[The Maine's cover of Hold On We're Going Home is fueling my life rn]

His idea of skipping and acting out was sitting in a near empty classy diner (it was called Richie's, which was so stereotypical it hurt), with milkshakes and half pound burgers served with animal style fries for an extra dollar. It was probably a rip-off, but it quickly became my new favorite food.

They were delicious, I wasn't complaining about that, but I kinda was. Out of every place in town, he chose a cliche restaurant. If I could've picked, we'd be in a junkyard setting fire to things and dropping burning matches in trash cans filled with broken shit. I wasn't sure what I expected though; it was his first time ditching, probably ever.

"Isn't this exciting? I feel so rebellious." He whispered. He was nearly shaking in his seat, out of nervousness or whatever.

I shrugged. "It's alright, I guess." We weren't anywhere special. Anyone could walk in, there was no thrill of watching and waiting to see if a cop would round the corner and chase us for a few blocks. Drinking milkshakes just didn't supply the same adrenaline rush, even if they did taste insanely good.

"Is something wrong?" Dallon frowned and leaned over the table a bit. He dipped his head close to the table and tried his best to read my expression, which was only a blank face. He could definitely try. "I thought you liked to do these types of things? Did I do it wrong?"

He looked twice as confused when I told him everything was fine. His jaw dropped slightly and he slumped back with his arms crossed. "You're lying to me, aren't you!"

"Oh, I would never—"

"Quit the sarcasm," he leaned against the table and pouted like a lost puppy, "what's wrong? Don't you like skipping class? You don't wanna go back to school, do you?"

Of course I didn't want to go back. Nobody in their right mind would ever willingly go back, especially not if they had a milkshake in front of them and a whole city begging to be ruined. "No, I'm having fun here with you. I do love this place," a total lie, "but... I wish we were doing something more exciting, if that makes sense. When you ditch, you can't just sit around on your ass and sip milkshakes for six fuckin' hours."

"Like what? Isn't ditching alone more than enough excitement for you?"

I had to start off small. I couldn't convince him to help me shoplift from the gas station on the first skip. He'd probably catch on and I'd wind up back where I started, maybe even in a deeper hole than before. "How about we just go around town? We can go shopping? Sightseeing?"

He patted his pockets, the tiny one on his uniform shirt, and the front pouch on his backpack. "I have some money in my bag."

I was hoping we wouldn't have to shoplift. "Okay, then let's go," I pointed to the exit and he glanced over too, "let's go have fun."

🖍🖍🖍

After spending about fifteen minutes at a pricey store in town square, it'd dawned on him he only had thirty bucks, and everything in the vicinity was at least fifty. So we took a nice walk to a slightly sketchier area of town, and found ourselves out front of a quaint thrift shop.

"I've never been in a thrift shop before," Dallon held my hand a little tighter; anxiety was besting the side of himself that'd kept him putting one foot in front of the other, "it's not too scary, is it? It looks scary. Are you positive that this is a good idea?"

All I could think about was the time I went searching for a decent twenty dollar jacket for Pete at the same store, and he walked out with two shirts and a pair of boots that lasted for over three years. "I'm sure it's a good idea. I go here all the time."

"Really?"

"Kinda. I haven't been here since, like, last December. I've been pretty busy."

He held his breath for a moment before pulling me through the doors, only a few paces in front of me. He'd stopped abruptly at the odor sucker-punching both of us in the face. It'd been a long time since I'd set foot in the building, and it didn't smell strongly of dead animals, campfires, and lung cancer back then. The business must've been repossessed by a smoker.

The setup had been drastically altered. The shelves were replaced with racks on wheels, cluttered with shirts and jackets that nobody wanted. Another section was loaded with only jeans, and the all of the pairs of shoes for sale sat on old tables at the end of each row. There were a couple new dressing rooms in the back corner, and the register was moved to a wall of frayed jackets and tank tops that should belong to the garbage dump.

"I thought everything would be less..." he snapped his fingers and turned to me for help finding the right word, "gross. Smelly. Worn out."

"Less... used?"

"Yeah. Less used works." He shrugged and let go of my hand.

We both seemed to gravitate to the wall of jackets, and underneath the ones stacked on hangars was a whole setup of nicer jackets that didn't have moth holes in every pocket. Some of them looked pretty cool, and smelled significantly better than all the other options.

I held up one squished in the middle. Stuffed between so many different fabrics, it looked alright, but when I held it up, I realized it was puke worthy, and the other gross ones made it look better by comparison.

"I... I'm not a fashion forward person... but I don't think orange fringe should ever belong on a green cowboy style jacket." He whispered. We both stared at it for a moment before I shoved it back from the depths of hell where it came from.

We weeded our way through a yellow raincoat, a worn hoodie with unidentifiable stains, a winter coat with large tear on the back, and flannels sewn together to make one huge super-flannel. It was a nightmare. They all reeked of the same discontent and abandonment. I probably did too, but it didn't seem as awful as a faux fur cardigan.

"Is there even anything good in here?" Dallon poked his face through a line of sweaters. "I wouldn't touch the purposely ugly holiday sweaters. They're too ugly. And scratchy. And they're all, like, six sizes too big for me to wear."

"Of course there is. I found these very jeans here, and they've treated me right ever since I got them. Have you ever seen so much love and pride in a single stitch?

"When'd you get 'em?"

It took a second to remember correctly. "...Last year."

He nodded and disappeared into the material. He muttered a quiet "that's what I thought", hidden in the rustling of hangers.

I dug through a pile of shirts lumped on a table. There were a couple for a small band that'd toured over six years ago. They were either considered vintage, or the band had produced too many and just dropped them off at the store. Based on the amount, the second guess seemed more likely. Then there were a few with holes or burn marks, and a handful that looked decent enough to wear, but were way too pricey.

But buried under a few more clusters, was the perfect jacket. It was way too big for me, but it wasn't supposed to be for me. Maybe it was the tipping point in my plan. What if it set off everything I needed to be in motion? It was a stupid jacket from a thrift store, but it was so perfect. It was like finding a chunk of gold in a river.

"Hey, Dallon, how do you feel about owning a leather jacket?"