Where to Find Me | Tyrus

Part 2

TJ's POV

"Can I get butter on it?" a kid with a fluffy ponytail in a bow asks, holding up the bag of popcorn I just filled for her.

"It has fake butter on it," I say.

"I want real butter," she whines.

"Well, we don't have real butter."

She pouts and stomps away, and I roll my eyes. It's fifteen past 7:00 and Cyrus hasn't shown up, so I'm stuck filling bags of popcorn alone and dealing with self-centred kids who all want more than they have. They parents don't help, either. They couldn't care less about the miserable boy getting their food, or tell their kids to shut up when they start singing the stupid songs from the movie. It hasn't even started yet, but I'm already sick of it.

I just wish Cyrus were here. I'm starting to feel a little embarrassed for even inviting him in the first place. Why would I ever think that someone as great as him would want to hang out with someone like me? I guess there's a reason why Reed and Lester don't talk to me anymore. Maybe Cyrus got sick of me, too.

I fill another bag with a scoop of popcorn from the machine and shove it into the hand of the next person in line, not bothering to look at them before turning back around.

"You know, your customer service could use some improvement," a familiar voice says.

I whip around to see Cyrus holding the popcorn I just gave out.

"Underdog, you came!"

"I am so sorry I'm late," he apologizes. "My step-dad said he wanted to drive me, but then my mom wanted to do yoga, and—"

"It's okay, Underdog. Just"—I motion for him to come around the table—"get over her and help me out."

Cyrus smiles and walks around. He sits the popcorn on the table and looks up at me.

"What do I do?" he asks.

"I'll scoop the bags. You give them to the people," I direct.

I turn to fill another bag, then reach to pass it to him. When he takes it, I feel our fingers touch, and it makes my stomach leap. He doesn't seem to be phased by it the way I am, though, because he just smiles at me and pulls the bag away to give out. I take a breath before continuing to fill bags and pass them to Cyrus, each time trying to touch hands again. I know I have a problem. This has never happened to me before—feeling this way. But being around Cyrus just makes me feel lighter, happier. He makes the constant wails of Moana songs in the background more bearable.

Once the crowd has been helped, we are able to relax, and I go up to lean against the table, using my arms to prop me up.

"That was . . . busy," he says.

"Sorry," I say. "You probably regret coming here."

"No, no," he quickly responds. "I'm glad you invited me."

"You like working to serve a bunch of screaming kids?"

He shrugs. "With you, yeah."

That makes me melt, and I feel my arms go numb, so I have to lift them off the table to keep from giving out.

Then I notice him rubbing his arms. He's in a T-shirt without a coat, and has goosebumps sprinkled over his skin.

"You cold?" I ask.

He waves it off with his hand. "I'm fine. I guess I was just in a rush to leave and forgot my jacket."

"Take mine," I say automatically.