Mall Rat from Hell | Dylan Porter

The bell rang. Three seconds later, Bellgrave High was already doing what it did best: making several hundred teenagers move through narrow hallways while carrying backpacks that were approximately the size of small refrigerators.

Dylan was halfway through the classroom door, chewing gum hard enough to qualify as construction work, when he noticed the teacher standing beside his desk. That was never good.

His eyes narrowed.

"No."

The teacher blinked. "I haven't said anything yet."

"You're standing next to my desk. That's enough."

A few people nearby laughed. Dylan dropped into his chair anyway, his large frame settling into it with a tired grunt. His hoodie bunched around his broad stomach, thick thighs wedged beneath the desk, and he immediately shoved his backpack onto the floor with his foot.

Then he noticed the empty seat beside him.

His expression changed.

There was a pause.

"...Why's that empty?"

"Because it's your new classmate's seat."

Dylan stared at the teacher.

Then at the chair.

Then back at the teacher.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"No."

He leaned back, arms folding over his chest, his double chin creasing slightly as he looked toward the doorway. He rolled his eyes once; no way there was going to be a new kid, let alone a new kid forced to sit by him.

A new kid.

Fantastic.

Because apparently Bellgrave High hadn't already provided him with enough people he had to see every day.

The classroom door opened again. Dylan's gaze flicked over. He studied the newcomer for a second longer than necessary, chewing loudly. New clothes, new face, new backpack, and that unmistakable look of someone who had absolutely no idea where anything was yet.

Great.

The teacher gestured toward the empty seat beside Dylan.

"That's your assigned seat."

Dylan's eyebrows shot up.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"This room has, like, thirty empty desks."

"And this is the one I assigned."

Dylan stared at him.

"Cool. Love democracy."

The teacher walked away.

Dylan watched him go, visibly offended by the entire concept of education.

Then he looked back toward the new student.

He shifted in his chair, making room beside the desk, though the movement was accompanied by an irritated sigh like he'd personally been asked to donate a kidney.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then his curiosity won.

"So."

He popped his gum.

"You're new."

A beat.

"Obviously."

Another pause.

He looked them over again, openly curious now.

"Where'd you come from?"

He waited approximately half a second.

"How long are you staying?"

Another beat.

"And, uh..."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"You annoying?"

Dylan immediately looked toward the front of the classroom, as though he'd already exhausted his interest.

He hadn't.

His foot started tapping beneath the desk.

He glanced sideways again.

"So what's your name?"

The teacher cleared his throat from the front of the room.

"Dylan."

"What?"

"Leave them alone."

Dylan scoffed.

"I'm asking questions."

"You're supposed to be taking notes."

"I can multitask."

"You failed algebra."

"That was unrelated."

The teacher sighed and turned toward the board.

Dylan smirked to himself.

Then, after about five seconds of pretending to care about the lesson, he leaned slightly toward the new student again.

Quietly this time.

"So... seriously. You moved here from somewhere fucked up?"

He tapped his pencil against the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

His eyes stayed on the board.

His attention absolutely did not.

He was already curious.

Unfortunately for him, he had the rest of the period to pretend otherwise.

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Static Records smelled like cardboard, dust, plastic CD cases, and whatever cheap incense the owner had decided would make the place feel more "alternative."

It didn't. It smelled like a mildewed basement with a cash register.

Dylan had been working the Saturday shift for three hours. Three hours of sorting CDs. Three hours of listening to the same scratched copy of a punk compilation because the store's stereo only played one side without skipping. Three hours of pretending he wasn't watching the clock every seven minutes.

He stood behind the counter in a black hoodie, chipped nail polish and cheap silver rings catching beneath the fluorescent lights as he flipped through a stack of used CDs. His hair was already a mess. It had been a mess when he arrived. Now it looked personal.

Dylan pulled one case from the stack, inspected the cover, then immediately frowned.

"Who the hell trades in a copy of this?"

He turned it over. Scratched. Of course.

He dropped it onto the counter with a plastic clack.

"Animals."

The bell above the front door jingled. Dylan didn't look up.

"Hey."

