And now, part four of one boy’s coming of age story in a pair of stupid pants…
Logan strode up to the counter. He was feeling hopeful, yet simultaneously melancholy. Melancholy had become his new favorite word since attending Donnie’s funeral. Cayenne told him it meant sad or something. He used it whenever he could.
“Can I get a pack of your most melancholy cigarettes?”
The clerk was puzzled, but somehow knew the answer. He pulled down a pack of Virginia Slims. “Can I see some ID?”
“I don’t have any on me right now,” Logan said. In fact, of all the things in his Tripp pants, he did not possess anything remotely close to a wallet, billfold, money clip or coin purse. He did however have the boxcutter that killed his older brother. And a pair of fingerless gloves.
“No ID, no smokes pal,” the clerk stated as he put the Virginia Slims back on the wall.
“How old do you have to be to buy cigarettes?” Logan asked, melancholy about apparent his lack of age.
“Eighteen…don’t you know that?”
Logan let out a heavy sigh. He was only fourteen! That’s why the judge gave him probation when he was convicted of involuntary manslaughter.
Logan walked away from the counter. As he was halfway out the door, a thought popped into his head; Donnie was buried less than a week ago, and Logan knew that if Donnie was still alive he’d probably help his brother out if he knew just how important Cayenne was to him. Unfortunately, Donnie bled out and never got to see how pretty Cayenne’s face spike looks in the midday sun. Or how charming and witty she is when she talks about the girls who shop at Forever 21. Logan knew there was only one way to right this wrong:
It was time for Donnie to meet Logan’s girlfriend.