Page 18 of You're so Bad

“You hungry, kid?”

For a second, he has the look of a startled bird, maybe about to fly off, maybe about to take a shit on the truck that got stolen, but then he nods.

“I’m no chef, but there are cereal boxes over there.” I gesture to the collection sitting against the counter wall. “Milk in the fridge. You can take a bowl and spoon from the dish drainer. I’m gonna go grab my first aid kit.”

“Thanks,” he says slowly, his eyes on me as I head for the opening. “How do I know you’re not going to call the cops?”

“You don’t, I guess.” I grab the side of the doorway. “Just like I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth about being almost eighteen. Idoneed to call them about the truck, as much good as it will do me, but I’ll wait. I’ve been where you are before. I get it. And Mrs. Ruiz is good people.”

Or at least my buddy tells me so. She took one look at me and started muttering under her breath in Spanish.

He nods once, but I wonder if he’s going to jet as soon as I turn my back. I grab the med kit in the bathroom, trying to be quick about it without seeming like I’m in a hurry. When I return to the kitchen, the kid’s still there, munching on some Fruit Loops.

I’m pretty sure Shauna would take it as further evidence that I’m a child, but I’ve always had a thing for Fruit Loops. Generic fruit loops, because that damn toucan comes with a markup.

“You’re still here,” I mutter.

“Thought about bouncing,” he says.

“I know.” I get out the alcohol wipes and the needle and thread, then get the needle toasty over the gas range on the stove.

“You sure you’ve done this before?” he asks, eyeing it with suspicion as he sucks down his cereal. He’s eating like it’s been a while since his last meal.

“Yeah, I have. You’re going to have to pull them out yourself or come back here. One week. Maybe two. And if it looks infected, you’ll have to find a doctor. Or a nurse. Don’t wait. Infections can be a bitch.”

“Sounds like you know that from experience too.”

“I’ve spent time on the street,” I confirm, carrying the needle back to the table. “Learned the hard way. Push up your sleeve a bit more.”

I should probably ask him to take off his shirt, but he’s already got that edge of wanting to run. I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of pervert.

He pushes it up, wincing. I don’t warn him that it’s going to hurt—I’m pretty sure he knows a thing or two about pain—but start in with the alcohol wipes.

“You in school?” I ask.

I can feel his sidelong glance. “You sound like someone who’s going to narc on me.”

“I’m not,” I say, still cleaning the wound.

“I’m not in school. None of that shit’s going to help me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you can always get your GED. That’s what I did. You get that, you can find yourself some kind of job. Better that than trying to make it by taking other people’s shit. That won’t get you far.”

“I don’t take anything from people’s houses,” he says, which would be more convincing if he hadn’t just broken into mine. “I took some stuff I needed from a couple of box stores, but that’s it.”

“You hold to that,” I say, “because if you break into the wrong person’s house, you’ll get yourself a bullet between the eyes. Worst that’ll happen to you if you steal Tampax from Target is getting pulled in by the cops.”

His answer is to take a final bite of the cereal before pushing it away. The milk is a gross chalky purple color. His face isn’t far off. “Like I said, his brother’s a cop.”

“Great motivation not to get caught. Or, better yet, to find yourself a job.”

He grunts.

“I’m going to get started now, kid. You need something to bite down on?”

This gets me a half laugh—the half laugh of a kid who’s more innocent than he thinks, because I wasn’t joking. “You got a chew toy?”

“I can get you a rubber spatula if you need something. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

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