Page 19 of Faux Real
“I’m not what?” I ask, feigning confusion. He’s kind of amusing, isn’t he? “I’m not of age?”
“Well, yeah,” Cliff murmurs. “You can’t buy alcohol in the States until you’re twenty-one. You know that right?”
“Yes, I am aware of your idiotic rules.” I let out a low laugh. “Heard of fake IDs before? Do they not have those in America? That’s hard to believe.”
“Oh yeah, fake IDs,” Cliff mumbles, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t think of that.” He’s quiet for a second before his gaze flickers back to my cameras. “So you’re into photography?”
“No,” I say deadpan. “I just collect vintage cameras.”
“Oh,” Cliff hums, nodding his head. “That’s—”
“I’m joking,” I say. Poor chap. So much to learn about the world.
“Oh,” he chuckles nervously. “Are you taking photography this year? Mr. Takanaki used to shoot for National Geographic.”
“I am, yeah,” I mutter, propping my headphones back on. Maybe I’ll go check out Saturn Records in the morning, once the bike is out of the shop.
“Cool, me too,” he says, and I turn up my music, slowly tuning out his voice. “Did you want to—”
I close my eyes, the blaring sounds of Guns N’ Roses filling my ears.
Fuck, he’s chatty.
It’s taking longer for the auto shop on campus to fix my poor baby than I thought it would. So rather than spending my last two days of freedom riding around town, I get to spend it inside with Cliff, who literally never shuts the fuck up with his endless parade of questions.
Where exactly are you from? What do your parents do? Do you like America? What do you want to do when you graduate? Do you have a girlfriend? Are your parents still married? Is that your real hair color?
Why does it matter? Jesus Christ, he needs a bloody muzzle. I thought about escaping his inquisition by hanging out in the seniors’ common room but then I’d for sure have people talking to me. But I’m starting to think that one Clifford is as bad as five regular people.
As luck would have it, a text pops up on my phone just as Clifford segues into asking me about my childhood. So fucking intrusive.
“Listen, Cliff,” I say, tossing on a leather jacket and grabbing my helmet off the desk. “My bike’s ready at the shop. So I’ll see you later, yeah?”
I don’t give Cliff a chance to respond before I dash out the door, grateful for a moment of peace and quiet. I fumble around my pocket and pull out the record store business card. They’re open until 6 p.m. today. Perfect. This gives me a couple of hours to browse before curfew at 8 p.m. Fucking eight o’clock! Absurd. What are we? Toddlers?
With nothing else to do yesterday, I actually took the time to read Hilton’s Student Handbook. Lights out at 10 p.m. Every night. Breakfast at 7 a.m. Classes from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. It’s like a prison. We are literally in prison.
After thanking the shop teacher, Mr. Hall, for saving the Triumph, I cut through the quad, checking out his repair job as I trudge toward the road. The paint looks brilliant, you can’t even tell that it was smashed up. Man’s got some talent.
“What did I say about rolling your motorcycle through the grass?!”
Bloody hell.
I suck in a deep breath, turning my head toward the source of my sudden irritation. I had somehow managed to avoid the girl for thirty-six hours. I suppose my luck was bound to run out eventually.
“Kennedy, what a pleasure,” I mutter as she runs toward me, surprisingly she’s wearing leggings and an oversized Harvard hoodie rather than the school’s uniform. I would have thought she lived in that thing. “I’d love to stay and chat but I have places to be.”
She crosses her arms suspiciously, pieces of her hair wisping across her face as a gust of wind swirls around us. “Whatplaces?”
“None of your business,” I say as I continue to push the bike. Is everyone at this school so fucking nosy?
“Well, make sure you’re back by eight,” she sings in a mildly threatening tone. “I wouldhateto have to write you up.”
“Yes, I’m sure it causes yougreatpain,” I say, rolling my eyes as we reach the pavement. “Why don’t you go and bother someone else, eh? I think I saw a group of girls smoking by the garage. Go ruin their day.”
“Really?” she asks in a serious tone, her gaze flickering to the west side of the school. “Where were they?”
“Oh my God,” I sigh, straddling my bike. “You need help.”
