Tolchester isn't a very large city, located in the more western part of Kent County, Maryland. It's mostly titled Tolchester beach, if it's called anything by anyone outside of the area, but there's not much sand and sun to give the place any right to be called a beach. Sure, there's an occasional pier to fish from, not that you'll catch anything miraculous, and the marina is fairly surrounded by yachts, and as far as I'm concerned, the area is enjoyable and calm enough to be considered quiet, but it's not a likely tourist attraction. In my opinion, of course. I don't think I've ever seen a group of travelers here. I know mostly everyone around, anyway.
So it was odd when I glimpsed the girl on the bench, waiting to catch a bus leading to God knows where. Well, possibly waiting to catch a bus. She could've been just resting, a book propped open in her lap. But I have no idea who she is, and I didn't really notice what she looked like. That's odd, too. I usually take in more things than others. But she only looked up at me once, as I passed by, on my way to the gas station.
The bell rings as I pull open the door, holding it open for Mr. Crei, the former owner of a tiny antique shop that hardly attracted more than the occasional fly. His shop gained much more attention, especially from my older brother, when Ellie Crei, his granddaughter, decided to start working there on weekdays. I'm sure she's tired of his constant attention by now, even if he's always been confident and (according to his six previous girlfriends) extremely attractive. I'm pretty sure we've been opposites since birth.
"Thank ye, sonny," he croaks to me. I smile at him and nod. He may be losing his hearing and eyesight, but he's never taken his life for granted. The world needs more people like him.
In the gas station's store, I snag a bag of chips from the shelf, followed by a Coke and a candy bar for Al, my brother. I'm hoping he's not expecting a drink as well, since it's always my money being thrown away here. My dad promised to go shopping this morning, but he's still sleeping off his hangover. I never really expected him to follow through with anything he says. I've learned from prior experiences.
However, this is all I can afford at the moment. I saved up all my money from my shift at the gas station for a companion. Someone who isn't as untrustworthy as my dad, someone who isn't as immature as my brother, and someone who can give my little sister attention and receive the same thing in return.
All of this balled up into a pet mouse. As foolish as all that sounds, mice can be as kind and cuddly as you shape them up to be.
Anyway, the cage, food, toys, and bedding has pretty much put me into bankruptcy, but Marie is happy to have something to do throughout the summer. If she's happy, I'm happy.
"Having some trouble there?" Brandon teases. I roll my eyes and turn around, glancing at my best friend. He raises an eyebrow. "You've been standing still and staring at that Snickers bar for a few minutes."
"I'm not having any trouble, thanks," I respond. "Aren't you supposed to be manning the register?"
"Do you see anyone waiting there for me?" he remarks, ruffling his sandy-blonde hair. "Besides, I wanted to know how Marie's doing. Is she still sick?"
"Actually, Mrs. Brotch is waiting there for you," I respond. Brandon turns around and follows my gaze to the counter.
"Oh, right." He laughs and hurries across the shop, to where Mrs. Brotch is placing her groceries on the counter, obviously annoyed. I can hear Brandon making up some bullshit excuse over there. I don't hear Mrs. Brotch's response, but by the look on Brandon's face, it was probably bitter.
I take my place in line behind Mrs. Brotch. I have to pay for my groceries... but it wouldn't hurt to hear her reprimand Brandon. However, she says nothing more and even puts a tip in the rusty tin can next to the packs of gum and magazines, chock full of useless celebrity's 'shocking secrets' and makeup advertisements (so already beautiful women can paint their faces on.) When I get up to the register, Brandon winks at me.
YOU ARE READING
Profitable
General FictionWhy do people contain their thoughts in a diary? To confide in clean pages? To hold secrets amidst scrawled words and blotches of ink? Simply to organize muddled thoughts? How many people would kill to read your diary? Adam Davenport experiences th...