Roomies Read Free Page B

some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that Keyon would be working there, too. Me, him, and his dad were basically the lunch crew, with a little extra help eleven-thirty to one. But Keyon and I are work friends, who talk about work, and do work, and then leave work and don’t have any connection in between. If he drives me to Goodwill, then we’re either going to officially be friends outside of work, or I’m mooching rides.
    “Are you sure you have time?” I ask Keyon now.
    “Where else do I gotta be? City Hall?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe you’re, like, the special assistant to the DA in your off hours.”
    He laughs. “You watch too much TV.”
    It does feel urgent to get the microwave. Like I need to prove to Ebb or Elizabeth or whatever her name is that I’m into this, I’m on board, as sort of an apology. She was obviously annoyed, or hurt, in her last e-mail. The flat I’ll see you in August without closing punctuation left no doubt in my mind that she’s already starting to hate my guts. I want to get this stupid microwave, even though I don’t need it for another two months, just so I can e-mail her to tell her I found it. A peace offering.
    “Okay,” I say to Keyon. “Thanks.”

    He maneuvers his dad’s boat of a Chrysler through the city streets. It’s awkwardly quiet. After several blocks, Keyon asks, “Do you have your seat belt on?”
    “Yep.”
    More awkward quietness. Then we both start talking at once.
    Him: “My dad is obsessed with seat belts—”
    Me: “One time we got pulled over—”
    Then we both say, “Sorry, go ahead,” at the same time, which makes us laugh. He tells his seat belt story, and I tell mine; then we’re there and he somehow manages to find a big enough parking spot within three blocks of the store.
    The store smells like Goodwill always does, musty and mildewed, a little like my grandma’s garage. And it’s crowded, even at this time of day, the merchandise looking extra-unappealing under the fluorescent lights. Keyon lifts his arm in greeting to a guy at the register. “Hey, Mikey.”
    Mikey, who is even taller than Keyon and a lot lankier, only nods, counting out change.
    “Here,” Keyon says, placing a hand on my shoulder to steer me to the electronics department, such as it is. There are a lot of old TVs, outdated computer monitors, ancient stereo systems. And one microwave.
    “It’s way too big,” I say, tentatively touching the grimy handle with one finger and then quickly withdrawing it. “This is like a microwave from the dawn of microwave invention.”
    “Yeah, you don’t want that. Hang tight a sec…” He goes off toward the front. I look over the toys shelf nearby, seeing if there’s anything Gertie or P.J. might like, and do not believe my eyes when I see a Mrs. Potato Head. There’s no box, and she doesn’t have all her parts, but she’s woman enough to make a good companion for Mr. P.
    After what seems like a long time, Keyon returns with Mikey. He glances at the Mrs. Potato Head in my hands and raises his eyebrows, apparently bemused. “Follow us. We’re going to the room where they sort new donations.”
    “Oh, awesome.” I ask Mikey, “That won’t get you in trouble?”
    “My boss is cool with it once in a while. Friends and family. I mean, you’re still gonna pay .”
    We walk into this massive room in the back and are greeted with a bunch of suspicious glances from the employees who are sorting piles of stuff. “My cousin,” Mikey announces.
    Keyon pats his chest. “Me.”
    “Yeah, I think they got that,” Mikey says. “Take a look around. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
    I don’t know where to start. Keyon goes straight toward the corner of the room where there’s furniture and other bigger stuff. A love seat. An entertainment center. A few dining room chairs. I go to the opposite corner. More TVs and old computers.
    How do I tell Ebb that I can’t just go out and buy a brand-new microwave, even at