Free Something Real by Heather Demetrios

her lip to hide an amused smile—she probably thinks we’re silly little teenagers. She looks like the kind of girl who might carry her own flask, a regular Tower District type. Tattoos snake up her arms, and her lips are vixen red. It’s a cool contrast with her 1950s housewife dress, and I wish, not for the first time, that I had the guts to look like that. But then people would look at me, which is sort of not the point of trying to be wallpaper.
    Finished changing, Mer sashays toward us, the dress over one arm. “You guys ready for some Vicenti?”
    Vicenti is heaven on earth—an amazing Italian deli with dirt-cheap sandwiches and creamy gelato. On warm summer evenings, the line snakes out the door and around the block.
    “Oh, yeah.” Tessa glances at me. “You’re gonna get those, right?”
    I take the glasses off. They’ll draw attention, but they also scream personal bubble .
    “Yeah.”
    We pay for our stuff and head down the street. It’s a chilly afternoon—for California, anyway—so the usual buskers aren’t serenading pedestrians with their guitars. This strip features some of the only independent businesses in our suburban town, where there’s a Walmart or McDonald’s every few blocks. The Tower District’s a mishmash of boutiques, coffee houses, performance spaces, and thrift stores. Everyone who doesn’t fit in comes here, the San Joaquin Valley’s own little slice of San Francisco.
    “Chloe!”
    I jolt as Mer shouts my name, certain that a MetaReel camera must be pointed right at me. But no. When I follow her gaze, I go warm all over. Patrick Sheldon’s behind the counter at Spin, the only indie record store between LA and San Francisco.
    “Mer, don’t stare at him,” I growl.
    “You know, I was looking for a David Bowie record. Maybe—” Tessa starts to cross the street, but I grab her.
    “We are not going into Spin. We’re going to Vicenti.” There is no way I can face Patrick after acting like a lunatic in gov yesterday.
    They both ignore me and sprint across the street.
    “You guys suck!” I say, catching up to them.
    Tessa swats my arm. “No we don’t. We love you. And you loooooove him. So we’re going in there.”
    Just seeing him with his elbows on the counter and his head in a book makes me swoon. The way his hair gets in his eyes and how he bites his lip in concentration … yum.
    “I don’t know what you see in that dirty brainiac, but comme tu veux ,” says Mer. That’s Mer’s French for suit yourself .
    “I disagree,” Tessa says. “He’s got this je ne sais quoi about him.” (They’re both in French III.)
    Tessa opens the door and practically shoves me inside. Patrick immediately looks up and breaks into a startled grin.
    “Baker!”
    It’s a Schwartz thing—he never uses first names in class, and the people who get his weird fabulousness (he once asserted that the Declaration of Independence was sexy) take up the habit. You always know a Schwartz devotee by the use of last names.
    “Hey, Sheldon,” I say.
    He puts a scrap of paper between the pages of his book ( 1984 ) to mark his place.
    “Lee, Mason,” he says as Tessa and Meredith come in behind me. “What’s up?”
    “Mopey Emo Dude! I didn’t know you worked here,” feigns Mer. “This is so what Hamlet would do if he wasn’t a rich-ass prince.”
    Patrick shrugs. “I basically get paid to read and listen to music all day. It’s pretty excellent.”
    “Um.” Tessa glances around. “My dad’s birthday is coming up so I’m gonna…” She points in the general direction of the store.
    “If you need help, just, you know.” He gives a little wave of his hand.
    “Got it. Thanks. Mer, can you show me that album you were talking about?”
    “Yep. This way.”
    And just like that, they’re waltzing toward the rock section.
    I think I’m about to have the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Patrick—well, the longest one where it’s just us. I smile at him and point to