involuntarily,

"Will you be performing?"

Her smile faltered slightly before she decided that the stack of papers in her hand were far more interesting than the conversation.

"I'm not a poet. That's not my thing," she licked her lips, and Sam's eyes caught the action.

"I dunno, you always gave me a very artsy vibe," Sam replied. And it was true. Even the way she spoke, when she wasn't being rude to him, had a slight melody to it.

"I'm a painter," she passed a flyer to a passing student and continued to fidget with the papers, as if the conversation hit an uncomfortable point, "So that's probably what you're referring to. I guess."

There was another awkward pause, this time broken by Mercedes.

"But, you know, Kurt will be there. He's pretty good at poetry. I know you guys are friends. Maybe you can go for support." She shrugged dismissively at the suggestion, which only made him smile a little wider.

"You know, if you really want me to go you can just ask me."

She shot him a look of pure confusion and then her lips parted. A small giggle escaped.

"Sam Evans..." she shook her head, "look, if you want to go, go. If not, don't. But you'll be missing out. And it'd make Kurt really happy if you did."

He was unaware if she was telling the truth or playing a game with him. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. But she seemed like the type to play mind games.

He leaned against the wall and shot her a winning smile, "But, would it make you happy, too?"

"I don't care either way," she shrugged dismissively, again, before turning on her heels and walking away, "If you decide to go, for Kurt, I'll see you there."

Sam refused to let her have the last word again. This was becoming a frequent thing, and it was both amusing and a minor irritation.

"One of these days," he called to her retreating form, "you're gonna stop being rude to me!"

Spinning around, she walked backwards towards the exit. From where he stood, he could see her eyes glinting evilly, and he tucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I'll stop being rude when you stop enjoying it."