His dad exhaled a sigh. He could only imagine what they were going to say about this once they hung up. “Rafe, I’ll put more money in your bank account, but I think you and Mom should have another call to discuss what you can make overthere.”
“I’ll be fine.Seriously.”
“We love you,” his mom said. “This was just a surprise. Our son is an ocean away. I don’t him starving todeath.”
“And everyone is still treating you well?” his dad threwin.
“Yes.”
Rafe rested his head against the brick wall. He thought about his trip to Asda and Eamonn’s jokes about his cluelessness. They were funny then, but they stung with truth now. It hit Rafe just how much control his parents had over hislife.
“Don’t worry, Mom andDad.”
“We’re not worried anymore. We addressed the situation and have come up with a solution,” his dad said. “Just remember that we want you to have a good time there. We’re not yelling at you. This is your first time on a trip like this, so we want to make sure you’reprepared.”
“Thanks.” But Rafe didn’t feel any better. He had tasted freedom, and he wantedmore.
Eamonn
His last class of the day, Humanitarian Policy, he had chosen because it was closest to his hall, so he didn’t need to walk far to get home. It turned out to hold his attention longer than any other class. Eamonn hated seeing people getting treated like shite, and he couldn’t believe the atrocities that were still being committed. The professor brought up clean water initiatives and how one billion people in the world didn’t have cleanwater.
Fuck.He thought of the water fight his hall had last spring when it got really hot out. They took that clean water forgranted.
Eamonn returned to the flat and smelled the salty, processed aroma of ravioli. He felt a smile take over his face as he approached thekitchen.
“Look at you. Watch out, Jamie Oliver.” Eamonn took a seat at the kitchen table and watched Rafe work his culinary magic at thestove.
“Do you wantsome?”
“Sure. I’ll take a fewsquares.”
“Nobody calls itthat.”
Eamonn shrugged. “I reckon that makes me thefirst.”
Rafe dipped his finger in the sauce to check the temperature, then licked it off. Eamonn twitched in histrousers.
“How are things?” Eamonn asked, not sure how to touch on Rafe’s 180 last night after his phone call. “Everything okay back home? Did they run out of McDonald’s and pick-uptrucks?”
Rafe stirred the ravioli. His face clouded over with what had to be a memory of the call. “My parents are just worried about me and how much I’m spending and how I’m going to eat while I’mhere.”
“They’ve been snooping in your bank account again?” The anger rose inside him. “Your parents shouldn’t be able to tell you what to do and where to spend yourmoney.”
“Theirmoney.”
“Well, that obviously needs to change.” Eamonn had heard the term helicopter parents, especially in posh areas of London, but Rafe’s mum and dad reminded him more of co-leaders in a totalitarianregime.
“I don’t know if I can get a job here. I’m on a visa. Do youwork?”
“Bet your ass I do.” He listed off some of his former jobs. Through the tint of nostalgia, Eamonn looked at those experiences as character-building and fun memories, but he also remembered the slog of waking up early and delivering papers in the rain. “I just work summers now in my uncle’s warehouse. I make enough money to last throughout theyear.”
“That sounds reallyawesome.”
Eamonn detected jealousy in his voice. It made him think about people who drop fifty pounds on vintage clothing or sign up for expensive wilderness programs so they can pretend that they live off the land. “You need to start making your ownmoney.”
“Agreed. But I don’t know how. I don’t have a work visa, and I’m not eligible for workstudy.”
“I will gladly pay you for sexual favors.” Eamonn leaned back in the kitchen chair, pleased with making Rafelaugh.
