This Could Be Anywhere But Here

Chapter Six

Since my parents and I can't exactly remember the last time I went to church, they came up with the great idea that I should attend mass with them this weekend. Don't get me wrong, Jesus is a nice guy and all, I just haven't been to church in a long time. It's the last thing that I feel like doing, but whatever, they seem like they really want me to go, so I tag along—only after elaborating that I'm in for Saturday evening mass, not Sunday morning. They're nuts if they think I feel like getting up at 8am when I don't even normally go.

During the service, I notice a lot of familiar faces from the party last weekend. I smirk at their presentable states: polar opposites from that night, myself included.

Being home so far hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be. Granted, I'm still trying to figure out what to do for a job and that's a big pain in the ass. There's only so far money tucked away inside graduation cards can get me. I can't go back to asking my parents for help. That's just not an option. But besides that, it's been cool being home.

I didn't think it would be this easy, but things already seem like old times. Kyle and I fell back into familiar habits pretty quickly. We've met up with each other just about every day since we've made amends.

I'm even over the whole gay thing. At first, I admit, I thought about it a little too much. Suddenly being around him again with this new information in mind was kind of weird. I was worried about how comfortable I used to be with him, worried about sitting too close, worried about saying the wrong thing—worry, worry, worry. I was only psyching myself out. It was dumb; he's still the same guy. So we were closer than other kids growing up—big deal.

Besides, it's not like I'm going to crawl into bed with him now because a girlfriend left me.

Now that would be weird.

This whole week, Kyle's been getting his resume together to find some writing job for a paper. It's a constant reminder that I don't have my own life together. But unlike me, Kyle has everything ready to a tee. He has all of his articles and essays that he's written at Dartmouth in a hefty portfolio, raving teacher recommendations, an impressive cover letter, and even has a specific "interview suit" lined up.

"What the hell is an interview suit?" I asked him.

"Working behind the scenes in the news isn't too strict on dress code. This suit is somewhat casual, yet lets them know that I'm professional and business oriented."

"So…kind of like the same concept as the tuxedo t-shirt?"

"What? Dude, no. Totally not."

My parents made me wear a suit to church, so I guess this one is a "church suit." I feel like an old man, but that's probably because it belongs to one. Mom didn't like mine for some weird reason, "Doesn't fit you right," she said, so she made me borrow one of Dad's old navy blue ones. Before we left, she even had the balls to add that we look like twins.

I glance over at him sitting to the left of me as he stares at the altar. He's picking his nose.

I definitely do not look like Dad.

After mass, I walk outside with my parents and the rest of the churchgoers. Mom and Dad greet their friends and make small talk as I follow with my hands shoved inside my pockets, having a difficult time hiding my boredom. I don't feel like mingling with the neighbors while my parents beam about my homecoming—I have shit to do.

Kyle wants me to look over that resume that he's prepared. His interview with the Denver Chronicle is already on Monday. I don't think my opinion matters too much because I don't know shit about writing, but he asked me to do it, so I agreed.

After we bump into my Uncle Jimbo and a few other locals, I sidestep away from my parents to look across the street. The Synagogue just finished their service, too. Kyle said that he'd be there today; maybe I can just catch up with him now.

I walk to the curb, searching the crowd from the opposite side of the street. The first Broflovski isn't hard to find.

Mrs. Broflovski is talking loudly with her fellow Jews, her hair in a bright red beehive about as subtle as her voice. I'm yards away but can almost hear her perfectly. She yanks Kyle to her side, too close for comfort, while she speaks to an older couple. She keeps tippy toeing to kiss him in front of everyone like he's about to disappear without a moment's notice. Mr. Broflovski has the right idea by mingling on the complete opposite side of the crowd.

Even from where I'm standing, I can tell Kyle is uncomfortable.

I maneuver my way through the Jewish faith and make sure that I approach Kyle and his family from behind. I want him to see me first, not his mother. I've made it this far, I'd like to prolong that greeting as much as possible.

I don't want to be in Kyle's shoes.

Before I know it, he's right in front of me, his mom beaming with joy, bragging to another couple, "It's so great to have my little Bubbee home! You know that he was on the honor roll at Dartmouth? Oh we're so proud of him! He even studied Hebrew in Israel! Isn't—"

"Ma!" He sounds frustrated, "Will you knock it off? Can we just go now? The service ended fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh don't be silly, Kyle. I haven't even told them about you trying out for basketball, too. He didn't make it, but he gave it his best shot, didn't you, sweetie?"

