Free Vintage Veronica by Erica S. Perl

hand lotion, pet food, soda, and multi-packs of socks. “You go to HHS, too? How come I haven’t seen you?”
    “I dunno. Probably because most of my classes were in J-Vo,” he says. “I’m done, though. As of June.”
    “Oh,” I say, calculating in my head that this means he’s seventeen, maybe eighteen. Building J, otherwise known as J-Vo, is where they have all the vocational and technical classes, like Auto Shop. It’s out back, behind the terrace where they make the teachers who smoke go. My interest is piqued. I’ve never seen anyone my age at the fleas. And I’ve never known anyone who’s set foot in J-Vo.
    I guess he sees my look, because he says, “It’s not such a bad place. There’s all this giant kitchen equipment and junked cars and stuff.”
    “Do you … collect stuff?” I ask cautiously, meaning the pajamas.
    “Nah,” he says. “I’m not really into stuff.”
    “What about your lizard collection?”
    He thinks for a minute. “I mean, I guess you could say that. But I don’t really think of them like that. They’re not
things
. They’re pets, you know? Don’t you have any pets?”
    “Uh, no,” I say. I want to tell him more, but all I venture is, “I had a cat once. It died.”
    “Maybe you should think about taking care of one of my snakes,” he says cheerfully. “I’d help you get set up with the cage and the pinkies and stuff.”
    “Pinkies?”
    “Newborn baby mice. Snakes love them.”
    “Mice Krispies?” I ask.
    “Mice whuh?”
    “Krispies? Like Rice Krispies?” Nothing. “Forget it, it’s a joke,” I say. “No snakes for me. No offense, it’s just my mom would kill me. Plus, I’m not big on slimy things.”
    “They’re not slimy,” he says.
    “Slimy, scaly, whatever,” I say. “It just creeps me out, okay?”
    “They’re not scaly either.”
    “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Lizard Boy.” So help me God, it just slips out. For a second I dare to believe that he didn’t hear me.
    “What did you just call me?”
    The Nail’s eyes are still the color of dirty water, but now I see them flicker like the water has a current to it.
    “Nothing,” I mumble. I’m tempted to apologize, something I’m not usually a big fan of but which seems like probably the right thing to do at a time like this. I mean, he’s a freaking cripple, right? I should be nice. But just then I see a woven basket sitting there in the hall, with something pink hanging out of the top. It is the pajama sleeve, almost waving at me. It’s like a cape in front of a bull.
    “What I should call you,” I say, my voice wavering a bit, “what I really should call you is Thief. What the hell makes you think you can go taking other people’s stuff?!”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Oh, I think you know, don’t you?” I go to the hall, grabthe pajama top, and storm back into the kitchen, waving it at him for my finale. “
Especially
when you asked ‘Can I have this?’ and the answer was NO!!”
    “I can explain,” says The Nail quietly.
    “Don’t bother,” I say. “I don’t want to even know what you and Claire have been up to. I just want you to know that your klepto days are over. AND that I’ll be taking this with me.” I ball up the pajama top and am about to stuff it in my bag when The Nail suddenly grabs hold.
    “No,” he says quietly, holding on tight.
    “What the hell is your problem?” I yell, and begin to pull.
    “You don’t understand,” The Nail begins mumbling, pulling back. Or maybe what he is saying is,
You wouldn’t understand
. I can’t tell, because I am too busy yelling all kinds of crazy shit at him. It feels very, very important that I win this struggle.
    I should know, after all those seventy-five-cent Fridays at the store, what is going to happen next. But I’m so wrapped up in the moment, bracing my Chucks to get the best angle, watching The Nail’s face turn red as he tries to twist and wrench the pajamas from me, that the sound