Fear and Laundry by Elizabeth Myles Page A

here seems to be that I’ve lost my mind,” he explained. “Figure you must be thinking the same thing.”
    I shook my head. “I was actually just thinking that I could relate to what you said. About not knowing what to do with your life.”
    He seemed surprised.
    I drew my legs up into the chair, hugging my knees.  “I don’t know what I want to do, either. I mean, it changes every day.” It was nerve-wracking, frankly. And it didn’t help that I couldn’t talk to Lia about it. She practically had the next ten years of her life plotted out and didn’t understand where I was coming from. “Sometimes I wish someone would just step in and tell me what to do, you know? So I wouldn’t have to make the decision myself and risk screwing it up.”  
    “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said. “My dad loves to tell me what to do and I hate it.” He laughed hollowly. “My mom’s the opposite, though. She never has anything to say. I trust you, honey ,” he mimicked Elyse’s voice. “ Just do whatever makes you happy .”
    I groaned. “Why do people always say that? My mom always says the same thing.” I knew she meant well, but it felt like totally useless advice.
    He shook his head. Maybe it was an ex-hippie thing, he theorized. Hadn’t they been obsessed with everyone just feeling good and “doing their own thing, man?”
    I laughed, and he granted me the first full-fledged smile I’d seen from him since he’d been home. He deposited his now-empty plate on the cluttered nightstand, stood and walked to the other side of the bed. Kicking a box out of the way, he bent to open the mini-refrigerator and rummaged around inside. “You want something to drink? It’s mostly soda in here that I swiped from the pantry. But there’s one Shiner.” He held up the yellow-gold can. “I’ll split it with you,” he offered, straightening.
    But then he noticed my hesitation and reconsidered his offer. “You ever had a beer before?” he asked.
    “Course I have.” Once , I thought. I stood up, hand on my hip. He looked doubtful but pulled the aluminum can’s tab and brought the beer around to me. I took it and drank, fighting to control my grimace as the sour taste washed over my tongue. “Thanks,” I said gruffly, wiping foam from my lip and handing the can back as casually as I could.
    “Don’t mention it,” he said, amused.
    I moved to the brass bed, sitting down next to his guitar and trying to think of something else to talk about. I was reluctant to go back to the living room, knowing I’d only lie awake worrying. I considered asking Jake for his opinion about his sister’s plan to break and enter into the Crawford to accost a rock star, but knew Lia wouldn’t like that. Instead, I told him I’d heard there was a sequel to the Hellraiser movie.
    “Two,” he said as he walked past with the beer can. He poked through a pile on his dresser. “I’ve got a copy of the second one around here someplace.” After a little more digging, he held up a black VHS cassette, labeled with ballpoint pen and masking tape.
    “A bootleg?” I asked, mock-disapprovingly.
    “I got it from Paul Drake,” he said, as though this somehow exonerated him.
    “Whatever happened to him?” I was genuinely curious about the fate of Burro Bruto’s last drummer.
    “Haven’t heard from him in a while. He’s in jail, for all I know. Busted for video piracy. So, you wanna watch this?”
    “Now?” I looked at his clock radio. It was after midnight. But I really didn’t want to leave. “Okay.” I shifted around, moving a pillow so it cushioned my back against the headboard.
    He turned the television back on and switched out the tapes in the VCR. Black and white lines wriggled across the TV screen before the VCR’s automatic tracking kicked in to correct the picture.
    I thought he’d sit in the chair, but he moved his guitar and settled in close beside me on the bed. It wasn’t until his sleeve brushed my