"I CAN' BELIEVE THEY'RE SO good live!" I exclaim, skipping after Demi [I'm starting to regret befriending the BFGs]. She's dancing all the way to the car, bellowing the lyrics of the last song with her sibling jerking off some Michael Jackson dance moves by her side.
"Do you love post-hardcore now, Midget?" Dominic asks in a sing-song, his attempt in falsettos completely futile—his voice is able to hit any note regardless of the perplexed attempt to scratch the notes off as some off-key vocalization.
"I wan' to buy Casey a shirt," I stop in my tracks. Even though the boy didn't want anything, I could see he longed to come with us, but he couldn't. The next best thing is spending my last few dollars on a shirt for him. "D'ye' think we can make a stop a' the merch stand?"
I scan back over my shoulder at the merch stand with a tsunami of fans flooding the front desk. Maybe not the best idea, but my brain was fried before the concert and now I'm pumped and semi-deaf.
"Terrible timing, but sure," Dominic shrugs, turning around in his tracks. We wander back in a drunken trail to the flooded merchandise store-let.
Casey does funny things to me and my sympathy knob, because I wouldn't usually bother spending a penny on anyone, never mind stand in a line as long as the Nile river. [It's probably not that long, but I'm used to getting everything I want first hand without cuing up for it.]
Standing in the line doesn't suck the youth from my veins like I expected.
Casey has enough shirts to clothe the entire African continent's children. I haven't seen him in the same shirt twice, making it particularly difficult for me to figure out what to buy for him.
"Wha' shirt does he no' own?" I ask, my eyes running over the stock meekly.
"He has most of the top row." He beckons to the hanging shirts framing the merch-stand's roof. "He has this fetish for long sleeves and prostitute-like female prints, so maybe that one with the girl on." He points to a black and white baseball shirt with a flashy pinup girl, barely clothed, stamped on the chest.
"Prostitute female prints?" I repeat, scrunching my nose in disgust.
Dominic laughs amused as if my face itself represents some new stand-up comedian while his hands fidget in his pockets. He pulls his phone out, but instead of answering like a normal person, the caller ID shoots and kills his benevolence.
"Who's i'?" I ask, slipping to the front of the line.
"Casey," he scratches the back of his head. He answers, pressing his phone to his ear. "Hi—Mrs. Vincent?"
"Hi, can I help you?"
I push my head back to the girl in front of me, taking the orders. Why would Casey's mom call Dominic over Casey's phone?
I fish my attention from faraway childrens' hospitals to scan over the clothing once more. Dominic said long sleeves—to my realization, it's almost the only design of clothing he wears, no matter how expensive.
"Hi, yeah, can I please ge' the baseball shirt on the bottom in a medium."
"You're a little small for a medium," she snorts amusedly, taking the money from my hand. Her tattoos glisten in the weak florescent light dangling from the tented roof, each design telling a story untold. I've never thought of tattoos as skin cancer, I thought of them as omitted visual aids of a person.
YOU ARE READING
last resort
Ifjúsági irodalom❝Sometimes you've got to bleed to know that you're alive and have a soul, but it takes someone to come around to show you how,❞ She's the tear in his heart, he's on fire. She's the tear in his heart, she makes him higher. He's the butcher with the...
