Free The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) by Sarah Wathen Page A

saying how lovely they would look in his room, “You should care more about decorating, now that you’re starting to have girlfriends.”
    He had been reluctant, annoyed with her for the “girlfriends” comment. The figurines were probably worth plenty of money all together, if not really enough for college. She persisted and he relented. He didn’t understand at first, but it wasn’t long before he figured it out: not two weeks after Sam brought them home, and displayed them on do-it-yourself shelving from the home improvement store (what a joke), one of the figures had mysteriously disappeared. He railed until his mom admitted to selling it on eBay. Furious, Sam insisted on returning them to storage, but she cried for hours. She looked so pathetic he apologized and just tried to forget about it. Periodically, when cash got low though, he would find another figure missing and they would rehash the fight.
    He never bothered to confront her anymore, dreading her tears and his guilt. Instead, he reproduced the lost characters on his walls: in marker, paint, pencil, crayon—whatever he had on hand. His new Shirley County girlfriend, Candy, was an art nut and was enraptured by his “ferocity” and encouraged him to “use it in his work.”
    He could be so enraged that the drawings would come out looking totally unreal. Sometimes, in the midst of recreating a dumb Storm Trooper or some alien’s features, he would remember how important it had been to his grandmother. It was all so foolish. Then, he would scratch through his drawing, raking at the wall with his nails or his pocketknife, the pain too close and the memory to dear to relive it, again and again, in whatever shitty trailer park his home was currently camped.
    Sam surveyed the boxes.
    “Who’s missing now?”
    Admiral Akbar.
    Trying to recall the alien’s features, he plugged in his ear buds and scrolled to a good playlist for the occasion. He rifled through a box of broken oil sticks and worn chunks of pressed charcoal (a gift from Candy), found a blank spot on his grubby bedroom wall, and went to work. He attacked the wall for almost an hour, until he felt a modicum of relief, and stepped back a few paces to survey his work. His boot thumped against a box of paints Candy had recently urged him to take home from The Palace.
    Why not?
    He squirted paint directly on his hands and did whatever he felt like with the drawing for a while. It felt good. Finally finished, the drawing—technically a painting then, he guessed—wasn’t bad.
    “Thanks, Candy,” he said out loud and actually laughed. He saw page after page in his mind of all the expressionist artists she had schooled him with; in support of Sam “finding his voice.” He cocked his head sideways and regarded his recreation of the admiral. He shrugged and tossed the tubes and sticks back into the box, his hands stained with sooty charcoal and sticky with paint, then let out a long sigh, loosening his shoulders.
    Sam decided Candy herself was what he needed. It was late but she was a night owl and might still be up. Fishing his cell phone out of his pocket—belatedly wishing he had washed his hands first—he pushed her speed dial key. She picked up on the second ring. He could hear her father gabbing in the background, “always rambling on about something,” as Candy put it.
    What does her dad get so jacked up about this late at night? He knew the man would often record old Masterpiece Theater re-runs or History Channel specials, and then make Candy watch them with him, talking over the television instead of watching it. Sounds like you’re ready for bed, Mr. Vale. I need your daughter to myself for a few hours.
    “I thought you’d never call, what took you so long?” Candy whispered into the receiver.
    “Hi. Meet me?”
    “Half an hour.” She hung up without waiting for Sam’s confirmation.
    “Perfect,” Sam agreed to the dead phone line.
    He’d worked up a sweat drawing and he felt