I smirk. I don't see it, but I know that he's rolling his eyes.

As Mrs. Broflovski continues, I decide to step in. I tap his shoulder and he turns around so fast his yarmulke almost falls off his head. He turns to me and mouths the words: help me.

I laugh silently, "Do you still want to go back to your house so I can look over your stuff?" He's nodding even while the words are still coming out.

"Yeah, let's get the hell—"

"Oh my Gawd! Is that little Stanley Marsh I see?"

Shit.

I smile as she approaches me with her arms wide open. I have half a notion to dodge her because she's coming at me with such intensity that it can cause a guy to panic.

"Nice to see you, Mrs. Broflovski," I manage to say before she attacks me with a hug. She tightens her grip and all I can think about is my lungs collapsing because they sure as hell feel like they're going to. I see Kyle sporting an amused grin over her shoulder as she squeezes another lost breath from me.

When she pulls back, she immediately starts, "You didn't visit your mother very often either, Stanley. I haven't seen you since you left. What is the matter with the two of you? You have to visit your mothers. We missed you both so much. Four years is such a long time!"

Neither of us knows what to say. I'm sure Kyle has been through this at least a million times since he's been home so I glance at him for help with an answer. He just shrugs.

Wow, so much for help from him.

She continues, "Now, how was college, sweetie? Tell me all about it. Your mother said that you kept up with your baseball. She's so proud of you."

I'm a little surprised. Of course, Mom tells me that she's proud of me, but hearing it from a third party is always kind of endearing.

I'm glad that Mrs. Broflovski gets off the topic of visits though, or rather, lack thereof. I can't very well tell her that I just needed to get away from this fucked up town, "It was great. I kept pitching, and we managed to score a few titles for a couple of seasons." I end it there, sticking with the only thing that I had going for me.

"That's just lovely. You always were the little sports star. I'm glad you moved on from that football, though. Such a violent sport. Kyle here got to study abroad in Israel last year! Isn't that—"

Kyle butts in immediately, "Goddammit, he already knows. Will you quit telling everyone?"

"For the love of Abraham, Kyle! Language! Don't take the Lord's name in vain, especially in front of the Synagogue. Have you lost your mind?"

He shakes his head and slightly twitches his jaw, his frustration with her crawling through his face.

"And why should I, Bubbee? You should be proud of your accomplishments!"

With perfect timing, my parents approach us from across the street, the sun finally setting behind them. "We were wondering where you wandered off to, Stanley," Mom says as Dad walks along side of her, dragging his feet. I can tell that he wanted to go home an hour ago—when mass started.

"I stopped over to see Kyle. We're gonna head out," I say, rushing my words to just finally get out of here. "I'll see you guys later," I start walking in the opposite direction and Kyle follows beside me with zero protest.

"It's so nice to see them together again, isn't it Shelia?" Mom says with a sigh as she stands next to Mrs. Broflovski. I can feel the two of them looking us up and down like we're framed inside of a picture perfect moment. If I could puke right now, I would.

"Oh, of course! Kyle's just so happy to have his best friend around again."

Kyle whips around at the sound of her voice, even though we've already managed to walk a few feet away. His face is heated to a shade of pink, "Ma! Seriously. Are you just going through a list in your head of ways to embarrass me?"

I grab his arm, "Dude, just let it go."

"Kyle, don't let things bother you so much, sweetie. I'm not trying to embarrass you."

He waves her off, "I'll see you and Dad later."

Inside Kyle's house, Ike is lounging on the couch. We startle him when we walk through the front door and he looks paranoid for a split second before realizing that it's just us.

Kyle only acknowledges his brother with a short and practically inaudible "hey" before heading right up the steps.

I, on the other hand, haven't seen Ike since I've been home. It's always different when you don't see a child for a few years, and then bam, they're practically your height.

Ike's in high school now—God, that's so weird.

Ike was like my own little brother. He's a genius (there's studies to prove this,) so he's always been ahead of the curve with kids his age. It never seemed like I was hanging out with some tiny brat when he tagged along with Kyle. He's always been pretty cool company.

The kid has a mouth on him, though He's just always had it, ever since he could talk. It's hard for him to construct a sentence without some kind of profanity—more so a constant f-bomb in between phrases than anything else. I can't lie, growing up around us had to influence that.

