Apparently we’re the last stop on the route, because when our little motley crew gets on the bus, there’s not a goddamn seat anywhere in sight. The driver gives me a look when I board, like she’s wondering what I did to get my car taken away. A guy I sort of recognize from football training last summer—a sophomore, I think—shoves the guy next to him so he gets up and is forced to squeeze in with two freshmen chicks across the aisle, then he waves me over. The entire way to school he gives commentary on some of my best plays. It’s equal parts flattering and painful and it almost makes me miss it, but I don’t.
The ride is so much longer and bumpier than I remember, and then comes the worst part: getting off the bus at school as all my former teammates sit around the main entrance waiting for the first bell to ring. Of course it’s Brett who sees me after shaking his stupid blond hair out of his eyes, but he smartly pretends he doesn’t. For now anyway.
When the final bell rings at the end of the day, I contemplate hanging around until the after-hours bus comes for the underclassmen who have practices or rehearsals, so I can be spared the humiliation again. But in the end, I decide: Screw it. I’ll have to do this until I can figure out my financial situation anyway. Might as well embrace the big, bad, yellow limousine.
? ? ?
The guy who runs the dog shit business is working on a yard a few blocks away the next morning, conveniently near my bus stop. I know which house he’s at thanks to the clever magnetic sign on the side of the car that reads “Sh*t, Richie!” above his phone number. The sign is in the shape of a steaming pile of dog shit, including three wavy lines above the words, indicating the stench. The owner’s name is Rick. Rick is doing this job because he got laid off from his fancy corporate job—he won’t elaborate further, which I find a bit fishy—and was unable to get another job for over a year.
“I figured, who likes to pick up dog shit, right? There’s gotta be cash in that, right? Well, guess what? I’m doing okay now,” he says.
“Well, I’m not sure what exactly qualifies one to clean up dog shit, but I do have a dog. And he does shit. And if I don’t want to step in it when I mow the lawn, I am responsible for cleaning up said shit,” I say.
“You bein’ smart?” He grins at me, narrowing his eyes.
“No, sir. I really need the job.” I think about just how much I need the job and I consider playing the “dead mom” card, but he laughs and pats my shoulder.
“You’ll do just fine. You start next Monday. I’ll work out a schedule over the weekend.”
“Do you need me to fill out some paperwork or something?” I ask.
He laughs again. “I’ll be paying you cash, unless that doesn’t work for you.”
“Cash is great. Cash is perfect,” I say, shaking his hand vigorously.
He digs into his backseat and pulls out another magnetic “Sh*t, Richie!” sign the size of my forearm. “Don’t lose this or it’ll come outta your pay. And I expect you to keep it on your car even when you’re not working. Gotta advertise.” He hands me the magnet.
Fantastic. My very own dog shit sign. Oh, wait, there are two—one for each side of the car.
? ? ?
I get off the bus the next day wondering which is more humiliating, taking the bus or pulling up with “Sh*t, Richie!” signs on my car. I make eye contact with Brett again. This time he watches me instead of looking away. He’s up to something. I can feel it. I just have to decide whether or not I care.
? ? ?
Since it’s a slow day at the studio, Henry shows me some basic retouching—Jordyn’s better at it than he is, so she’ll do the real teaching later on. Then I’m finally rewarded with a paycheck on my way out the door. I rip into the envelope the second I get in the car. $344.62 after taxes. I can definitely work with that.
I stop by the bank and deposit it at the ATM. Since it’s a check, I have to wait until Saturday for it to be available but I still feel better knowing it’s there. I’ll just have to remember to take out the usual fifty dollars I’ve been putting away in my just-in-case-I-need-to-get-the-fuck-outta-Dodge fund, plus another fifty per week to replenish what I took out for the jacket.
When I get home, Dad’s car isn’t there, which is always good, but since there’s a package waiting for me on the doorstep, it’s even better. He’d have opened it not caring what kinds of federal laws he was breaking and might have even destroyed it, just as a fuck-you to me. I could have had it delivered to the studio, but I wanted to be the one to give it to Jordyn. Worth the risk.
I dump some food in Captain’s dish and I grab a knife to gently slice the package open. The jacket looks as good as in the pictures, but the leather . . . ! It’s maybe the nicest leather I’ve ever felt in my life. Even softer than the old jacket. I hope Jordyn has the sense not to wear it to school again. If someone dares to mess with this one, I will seriously kick the shit out of them.
I can’t wait to see Jordyn’s face when I give it to her on Saturday.
But as I try to fall asleep I glance back over at the jacket hanging on the folding chair next to my pathetic desk. I can’t just give it to her. What was I thinking? That’ll be way too awkward. I’ll have to figure something out.
? ? ?
Wednesday afternoon, Henry’s shooting a very talkative little girl who asks a million questions without bothering to wait for any answers.
“Why is that light flashing at the same time as that one?