On the day Maverick became member of the glass house, somebody stole his laundry. When he reached into the crappy, beat-up washing machine, he found nothing but the wet slick sides of the drum, and -like a bad joke- the worst pair of boxer he owned, plus one sock. He was in a hurry, of course- there were only a couple of machines on this top floor of Howard Hall, the least valued and most run- down rooms in the least valued, most run-down dorm. Two washing machines, two dryers, and you were lucky if one of them was working on any given day and didn't eat your quarters. Forget about the dollar- bill slot. He had never seen it work, not in the last six weeks since he had arrived at the school.
"No", he said out loud, balanced himself on the edge of the washer to look down into the dark, partly rusted interior. It smelled like mold and cheap detergent. Getting a closer look didn't help.
One crappy pair of boxer, fraying at the seams and one sock. He was missing every piece of clothing that he had worn in the last two weeks. Every piece that he actually wanted to wear.
"No", he yelled it into the washer, where it echoed back at him, and slumped back down, then kicked the washer violently in the dent made by all the other disappointed students before him. He couldn't breathe. He had some other clothes- a few - but they were last- choice clothes, oh- my- god- wouldn't-be - caught- dead clothes. Pants that were too short and made him look like a hick, shirts that were too big and too stupid, made him look like his mom had picked them out. And he had.
Maverick had about three hundred dollars left to last him for, well, months, after the latest round of calling out for pizza and buying yet another book for professor clueless euliss, who didn't seem to have figured out yet what subject he was teaching. He was supposed he could find some clothes, if he looked around, that wouldn't totally blew him entire budget. After all, downtown Morganville, Texas, was the thrift shop capital of the world. Assuming he could find anything he could stand to wear. Mom said this would happen, he thought. I just have to think. Keep my cool.
Maverick threw himself into an orange plastic chair, dumped his backpack on the scratched linoleum, and put his head in his hands. His face felt hot, and he was shaking, and he knew, just knew, that he was going to cry. Cry like the baby they all said he was, too young to be here, too young to be away mommy. It sucked to be smart, because this was where it got you.
He gulped deep, damp breathes and sat back, willing himself not to bowl(because they would hear), and wondered if he could call mom and dad for an extension on his allowance, or use the credit card that was "just for emergencies".
(Author: phew!!! 😫😫 My hands are screaming loudly even though it was just to translate)