Kyle can wait a few minutes. I walk over to the couch and take a seat on the arm, "So, why weren't you at the synagogue?" I ask with a smile.

He coughs, overdramatically to emphasize that he's faking, "Fucking sick."

"Right."

He stands to give me a quick hug and then plops right back down on the indent he's left in the cushion, "I didn't feel like sitting through the God spiel today. Lisa was kicked off last night and I had to catch a rerun." He gestures towards the television.

There's some show on that consists of a washed up rock star with all of these girls trying to "win his heart." Or his wallet, whatever.

"You watch this shit?" I'm surprised.

"It's entertaining how pissed off these girls get at each other over this fucking guy. He has the reading level of a fifth grader and the personality of a paper bag. I want to pick up an instrument just to pick up girls. That's all you fucking need to do, apparently."

"Really, that's your reasoning for watching this?"

"That, and have you looked at them? Not one without absurd cleavage. Why the fuck wouldn't I skip service for this?"

I laugh. Teenage hormones always outweigh a genius brain.

He looks up at me, a bit curious, "Why did you come in with Kyle? You're Catholic."

"I was at Church with my parents. I saw your family afterwards, so I went over to say hi and kind of save Kyle."

"Save?" He shakes his head and directs his eyes back to the television. "She's been bitching at him ever since he's been home."

"What?" I raise an eyebrow. "It was kind of the opposite. She kept kissing him and showing him off to everyone."

"Oh!" He sits up like he suddenly remembers something; "I've been meaning to ask you for a favor. I was waiting until you came home."

"Sure, dude. Anything–besides buying you beer."

"I wasn't going to ask that, but now that I know you aren't up for it, I won't ask later. The fuck, since when did you become uptight?"

"I'm not. Your mom is just a psychopath. She would murder me if she ever found out I did something like that."

"Anyway, what I really want to ask is if you can help me out with my pitching. Just show me some stuff. I'm on the baseball team at school now, and they need a new starter. I really want to try out."

I'm definitely down for helping out Ike. Any excuse to play some ball, I'm in. It's just surprising. He always hated it when Kyle brought him along to my games, "Really? I thought you hated baseball."

"I did, for a while. It used to be really boring. But I started playing with a few kids from school and then began to really enjoy it. Besides, I'm better at sports than I am music. Girls are into athletes, too."

I shrug, "Baseball is like that. I hated it when I was a kid and then it grew on me." I pat him on the back, "I'll definitely help you, dude. I can come by this weekend."

Kyle's yell from upstairs interrupts our conversation, "Stan!"

Ike smiles, "You are being summoned."

I laugh and make my way towards the stairs, "I'll keep you posted. We can work on your fast ball first!"

When I open Kyle's bedroom door there are papers everywhere. "Dude…"

Kyle's standing in the middle of it all, looking over areas as if they all have a specific purpose in the way that they're thrown around. He holds up a hand to stop me before I move any further into this mess. "Be careful…This all has a point."

I look around, wide-eyed, "I thought you said you had everything organized…" I trail off, about to move forward, but I stop. Fuck that, who knows what I might step on.

"I am organized…Look." He walks over to me, stepping over papers like he's jumping from stone to stone across a rapid river. When he reaches me in the doorway, he points to the left of the room. "That's additional shit that I wrote in college," The middle of the room, "This is stuff I'm keeping for the portfolio I'm taking to Denver," The right, "And this…well, I don't know what a lot of this stuff is. I started going through it last night. My mom had a whole box of shit that I just forgot about, and she saved everything. Check it out," He bends over and picks up a stack of papers. They're bound together with a strip of green plastic and riddled with paragraphs regarding the medieval period.

"Holy shit!" Recognition hits me instantly. A joint project with Kyle saved my grades big time that year. "Dude, this took us forever. I can't believe your mom saved it."

Kyle snatches it back with a smirk, "You know, it probably wouldn't have taken half as long if you didn't keep asking me to take a break every five minutes."

I continue looking around the room, overwhelmed by the amount of scattered white around me. I have no idea what Kyle plans on doing here, but I practically wince when he says: "All right, let's get started."

Two hours later, my stomach is clawing for food, my attention span is long gone, and Kyle still isn't finished sifting through all of these damn papers.

"Kyle. Seriously. We've looked through those already. Can we just go grab some food and call it a night? I'm starving, and Kenny'll be here soon."

