Get Used To It by Kent Bushart

Author:Kent Bushart [Bushart, Kent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2017-09-08T22:00:00+00:00

II

Now we were seeing each other more, meeting at the coffee house or for lunch or dinner, and texting frequently. I texted him at night, telling him to sleep well, he texted me after soccer practice and asked me how it went.

Once, as we were walking away from the Student Union building, on one of those newly-minted spring days, we passed Kevin Little. He was deep in conversation with another guy, a good-looking gay buck, but he saw us and did a double-take.

“Hey, Kevin!” Patton called, in the boisterous way he greeted lots of people.

“Hi,” he said in reply, but he wasn’t looking at Patton, he stared at me. As it happens I was wearing my White Sox cap again, so he probably remembered me. Well okay.

Finally, a couple of days later, I’d had enough. Enough of seeing him and those pink, pouty lips, without doing anything about it.

I looked at Carlton’s class schedule, taped on his desk. He had Physics at one, and lab immediately after that. He should be gone two solid hours, at least. I called Patton.

He immediately answered. We’d mostly been texting, not calling, so maybe he knew something was up.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Come to my room.”

“Now? I have Freshman English starting soon.”

“I have Western Civ,” I said. “I’m blowing it off.” Skipping classes was not my style, my parents were paying so much for them, but I didn’t care at that moment.

“Well . . .” I could tell he was weighing it.

“Come on,” I said firmly.

“Okay.”

I gave him my room number, and told him how to find it fast. While I waited I brushed my teeth, and straightened my bed. Then I sat on it and waited.

Sooner than I was expecting, there was a knock on the door.

“Hi,” he said. I stood aside and he came in, dropped his backpack by the door and shed his jacket.

I was ready to jump him right then, but he started looking around like he owned the place.

“This is your room, huh? Cool,” he said.

“It’s not any different than any other freshman dorm room,” I protested.

“No, this is yours,” he said, as he took in my Cristiano Rolando poster. Other than that, there wasn’t really much to distinguish it.

He sat down at my desk and started poking around. At first I was bugged, then I calmed down. I didn’t care what he saw.

He opened the top-middle drawer all the way and looked, shuffling stuff around. I figure he was nervous.

“Hey, what’s this? Pot?” He pulled something I’d forgotten about out of the back of the drawer.

“Eh, no,” I said. “It’s a smudge stick.”

“A what stick?” He asked, looking it over and smelling it.

“A smudge stick. Yeah, my sister gave it to me. Not the one with the baby, the other one. It’s dried sage. You’re supposed to burn it and wave it around when you move into a new place.”

“Huh?”

I rolled my eyes and laid back. “It’s a New Age-y thing. You’re supposed it burn it and wave the smoke around, to purify your new surroundings.

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