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: : : —HEY, MEGAN SAYS, —HAVE YOU seen Matt around lately? I haven't seen him since, like, I don't know when.
Tim is busy stacking creamer pods into a tiny pyramid, he doesn't look up. —You didn't hear?
—Hear what? Megan says.
—Matt and Nick moved into the city.
—Oh, really?
—Yeah, they got a place together. They've been making pretty good money doing their delivery thing. He puts the final pod on top of the pyramid and he looks up at her. He remembers a conversation, at this very IHOP, where Matt said you should totally do Megan, she's hot. He tries the thought out in his mind: she's hot. He doesn't know whether he agrees or disagrees. She's a girl. She's got blond hair that she wears back in a ponytail. She's dressed in a heavy coat, some kind of army surplus job, with some kind of weird insignia stitched on the shoulder. He doesn't think she wears much makeup but he's not sure that he's be able to tell, all he knows is that he never sees her put any on. She's not exactly the kind of girl that he thinks of when he thinks of a girl who's hot.
—I wish I could move out, she says, dragging her spoon slowly through her coffee. —But who knows when I'll be able to. I thought maybe I could get away next year, go off to college somewhere and live like in the dorms? But my parents want me to go to Oakton—they say that's what we can afford—
—They talked to me about moving in with them, Tim says. —Matt and Nick. They're looking for a third roommate, and they're talking about maybe, when I graduate—
—What are you planning to do about college?
—I don't know, Tim says. —Fuck college.
—Don't your parents want you to go?
—Yeah, Tim says. —You know, like yours, they're all maybe Oakton. But fuck that, I don't want to go some lame community college. Plus they can't make me do shit. I'm gonna be eighteen in March—
Megan frowns. —What about like, getting a good job and all that?
—Jobs, Tim says. —All jobs suck. I wouldn't want the kind of job that college helps you get. Work in an office somewhere. I'd rather be a fuckin' janitor. Plus, I mean, I look at my sister—half-sister—she's running a record store. That seems like a pretty sweet job, and she didn't go to college.
He refills his coffee cup from the thermal carafe.
—You know who really wants me to go to college? says Tim. —It's funny. It's Matt. He keeps saying You've got talent, I want you to do something with it, I don't want you to end up like me. Whatever the fuck that means. He keeps telling me I have to go to art school, the Art Institute or something.
—Maybe you should, Megan says.
—Nah, Tim says. —C'mon, art school's for fags. Plus—I don't want to look at a bunch of old paintings all day. The kind of art I like—graffiti, comic books—they don't give a fuck about that kind of stuff in art school.
—I guess not, says Megan. —So what are you planning to do?
—I don't know, says Tim. —I'll finish up here in June, and then, if they still need a roommate, I'll probably move in with Matt and Nick.
—What are you going to do for money?
—I don't know, says Tim. —I'll get a job somewhere. I'll work at a fucking McDonald's or something. This is what people do, you know? They go out there and they find jobs. It's not that complicated.
—I just think that maybe Matt has a point, she says. —I've seen your drawings, they're good. Maybe you should—
—Whatever, Tim says. —They're drawings. Drawings are drawings. They're not fucking God's gift to the world.
—They're good, Megan says.
—Whatever, Tim says.
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