"Okay, ten more minutes and I'm done. I swear." He's hunched over in the middle of the floor, cross-legged, glasses sitting atop his head. There's one neatly stacked pile of papers sitting beside him in the midst of this mess.

As I prop my feet up on his desk, and lean back into his uncomfortable swivel chair, I take note of the glasses, "I thought you were wearing those because you were straining your eyes reading? That's all we're doing right now, and they're on your head. What the hell's the point in that?"

His eyes never look away from the text in front of him, "I was. But they're only temporary. It's not like I'm blind, dude. I'm trying to get used to not wearing them again. Here," he looks up and tosses me a brown folder, "look through these real quick and see if any are dated later than '04. If they are, let me know."

I catch it but just stare at him. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Aw, come on! We've been doing this for two hours. How much are you giving this dude who's interviewing you? A novel? Jesus Christ."

"I'm giving them variety, dude. This way they know that I have range as a writer. Last pile, I promise."

I groan and flip open the folder, only to be greeted with—surprise, surprise—more papers. Everything looks the same to me now. It's just Kyle Broflovski, the title of the paper, and then walls of text. I have no clue what anything says anymore. The paragraphs are starting to morph into little cheeseburgers. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm leaving his ass here when Kenny arrives to get some food. No hesitation.

I thumb through sheet after sheet, just checking dates and doing nothing else because I wasn't asked otherwise. A lot of papers are from 2003, so I flip through them faster, my hand racing with boredom. I catch two or three that are dated 2005, our graduation year, and toss them to him, but when I get to the bottom of the pile and find one dated 2004, my hand stops.

Dartmouth College
FIRST YEAR COMMON APPLICATION SUPPLEMENT
Important:
This two-page form should be completed and mailed as soon as you decide to apply to Dartmouth. Do not wait until you have completed any other forms.
Send to: Dean of Admissions, 6016 McNutt Hall, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH 03755-3541.

I tilt my head. It's atop a packet that includes an essay, teacher recommendations, and all the bells and whistles that go hand in hand with a college application. I flip through a few of its pages and it looks like it's just a replica—faded text from a shitty scanner. I don't remember Kyle actually taking the time to apply to Dartmouth. He said that his Dad had last minute connections to get him in, or some crap like that, and that was senior year. The dates don't match up.

"Hey, I found your Dartmouth application," I casually say and hold up the bundle of papers.

He doesn't answer me at first, or even notice that I'm speaking to him. So, naturally, I grab the closest item on his desk and beam it right for his head. The stress ball almost knocks his glasses off.

"Dude!" He looks up immediately, "What was that for?"

I hold up the packet again and wave it in my hand, "Your Dartmouth Application. It's in this brown folder you gave me."

He stands up, places his glasses back onto his face, and takes it from me. He looks over the application before saying, "Hm, I could probably use the essay here for something."

I look at him, "I thought that you didn't even apply?"

He scans through the pages further, flipping from beginning to end, "Yeah, but I still had to fill out an application. For formality."

I run over the dates in my head. It doesn't make sense. This application is dated 2004. We graduated high school in June of 2005. If he was accepted last minute, this should be dated May of 2005, at the earliest, right?

My stomach rumbles again so I just hand him the brown folder and focus back on getting out of this room. "There's nothing else in here. It's mostly '03. Are we done? Let's go to Shakey's. Like old times."

He laughs and drops the folder onto the floor beside other rejected documents and looks at me, "You said the same thing when we were there on Tuesday."

Before I can respond, I hear the door open, followed by a familiar muffled voice, "What in the fuck…"

The two of us look towards the entrance and there is Kenny standing there in his traditional parka with confused eyes.

"What are you two doing? Having a 'Kill the Trees' rally? It's fucking ridiculous in here."

"Yeah, Kenny," Kyle says, mouth dripping with sarcasm, "that's exactly what we're doing. We're picketing at Shakey's pizza in ten minutes. You in?"

I interject immediately, noticing only the time frame, "Ten more minutes? Dude, no way. Put this shit down, and let's go. You have plenty."

"Wait," Kenny starts, making it a point to not even advance further into the room, "we're really going to a rally?"

X x x X

At the pizza parlor, the three of us have a hard time eating because we can't stop laughing at one another. I haven't seen Kenny since the party, so the three of us haven't had a chance to all get together yet. And just like when Kyle and I began talking again, the three of us fall back into the groove of our old friendship almost immediately. We rattle off memory after memory of our childhood; everything from Blainetology, to Big Gay Al, to old Terrance and Phillip episodes.

