Free Hellhole by Gina Damico Page B

let in, but Max had turned off all the lights and locked all the doors. He knew that she knew that he wasn’t really out, but there was no way he was letting anyone inside the house, for their sake and his.
    He made a peanut butter sandwich. He ate it.
    He did a crossword puzzle. Then another.
    He killed a fly, taking note of the way the gunshots stopped for a brief moment as the yellow goo oozed out onto the table, as if Burg could sense the death. As if he were enjoying it.
    Max shuddered a little.
    He shuddered some more.
    When six o’clock finally rolled around, he stood up, opened the basement door, and crept halfway down the stairs.
    Burg was sitting on the couch in his underwear, shouting at the TV screen, and bending an old tennis racket in half, violating rules four, two, and three, respectively. The presence of his mom’s old tennis racket meant that Burg had ventured into the storage/workshop area of the basement, which would probably lead to some troublesome developments in the future, but for now, all Max wanted to do was get out of the house, and fast.
    â€œI’m going out,” he announced in a voice that was more high-pitched than he wanted it to be. “To, uh, steal you some dinner.”
    â€œGreat!” Burg said. “I’ll have twin lobsters, a filet of elk loin, a vat of truffle oil, and a package of Twinkies.”
    Max sighed. “I can obtain exactly one of those items.”
    â€œUgh,
fine.
Make the elk rare, with a side of mint jelly.”
    Max stood there a moment longer. Once he was satisfied that Burg was well into what he called his “Gutsplosion Campaign,” he snuck back upstairs to peek into his mom’s room. She appeared to be sleeping, but then she stirred and waved him in.
    â€œHey,” he said softly. “I was just gonna run out for some food. How are you feeling?”
    â€œExhausted,” she muttered, still half asleep. “Must be that marathon I ran yesterday. Rocketed right past the Kenyans. ESPN’ll be here later for an interview. Put out some quiche.”
    â€œGot it. Quiche. Anything else?”
    He was answered with a snore.
    Â 
    Sweat was becoming a big problem in Max’s life. The amount of time he spent in the throes of nervous panic had gone up exponentially, and with it, the amount of perspiration. Not only had Burg somehow settled the basement into a permanent setting of a hundred-plus degrees, but now that Max had been forced to interact with a strange girl about a subject he had no earthly idea how to broach in a tactful, non–police-alerting manner, his hands were the clammiest they’d ever been. They became so wet on the way to the craft store that they kept slipping around the handlebars of his bike, at one point causing him to veer into traffic and almost be run over by a Little Debbie delivery truck, because getting flattened by a giant supply of devil’s food cake mix would have been just the most darling, ironic cherry on top of the shit sundae his life had become.
    Just Glue It sat between a seafood restaurant and a laundromat in a small block of storefronts along Main Street. Max hopped off his bike and walked it down the narrow alley behind the building, scrunching up his nose as he passed several trash cans and a river of malodorous, fishy slime snaking its way out the back door of the restaurant.
    At last he reached what he assumed to be the craft store’s dumpster, judging by the amount of sparkly debris surrounding it. He propped his bike against the wall, took out a granola bar, and waited, chewing and wondering how it had come to pass that every major traumatic event in his life these days seemed to involve a splash of glitter.
    The back door abruptly slammed open.
    Startled, Max began to choke on a cashew. Really choke—airway blocked, face turning blue, fingers clawing at the wall, as if tunneling through to the store and grabbing a handful of pipe cleaners was the