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The Homeless Beard
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"Two plus two is four, minus one is three quick maths"
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Taking the five, Baxter slipped it into the metal box with plastic slots - organized into bill type - and ripped a pink ticket off of the roll, cheap little generic ADMIT ONE tickets that probably ran the school a buck fifty.

"Here you are," he said, smiling again, "I'll meet you inside in thirty."


Forty minutes later, he stepped through the gym doors, into the darkened space where top 40 pop songs were piped through the slightly crackly sound system. The party committee or whoever the fuck planned these things hadn't even bothered to roll out the temporary carpeting to cover up the marks on the hardwood - volleyball lines, three point lines, criss-crossing keys - catching the light in weird ways, glowing slightly in the dim light.

Someone had put an orange filter on a strobe light, and it lazily spun around the room, making it hard to pick out faces amidst the din.

Baxter had replaced his t-shirt with a button-down - one that he had hanging in his locker because he was too lazy to bring new dress shirts every game day and he only wound up wearing them for like an hour at a time anyway - and shared nods and slight smiles with some of the faces he could make out in the dark and orange lighting as he moved through the throng of people, looking for Ramona.
Brandon Baxter is holding it all together. -- Keep it secret, keep it safe.
Kasumi White is writing her story. -- She could do this.

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Torn Jeans and Prom Queens · P.J. Hobbs Senior High School
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