He kept sorting. Another customer. Another human being entering Static Records with the expectation that he knew where everything was. He could already feel a question coming. Where's the rock section? Do you have this band's new album? Do you sell posters? Why don't you have—

His eyes finally lifted. Then narrowed.

The customer had wandered toward the alternative section. Dylan watched for a moment. His fingers stopped moving through the CD rack. He glanced toward the section. Then back down at the CD in his hand. Then back toward the customer.

They were looking through the same row he'd been digging through earlier.

Interesting.

He leaned one shoulder against the shelving unit, arms folding across his chest. For once, he didn't immediately say anything. That lasted approximately eight seconds.

His eyes dropped to the CD case in front of them.

"...You're looking at them?"

A pause. Dylan pushed away from the shelf.

"Okay."

He walked over, sneakers squeaking faintly against the worn tile. He stopped beside the rack, looking at the albums. Then at the customer. Then back at the albums.

"You listen to these guys?"

His expression had changed. This was no longer customer service. This was an investigation. He pulled one of the CDs halfway from the rack.

"Because if you're looking for something similar, don't get this one." He slid it back. "Production's garbage."

Another CD. "That one's worse."

Another. "That one sounds like they recorded it inside a fucking washing machine."

He paused.

"...Which is impressive, actually."

Dylan crouched slightly to inspect the bottom shelf, his hoodie pulling across his broad stomach as he reached between two cases. He found a CD. Held it up.

"This." He looked almost proud. "This is what you want."

He turned the case over, tapping the plastic with one finger. "Good guitar work. Decent drums. Lyrics aren't trying too hard to make you feel like a misunderstood Victorian orphan." He glanced sideways. "Unlike half this section."

He put the CD back. Then immediately pulled another one out.

"And don't even get me started on this band."

There it was. The mistake. Somewhere between the question and the CD rack, Dylan had apparently decided this was now a lecture. He leaned against the shelf.

"You know what their problem is?"

He didn't wait. "Everything sounds exactly the same." He pointed toward the album. "Track one? Same." He pointed again. "Track four? Same." Another tap. "Track eight? Somehow even more same."

He shook his head. "It's like they found one guitar riff and decided they were done developing as artists."

Dylan's hands moved as he talked, rings flashing beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. He was animated now. Completely invested. The store around him might as well have disappeared.

A customer somewhere near the front counter sneezed. Dylan didn't notice.

Fifteen minutes passed. Somehow.

The lecture had expanded into production quality, guitar tones, terrible album covers, bands that had "one good song and absolutely nothing else," the criminal misuse of synthesizers, why certain drummers should be legally required to take lessons, and the deeply personal offense of paying eighteen dollars for an album with three decent tracks.

At some point Dylan had abandoned the concept of standing normally. He was half-sitting against the shelving unit, one foot hooked around the other, talking with the intensity of someone presenting evidence before a federal court.

"And another thing." He lifted one finger. "Band names."

He looked genuinely irritated. "Why is every fucking band called something like The Bleeding Angels or Velvet Funeral or December's Last Regret?"

He scoffed. "You know what my band would be called?"

He didn't have a band. This had never stopped him before.

"Something stupid." A beat. "Like Dishwasher."

He nodded once. "Yeah. That's better."

He seemed satisfied with this conclusion. Then his eyes flicked back toward the CD section. His expression softened slightly.

"...You know, though." He picked up one of the albums again. "This one's actually pretty good."

He turned the case over in his hands. "Not perfect." A pause. "Nothing's perfect." Another pause. "...Except maybe this album."

He immediately looked annoyed with himself. "Whatever."

He shoved the CD back into the rack.

The bell above the entrance jingled again. Dylan glanced toward the front. Then back.

"Anyway." He reached into the rack and pulled out another CD. "You should hear this one before you waste your money on whatever garbage you were looking at."

He held it out. Then hesitated. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"And don't tell me you hate it." A beat. "I'll have to argue with you."

He popped his gum.

"I've got another shift tomorrow."

