Vegas Boys

"Okay, so here's the finalized shopping list: bed, dresser, couch, arm chair, coffee table, kitchen table and chairs set, refrigerator, microwave," I read off the make-shift list I'd made on the palm of my hand.

"...What about the washing machine and dryer? And the dishwasher? And the stove?" Brendon demanded.

"You don't need them," I replied bluntly.

"...What?!"

"You can wash your dishes by hand," I explained. "And there are approximately three trillion laundromats in downtown Vegas alone, so I'm pretty sure you're good to go with your laundry. And don't even try to tell me you've ever used a stove or an oven in your life, because I know it's a lie."

"But...but... I don't wanna wash my dishes!" he whined.

"Tell it to your bank account," I muttered grimly.

Brendon groaned. "God damn you, Smoothie Hut! God damn you to hell!"

"I think we can get just about everything here except maybe the refrigerator and the microwave," I told him. "We can go to Sears for that."

"Ohhh..." he moaned again. "But Sears is expensive."

"Don't worry," I said sweetly, patting his shoulder and kissing him on the cheek. "It's gonna be fine. I'll help you."

"Okay," he sighed. "Maybe one of the sales clerks will give me a discount if you sleep with his brother, or something."

"Way to look on the bright side, Brenny."

"Mmhmm."

We looked at couches for a while, and finally found one for $500 that wasn't completely useless. It was green and covered in that fake velvet shit, but it was big enough and comfortable--or so Brendon declared as he collapsed onto it and stretched out, plainly scratching himself on purpose as the victimized Tim walked by. We found an arm chair that sort of matched (okay, not really) for $400. We bought a plywood, assembly-required coffee table and a nearly identical bedside table for $40 each, and a nice wooden dresser for $150.

I had convinced him that all of these were great deals (and they really were), but at this point, Brendon put his hands on his hips and bit his lip. "Okay," he said bracingly, "be straight up with me. How much have I spent so far?"

I had been carefully keeping track of the expenses, but I paused for a moment, like I was calculating, just to buy time because I knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Uh...about eleven-hundred dollars."

Brendon's eyes were on the verge of popping out of his head. "Eleven-hundred dollars? As in...one thousand and one hundred dollars?"

It was actually a little more than that, but I just nodded timidly and went along with it.

He groaned and rubbed his face wearily. "Oh, God, Kelsey...there's no way I can do this."

"Yes, you can," I reassured him.

"No, I can't!" he insisted, throwing his hands up in the air. "I can't afford it! I already have to pay $400 a month for this fucking apartment, and then the band's talking about renting practice space...and all I've got's, like, eight-hundred dollars saved up from the Smoothie Hut--"

"Eight-hundred...but I thought--I thought you had money in the bank--"

"My college savings," he interrupted bitterly. "But I'm not going to college, so my parents won't let me have it. Legally, it's still theirs."

He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, staring angrily into the distance, engulfed in thoughts of his conflicts with his parents. But something else he had said had stuck in my mind.

"You're not...you're not going to college?"

All the anger disappeared from Brendon's face; his expression relaxed into one of soft, reassuring surprise--it made my stomach churn, because it was the exact same expression my mother always gave me when I caught onto one of her little charades and she was about to try and convince me I was mistaken.

"Well, no," he said quickly--too quickly. "It's just that--I mean--"

"Why?" I stared at him; there was nothing he could possibly say to justify this, I was sure. "Why aren't you going to college, Brendon?"

"Because, I..." He shuffled his feet and looked away, rubbing his arm and scratching his head nervously, fidgeting. "It's just not the place for me."

"Bullshit."

He met my gaze and suddenly his was pleading. "Kels--it's not important, lets just--"

"It is important!" I shrieked at him, and he flinched. Heads were turning; we were causing a scene in Big Lots for the millionth time that day. "It's your future, Brendon! What the hell are you going to do--are you going to work at the Smoothie Hut all your life?!"

He shied away from me timidly, but I felt no remorse for him. Was he really going to throw his life away like that? When he had been blessed with so much talent and intelligence and potential? No wonder his parents were throwing him out.

"No," he mumbled. He mustered the courage to look at me again. "I'm gonna...I mean...I need to focus on the band."

I stared at him--this was the very last explanation I had been expecting. "The band?" I repeated stupidly.

He nodded miserably.

"You're blowing off college so you can focus on the band?!"

"Kelsey, it's not like that..." he tried.

I scoffed bitingly. "Well, maybe your mother was right then, Brendon," I said coldly.

He shook his head, closed his eyes--like I was being ridiculous. "You don't understand."

"Enlighten me," I challenged.

Brendon sighed and bit his lip, his expression pleading. "Can't you just support me? It's my decision. It's my life. And it seems like everyone's against me all of a sudden, and I don't know what to do, and..." He trailed off and turned away, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes and drawing in a ragged breath. I waited for him to compose himself, because I knew there was no way I could hold to my argument if I saw him crying.

"Brendon..." I sighed. I was giving in--I just couldn't stand to see him like this. "I'm not against you. I just don't want you to throw your life away."

"I'm not," he promised, turning back to me and sniffing a little. "And I know...I know it doesn't make sense to you right now, but it will soon. Just...just give me some time, and then you'll see..."

I just nodded and pulled him into me, and he buried his face in my hair and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's gonna be okay," I told him, rubbing his back comfortingly. "Everything's gonna be fine."

He just nodded into my shoulder.

After a few minutes, I pushed him off and smiled. "Come on," I said, taking his hand and leading him towards the door.

"Where are we going?" he asked blankly.

"To obtain some neccessary finances."

-----

I always thought that Dad lived as modestly as he did because he was kind of a tightwad. He loved making money, but hated spending it; I was pretty sure he had millions socked away, invested in various arrays of banks and other ventures. He owned several vacation homes (which he rarely used) besides the one he lived in year-round in Vegas, which was much nicer than all the other houses in the neighborhood, but definitely only a fraction of what he could have afforded. Despite his earnings, Dad just wasn't a fan of the high life.

His only indulgence was his cars, really. He was always driving a brand new luxury car, and if you were someone who knew a lot about cars, he could tell you all about each one for hours. But I knew nothing of cars, so after the initial showing off/bragging spiel, I was mostly just aware of their ever-changing presence in the garage.

There really was no telling how much money he had saved up. But there was enough that when I explained Brendon's situation to him and asked if he could loan him some money, Dad took out his checkbook and asked off-handedly, "So, how much should I make this out for? Thirty, forty grand?"

Then Brendon's eyes were popping out of his head again, of course, and he was speechless, so I answered for him: "I don't think he needs that much, Dad."

"Oh," said Dad dully, smirking at Brendon's wide eyes. "How much?"

"I don't know..." I glanced uncertainly at Brendon, but he was still in mild shock, and he was probably just as clueless as I was anyway. "How about five thousand? Does that sound okay to you, Bren?" I asked sweetly, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

The sound of his name must have caught his attention, because he seemed to come out of his daze. "Yeah," he agreed, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Yeah, that's fine."

Dad made out the check, still smirking, and handed it to Brendon, who examined it with wide eyes and shaking hands. "Just pay me back when you can," Dad told him kindly, attempting a genuine smile.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Yeah--uh, thanks Mr. Matthews," Brendon managed.

"Any time," replied Dad gruffly, already returning to his work as we shuffled out of his office.

Brendon was still staring at the check in his hands as we made our way across the front porch. "They're gonna think this is a fake," he told me.

I laughed. "No, they won't. Don't worry. It'll be fine."

He just nodded blankly, in a stupor, as I helped him into the driver's seat of his own car.