Priscilla was fairly certain that she was going to die.
She'd just ordered a bit of food, claiming that she wasn't all that hungry, and Jan had bought it – that wasn't really the issue. Sure, she would feel absolutely horrible after this and would probably skip supper, but she could deal with that.
No, the problem was the fact that Jan looked absolutely gorgeous and Priscilla could not handle it.
They were at McDonald's, so it wasn't like they were dressed up or anything. Priscilla was wearing skinny jeans and a graphic t-shirt, and Jan was wearing a skirt and a tanktop. Priscilla hadn't straightened her hair, so it was curly and all over the place, and Jan's hair was straight and long and blonde, like always.
And, somehow, Jan had managed to be the most gorgeous person in the world. Priscilla could barely concentrate on breathing, let alone making any sort of conversation whatsoever. She thought that if she tried, she might die.
Jan was having no troubles – either Priscilla didn't look half as good as Jan, which she didn't doubt, or she was just really good at talking to people when said person was attractive.
"So, do you have any plans for college yet?" Jan asked, and Priscilla was jolted out of her internal monologue. Jan took a bite of her McFlurry and stared her straight in the eye.
"I've applied to several colleges," Priscilla said. "As well as scholarships, of course. And then I have my job, so I think it's likely I'll be able to get through this without too much debt. I need to keep my grades up, too…"
"No, I mean what college, what you want to go into…"
Priscilla shrugged. "Whichever good college gives me the best scholarship, and whatever major works the best with me, money-wise and ability-wise."
"Hm," Jan said, and then said nothing else. Priscilla had the feeling that she'd disappointed Jan somehow, and cursed herself. She was really horrible at this whole 'positive relationship' thing, wasn't she?
…
Barkovitch had been playing video games for about six hours straight. It was about two, maybe, and even though he hadn't taken a break for lunch, he'd been snacking on whatever was in his room consistently throughout the morning. Sounds of death blared from his TV and rock music blared from his iPod dock.
Overall, Gary Barkovitch was having a pretty good day.
That was, before Stebbins walked into his room.
He thought it was his mom or Josh or something and tossed a "I'll turn the music down, whatever," before he realized that whoever it was wasn't moving. He glanced back, died on-screen, swore, and realized that the freak kid from the library was in his room.
"Hello."
"W-what the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in here? How do you know where I live?"
Stebbins pulled a map from his pocket and Barkovitch threw his Xbox controller to the ground, stood up, and grabbed the map. He glanced at it and scowled. "What the fuck, you absolute creep."
"Well," Stebbins said. "You're certainly fun to be around."
"Why the hell are you here?"
"I was bored," Stebbins said. He glanced around the room, taking in the darkly painted walls, the half-bookshelf in one corner, the posters half-heartedly pasted up on the wall. The carpet of chip bags and empty cans of Monster. "I thought that I could perhaps pay you a visit."
"Why? What gave you that idea? I'm busy!"
"I don't believe playing video games until the video game tells you to take a break constitutes 'busy.'"
"Yes it does, dumbass. I'm doing something, so I'm busy. Christ."
Stebbins glanced at his TV. "Can I watch?"
"Why the hell do you want to do that? That's boring as fuck."
Stebbins simply cleared a spot with his foot and sat down in front of the TV. Barkovitch sighed and sat down again, restarting from his former checkpoint. But with Stebbins sitting there, just watching him, too close for comfort, he died about two minutes in.
"For Christ's sake, do something!" Barkovitch snapped. "I can't concentrate with you just sitting there like a loser fuckhead douche."
"You're creative," Stebbins said. Still, he got up and wandered over to the bookshelf. "You haven't even touched half of these books, and The Chocolate War looks like it's going to fall apart."
"Most books are dumb," Barkovitch muttered. He restarted and talked while he played, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. "The Chocolate War isn't."
"Have you read The Catcher in the Rye?"
"Yeah. It was dumb."
"The Outsiders?"
"Okay. Movie was better."
"Is that because the movie has several attractive young actors?" Stebbins mused. His voice was so low that Barkovitch was going to pretend that he hadn't heard him. "How about any Stephen King?"
"Tried to read one of 'em once. He's too wordy. I liked the IT miniseries, though. Oh, and the Pet Sematary movie. The Stand miniseries was OK, too. Damn it! You fucking killed me again!"
Stebbins laughed, and Barkovitch scowled as he restarted. He seriously preferred Olson, because at least Olson had the decency to play video games and suck at them.
…
Art Baker was, for the most part, happy to let them sit back and pick out their shoes.
He had a decent enough pair for basketball season, and he didn't really have the money to buy a new pair anyway, so he sat on the shoe-trying-on station and watched the others bicker about shoes and complain about prices and sigh while looking at the sizes. Abraham needed the largest shoes by far at a size fifteen, Parker was a size eleven and a half, and Olson was a mere size nine. It was kind of funny, watching Abraham try to find any shoe in his size.
"I'm going to have to order online again, aren't I?" Abraham asked. He sighed and flopped down in the middle of the shoe aisle. "Every single time I go shoe shopping. You guys are so lucky. God. Why on earth have I been cursed with such large feet?"
Baker laughed. Olson tried to step on Abraham and make it look accidental.
Abraham sat up then and, after giving Olson a dirty look, fixated on Baker. "What about you? Aren't you getting a pair?"
Baker shrugged. "I have a pair already."
Abraham frowned. "Nah, I'm buying you one. Size."
"Ten?"
Abraham nodded and headed off into the depths of the aisle they were in and came back two minutes later with a pile of boxes. Baker was sort of unsure of what he was playing at by buying Baker shoes, but he wasn't really going to complain.
"Try them on," Abraham said, dropping the stack on Baker's lap. "And for God's sake, don't say anything about me buying you a pair of shoes."
Here we go!
