21
GOLDILOCKS
Since I’m out of lunchmeat, I make two cheese sandwiches and a fresh pitcher of tea. Enough worrying about money. Louis’s right. I have plenty to worry about without letting my embarrassment sidetrack me.
Beatrice is on my couch. Doing what, I don’t know. She hasn’t had too much to say to me today and I’m trying not to look at that too closely, especially in light of what Stocky-and-Hostile told me this morning.
“Travis,” Beatrice calls.
“What, Beatrice? Travis who?” I walk in to the living room carrying my sandwiches and a full glass of tea, ice clinking.
“Travis is the name of the bastard that said those things to you this morning.” She’s looking at me steadily. “I think you should know his name.”
“I forgot you have to read me.” I take a deliberate bite and chew slow
