Free Silver Tides (Silver Tides Series) by Susan Fodor

was crazy worried about me. I’d forgotten that I’d texted him in the morning to tell him not to pick me up. He’d assumed I’d make my own way to school; when I hadn’t turned up he’d freaked out.
    I felt a surge of hope that my absence had sent him into such a panic; I squashed the feeling, knowing that my attraction to him was not reciprocated. I assured him that everything was fine and I'd see him at school the following day. I couldn't bring myself to share what had happened, despite John being my closest friend; some things were family business only.
    First-term holidays started the week after Dad was laid off. I started looking for work to help out at home. With winter approaching, our seaside village was slowing down; employers kept telling me to check back with them in the spring.
    Without work or job-hunting, I agreed to take John clothes shopping.
    "This is St Vinnie's," I introduced as we walked into the funky-smelling shop. "You can buy designer wear for a fraction of the cost, if you can find it."
    "I thought we were going to the mall," he said, wrinkling his perfect Roman nose.
    "We are," I replied, "but this is the cheapest place to start. They have new stuff and pre-loved stuff..."
    "Pre-loved as in used," John clarified.
    "It's not like we're buying underwear," I told him.
    "Well, there's some here," he offered, picking up a basket of discolored jocks.
    "If you’re happy to share your banana hammock with another dude, go for it," I encouraged supportively.
    He laughed that magical laugh. "I'll pass."
    I pushed the clothes along the rack, enjoying the clack of the coat hangers meeting, as I searched for suitable clothing. I liked the thrill of finding a bargain. Mum was a firm believer in recycling, and op-shopping was part of supporting the environment. It made me sad to think of the clothes being abandoned after being loved.
    Some of the clothes were relinquished brand-new; their tags never removed having spent years in a closet. Those clothes were the best find and the most sad, as they'd never really been appreciated. The op-shop smell was the smell of abandonment, the last stop before being discarded into the garbage. I tried to rescue as many clothes as I could, while remaining realistic about what I would actually wear.
    John found a suit for ten dollars that he loved and looked retro trendy on him. We found three brand-name shirts and the ugliest checkered pants in the history of fashion, which John fell in love with.
    John piled the clothes onto the counter, where a lady as old as the earth added up the total. Her wrinkled hands shook as she put them in a bag, mesmerized by John's flawless features.
    "You can just take these," she warbled, generously.
    John looked ready to accept when I interrupted.
    "No," I disagreed. "Tell us how much."
    "Twenty dollars," she replied, surprised at my abruptness.
    John handed over the red twenty-dollar bill, amused by the exchange.
    "Thank you," I told her kindly, but she was staring at John.
    We exited the shop. John took the wooden steps by two; I joined him on the grey stone driveway. Cars whooshed by sending sprays of water into the air. I pulled my coat around me fighting off the cold as we made our way toward the Blue Bomb.
    "What was that about?" he asked, inquisitively. "We could have got this stuff for free."
    "And you would have been OK with that?" I asked, incredulous.
    "They got it for free." He shrugged.
    "Twenty dollars is a lot for us, but it's a lot more for them. It helps pay the electricity, the water, and the rent. It helps keep the shop open and gives geriatrics a place to go so they don't step off into the great unknown from boredom. For some of the truly lucky ones they get to ogle the likes of you and have an extra special day," I replied comically, making John laugh.
    "So we just performed a civic duty?" he said with false pride, as we meandered across the driveway toward the Blue Bomb.
    "Definitely," I agreed, matching his joking