I've forgotten how well I really get along with these two. When you begin college, it feels like a whole new era in your life. You're out of your parents' house, living on your own—it's exciting. You're in a new world, with new priorities. You forget about your life back home for a while. And then soon enough, it's over, and you really realize that you kept certain people around for a reason. I couldn't ask for better friends than the two at this table.

And even though Cartman is a dick, it's kind of odd for him not to be filling the fourth chair. I'd call him now, but Kyle is still trying to ease himself into being around Cartman again. He saw him at the party last weekend, and that's apparently enough for right now.

I grab a fry from the basket sitting in front of Kyle—just as I've been doing the entire time that we've been here—without asking.

"Kenny," Kyle says through a bite of pizza, only barely noticing that I stole a fry again, "I saw a homeless dude's moldy ass sandwich on a blanket outside. You should eat it."

I laugh right away, remembering Kenny eating anything and everything for fame and money back when we were kids.

"I saw it too, and no way. I'm not gonna fuckin' eat that."

"Come on," I start, "since we haven't all been together for a while, you gotta do it. For old time's sake."

Kyle looks at me, "Jesus Christ, Stan. You keep saying that. You sound like you're in Golden Girls."

"Shut up," I steal another fry from him, out of spite.

He looks down at the basket and then up at me, "Dude."

I chime in on the instigation, ignoring Kyle's protest, "I'll give you twenty bucks if you eat it, Kenny." I may be low on cash, but this is a perfectly logical thing to blow twenty dollars on.

He rolls his eyes, "My price has upped over the years, guys." He grabs a fry from Kyle as well.

"I'll throw in twenty, too," Kyle says, pulling out his wallet and thumbing through its contents.

"Twenty-two? Don't be cheap. You're only upping it two bucks?" Kenny asks.

"Twenty…too. As in twenty as well? Knock it off, you know what I mean."

"That's forty bucks! How can you resist?" I say. Kyle and I both have excited grins on our faces like little ten year olds. We were always entertained by dumb shit like this.

"I can add, you twat," Kenny comments.

"Did you just call me a twat?" I ask, feigning appalled.

"Twats only give their friends forty bucks to eat some moldy fucking sandwich that probably has AIDS!"

"You used to do this for five," Kyle points out.

"Things are more expensive when you're not just spending your money on lunch or milk at recess. I have a car to pay for now."

"Okay, okay," Kyle says as he looks through his wallet again, "I'll give you fifty."

I reach over and grab another fry from Kyle, and then Kenny does the same. We both smirk.

"Dude!" Kyle protests.

"What?" I say along with Kenny in perfect unison and complete innocence, "If you're putting out fifty bucks to make Kenny eat a sandwich, then you can spare a few fries."

"These are not communal fries, you vultures!" He slides the basket closer to himself and the three of us just laugh.

We decide to give up on the sandwich proposition since Kenny isn't budging on the matter, regardless of the money involved. I guess its better that I save my money anyway. Kenny looks at us, wiping his mouth of grease with the sleeve of his coat, "So, what the hell was going on in your room, Kyle? I was afraid to walk in there."

"I'm getting stuff together for my interview. Stan was helping."

"Yeah," I say, "big mistake there. We were reading for like, two hours."

"Ouch," Kenny says. "When is it?"

"We're going down to Denver on Monday."

Kyle nods as he takes another bite of his pizza.

Kenny arches an eyebrow, "'We?'"

"Oh yeah," Kyle nods, "Stan is coming with me. He's just gonna wait it out in the office while I do the interview, and then we're gonna walk around downtown to see if we can find Mr. Irresponsible something to do that will pay him money."

"Shut up, dude," I retort.

Kenny laughs, but is unable to comment on the matter since Kyle's phone rings. Kyle walks away from the table to answer, but is back quickly.

"You had to walk away for two minutes?" Kenny asks. "Some top secret shit you got goin' on there, Broflovski?"

"What are you guys doing next weekend?" He suddenly asks when he sits back down and pockets his phone. All talk of interviews and sandwiches is put on hold.

We both shrug. It's not like my schedule is packed.

"My friend Travis is flying in next Friday to visit. It'd be cool if you guys could hang out and meet him while he's here."