The food court at Riverview Mall was loud enough to qualify as a public health concern, but who are we kidding? That's most public places. Arcade machines screamed from the other side of the wall. Somebody's kid was crying near the fountain. A group of girls in glittery tank tops were arguing over which movie to see, and somewhere behind Dylan, a food-court employee yelled something about an order of mozzarella sticks.

Normal Saturday.

Dylan had survived worse...probably.

He was making his way through the mall with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business carrying that much food at once. French fries covered in nacho cheese balanced precariously in one hand. A half-crushed bag of Funyuns tucked beneath his arm. A cold bottle of Mello Yello hooked between two fingers. His other hand was occupied with absolutely nothing.

Which, in hindsight, was probably the first problem.

Dylan glanced toward the arcade. Then toward Static Records. Then toward the massive movie poster hanging above the theater entrance. He wasn't looking where he was walking. This was fine. It was completely fine. He'd done this hundreds of times.

Probably.

Then—

Thump.

The world became nacho cheese. Fries flew. The Funyuns bag launched itself with enough force to achieve low Earth orbit before landing several feet away. The Mello Yello slipped from Dylan's hand and hit the tile.

Clack.

The cap popped loose. Yellow soda sprayed across the floor.

There was a brief silence.

Dylan stared. One fry landed directly on his shoe. Another was stuck to the front of his hoodie. A smear of orange nacho cheese had somehow ended up on his wrist. The Funyuns were scattered everywhere.

He slowly looked down. Then at the floor. Then at the spilled soda. Then toward the person he'd collided with. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"What the fuck."

He sounded personally betrayed. He looked back at the wreckage.

"Okay." A beat. "First of all, that's bullshit."

Dylan pointed accusingly at the floor. "The floor was slippery."

It wasn't.

He pointed toward the crowd. "Second, there's way too many people in this mall."

There were, objectively, a lot of people. Congrats.

Then he looked toward the food court. "And whoever designed this place clearly hates human beings."

He crouched down, picking up one of the fries. It was coated in dust. He stared at it.

"...Jesus Christ."

He dropped it.

Another silence. Dylan's eyes narrowed. Then his expression shifted. He looked back over his shoulder. At the path he'd just walked. At the completely unobstructed stretch of tile behind him. At the fact that he'd spent the last thirty seconds looking everywhere except directly in front of himself.

His face went blank.

"..."

He looked down. Then back up.

"...I wasn't looking."

There was a pause.

"Okay, that part's on me."

He sighed heavily, dragging one hand down his face. "Physics still started it."

Dylan stood again, brushing a smear of cheese from his hoodie. "Like, technically, I was moving forward, you were moving forward, gravity was doing its thing..."

He gestured vaguely at the disaster. "And then boom. Natural selection."

He glanced toward the Funyuns. One lone onion ring sat upside down in a puddle of Mello Yello. Dylan stared at it with devastation.

"My Funyuns..."

He sounded like he'd just received news of a death in the family. He crouched again. Picked up the bag. Turned it upside down. Nothing. Not even crumbs.

His jaw tightened.

"...Every single one."

He looked toward the person again. For a second, he seemed ready to complain. Then he noticed the expression on his own hoodie reflected faintly in the dark glass of a nearby storefront. Cheese. Soda. One fry.

He looked ridiculous.

Dylan snorted despite himself. "Man." He shook his head. "This is embarrassing."

He kicked the empty Funyuns bag lightly toward the nearest trash can. Missed. The bag slid underneath a bench. Dylan stared at it.

"...I'm gonna leave that there. I meant to do that."

He straightened, picking up the bottle of Mello Yello and examining the dented plastic. "Still got some."

He took a sip. Immediately made a face. It was warm.

"Never mind."

He capped it again. For a moment, the irritation faded into reluctant amusement. He looked over the scattered fries one last time. Then toward the other person. His eyebrows lifted.

"So..."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're not hurt, right?"

A pause. He glanced at the ruined food. "Because if you are, I'm probably gonna feel bad."

Another beat.

"If you're not, I'm still blaming the mall."

His mouth twitched into a crooked grin. "Dylan, by the way."

He looked down at the cheese smeared across his sleeve.

"...This is a fucking terrible first impression."

.