Free Where Futures End by Parker Peevyhouse Page B

at the thought.
    The truth is, I’m not making nearly enough money at this job to put a dent in Brandon’s debt. And contrary to what collection agencies think, no relative is going to take interest in our sad plight and come up with the cash to spring us from MyFuture. All we have left is an uncle who subscribes to the idea that throwing money at a problem never solves it, which usually I would agree with.
    Also, with Brandon’s interest piling up the way it is, he’s on track to be transferred to a colony thirty miles south where they sleep eight to a room and get one bathroom for an entire floor.
    So a good-looking, richie-rich tourist is just what I need right now. He can either add some pretty to my feed and get me some ad revenue, or he can give me cash directly once I become his temporary townie girlfriend.
    I try again with my e-frame. It still can’t get a read on him. It also tells me the plume of brown liquid coming fromthe marble straw is not for human consumption. Way to advertise a soda, right? I try to think of something to say to him, something Lola might say to lure him into the choppy waters of our shop and moor him in a booth with a good camera angle.
    I can get you a flavor foam Girl With Pleasing Anatomy four hours before the evening shift.
    Please be advised this is not a public drinking fountain but a flawed attempt at advertising soda with something resembling soda but completely unsafe for consumption.
    I’m covered in my own skin!
    That last one is a line from a feed that was popular last week, but maybe it’s too old to reference? Maybe he’s heard it so many times it’s not funny anymore? He’ll have to force a laugh and then wonder why he wastes his vacation hanging out on the plaza meeting desperate locals.
    I get so flustered thinking about it that I finally just say, “The seating is located inside. Where the chairs are.” It comes off a little snarky. I’m not having the best of days.
    Saint Professor, my Tuesday regular, is not happy that I abandoned him.
    â€œI’ve been watching your feed on my e-frame here,” he says. An image of me through one of Flavor Foam’s cameras shows on his clunky, school-prescribed e-frame. “I saw you loitering on the patio. When I place my order, you fill it right away.”
    I’m guessing he had a particularly bad day at school.
    â€œAnd you don’t shove it onto the table like you just did,”he continues. “You approach from right here near my elbow and gracefully slide it in front of me. Like a seal gliding over butter.”
    As Saint Professor leans over the table, I notice a little notebook in his shirt pocket on which he has scrawled
T. S. Eliot
. I almost grunt in frustration. If you’re going to lecture me on something, how about poetry? How about ultra-dense symbolism that I’d never be able to decode on my own?
    â€œI come here every Tuesday,” Saint Professor says. “I know how these things are supposed to work.”
    â€œI’m also here every Tuesday,” I say. “Also, pretty much every other day of the week.”
    Saint Professor’s frustrated scowl turns into a smile of genuine warmth. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on,” he says, and gives me an encouraging chuck on the shoulder.
    I grit my teeth. I make no further delay in searching out those imperiled ice-cream nuggets.
    And, goodie, there’s still some boxes left. I squat in the frosty air of the walk-in fridge and consider ways to prevent Brandon’s transfer to Debtors’ House, which I’ve heard serves only one large meal a day and encourages residents to scour the surrounding neighborhood for cans to recycle in order to make some “snack money.” Brandon’s skinny enough as it is. He thinks I don’t know he sneaks his bacon onto my plate every morning like I’m a little kid.
    I could call Griffin and ask him to send us