We both look at him, but the hint of surprise is filling my face more so than Kenny's. Sure, he's mentioned Travis a bunch of times, telling me stories from the past few years, but he's never mentioned anything about a visit. And it's so soon. I guess, normally, this wouldn't be too weird, but we just came back home last week. I haven't even emailed any of my friends from college let alone having one of them get on a plane to come visit from across the country.

"You didn't mention this before," I say.

"I'm mentioning it now."

"Who's Travis? Your boyfriend?" Kenny asks, sticking true to his blunt fashion as he continues on with his food.

"What? No. He's just a friend. Can't a guy visit a friend?"

"Sounds like a boyfriend to me," Kenny comments again.

"Shut up, dude. He is not. I'd tell you guys if he was. Are you in or not? It'd be cool if he gets a chance to meet you two while he's here. I might ask Butters along. I don't think I want to subject Travis to Cartman, though."

Kenny and I just look at each other and silently agree. I tell Kyle, "sure, why not" and then we finish eating, gather our things, and head our separate ways.

I don't know why this Travis guy sticks in my mind, but he does. Why is it so important I'm free to meet "just a friend?" I don't really care if Kyle or Kenny meet any of my other friends. Travis has to be some sort of romantic interest. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I want to ask Kyle about it, because I have this feeling that he's hiding something, but I don't mention it the rest of the week. Even when I'm outside with Ike, tossing a baseball back and forth on their front lawn as Kyle sits on his step with a beer, I don't bring it up.

And I definitely don't mention it when I see him on Monday to accompany him on his interview because I'm too busy trying to keep his nerves down to a somewhat normal level.

During the entire car ride to Denver, I have to reassure him that he'll do fine. He's so nervous that if his fingernails were bitten any lower, I'd have to find him a first aid kit.

I let him know that his tuxedo t-shirt type suit looks great, his packed portfolio will do nothing but impress, his resume looks ridiculously perfect, and he will do just fine. He always gets nervous and stressed for no reason in situations like this. I don't understand it. This kind of thing is his specialty. This is the area in life where he knows exactly what he's doing—what is there to be nervous about?

But at the Denver Chronicle, in the administrative office, sitting in the midst of outdated magazines and cheap paintings, his nerves are viciously bouncing his left leg up and down like he has something wrong with him.

I put my hand on his knee to stop his fidgeting, minding not to interfere with the crease in his suit pants. "Stop it. You look like you just did a line of coke, for Christ sakes."

He runs a hand over his head, adjusts his glasses, and then his tie, "I can't help it, dude. I'm really nervous."

I bring my hand back to my own lap, "Remember how much of a spaz you were for your driver's test? You forgot how to turn the lights on you were so nervous."

He laughs, albeit briefly, "This is a great time to bring up how nervous I can get and then fuck up, Stan."

I give him a reassuring smile, "Because after that, you aced the entire thing. You even parallel parked better than you did practicing. You get so nervous for no reason, Kyle. You know you're good at pretty much everything you do."

I can tell that he's unsure of my words. I want to shake him and just be like, 'lighten up, dude,' but I continue, "Except for cooking. You and I both know that you burn toast."

He laughs again as he releases the tension in his shoulders and tells me to shut up, that my own toast skills aren't much better.

A woman opens the door, adorned with a nametag and a pencil in the bun of her hair. She smiles at us and I hear Kyle's breathing come to a stop, "Kyle Broflovski?"

He pats his suit down, stands up, and I whisper, "You'll be fine. Good luck."

He walks to the door and follows the woman through the doorway. He looks back at me one last time and I instinctively give him two thumbs up, like a total dork. I see him smile just before the door closes off my view of him.

I've spent all of this time trying to calm Kyle down, and I didn't even notice just how nervous I am myself. I really want him to land this job. All of that time spent preparing…he'll be so disappointed if he doesn't get a call back.

Plus, I will shoot myself if I have to help him go through more of those papers.

They'd be nuts if they didn't hire Kyle, though. Here is a graduate from one of the top Ivy League schools in the country, and he's applying to a paper in Denver, Colorado—practically the middle of nowhere compared to where he could be. Of course they'll want him. If anything, he's overqualified.

Staring down the shined coffee table in the middle of the room, I pause for a moment. That is kind of weird. Why wouldn't he try for a paper in a bigger city? New York? L.A.? Why Denver?

I look through the window to my right as cars and lines of people cover the sidewalks, passing the row of tiny shops along the street. I sigh and dread going out there. I shouldn't even be worrying about Kyle. Where the hell am I going to get a job?