Page 6 of The Friend Scheme
“You just looked at me weird. What’s up?”
We pass by a blue dumpster.
“Nothing, dude,” I say.
He raises both eyebrows.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m just sort of pinching myself that I’m doing this. I should be back at the bar.”
“Why?”
“My dad, I guess. You know how it is.”
He must, if he was at the bar.
He stops walking, and I do as well. He turns to face me. Beside me is a metal chain-link gate, leading into a small yard. It’s overgrown. Above me, there are thick black power cables, connecting power poles that run down the alley.
I feel a little pressed in.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “How about we don’t talk about our families? We can just be us, not our last names. How does that sound?”
I wasn’t expecting that. It sounds amazing.
But I’m Matt Miller. All anyone really cares about is my family. I don’t recognize Jason, but I hardly pay attention when I’m forced to be at the bar. I’m guessing he’s the son of one of the families we’re allied with. Or maybe he’s one of Barbie Barker’s rent boys. He’s hot enough for it.
Wait, what if heisone of her rent boys?
I decide it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t afford it anyway. I hope he isn’t, though. For a lot of reasons.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
He grins. “Sweet.”
We start walking again.
“So you like this place?” I ask, pointing at the diner. It doesn’t look like much. It puts thesussinsuspect. Also, it’s right next to a gas station, which for some reason feels really damning to me. Like it’s going to be especially cheap and fast, even for a diner.
“I do.”
We reach the front door, and Jason opens it for me. A bell chimes. The place is massive, with pink booths and faded wooden paneling. At the back is a mural, sky blue, with a slightly wonky palm tree painted on it.
It’s a whole lot ofwhy?
Jason leads me to a booth in the back and sits down. I sit opposite him. This place smells like coffee and sugar. The local hit-music station is playing on the radio.
The menu in front of me is freaking huge. I flip it over and see there are just as many options on the other side. There’s something available called the “sunrise special” that includes both eggs and pineapple. I almost gag at the thought.
The bell above the door chimes again, and two cops walk in. They sit down at the counter. The server smiles like she knows them and pours them each a mug of coffee.
Okay, so this isn’t the kind of place I’m supposed to be in.
Why am I here? What am I doing?
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Ask random guys you meet in bathrooms to diners?”
