Mr. Heartbreaker: Black Mountain Academy

He’s also the first friend I made here in Black Mountain and probably my only true one. He sits up and reaches out for the sandwich with his fingerless gloves. At one time, those gloves were probably stylish, but with colder weather moving in, I wish they were warmer. I’m going to take money out of my next round of tips and try to buy him a few things. It will be tricky because Rooster doesn’t want handouts.

“My girl always thinking of an old man. Thank you, Angel.”

I smile. Unlike when Mike does it, I don’t mind it when Rooster calls me that. He called me that the first night we met. I saw him huddled near the garbage bin of the building where I rent an apartment. He has what he calls a house made of old tin, cardboard, and newspapers. I gave him a blanket and a pillow – or rather, tried to. That’s when I learned Rooster doesn’t take handouts. He refused to take them. So, I had to get creative…

“I took you up on your suggestion,” I tell him, sliding down onto the concrete sidewalk beside him. Then I take the small packet in my pocket that I pilfered from the school cafeteria when I got Rooster’s sandwich. I unfold the plastic wrap and put it on the ground. Rooster’s pet comes clucking out of the box that Rooster calls home, and instantly begins pecking on the crumbled cornbread I put down. Rooster apparently got his name because of his pet, which is an actual rooster. Two roosters would get confusing, but it’s not a problem, because the pet rooster has a name.

“Gladys does love cornbread,” Rooster says around his sandwich, and I fight the urge to giggle at the name.

“You do know Gladys is a boy chicken, right?” I ask, although Rooster and I have had this conversation before.

“He’s mean, like my ex. The name suits him,” he explains yet again, and I giggle. “She liked to crow like she was cock o’ the walk, too, when in reality she wasn’t shit. Gladys here does the same thing, even though he’s eating cornbread given to him by a girl who should have better things to do with her time than worry about an old man and his pet,” Rooster chastises. “What advice did you take? It’s clearly not getting out of this hellhole while you can. This town is too rough for a pretty little thing like you. It will eat you alive.”

“I’m tougher than I look, Rooster,” I tell him, and I figure that’s an understatement.

“Figured that one out already,” he says, and just like that, his sandwich is gone. I hand him the water and apple that I was saving until he ate his sandwich. Rooster is extremely picky on how he eats; main course is first, followed by a drink to wash it down, and he prefers fruit for dessert. I’m pretty sure he’d rather have cheap vodka instead of water, but he doesn’t complain.

“I used Angel for my stage name. It seems to be working,” I respond.

“Knew it would, although you’re too good for the riffraff that’s there,” he tells me again.

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” I remind him, and he nods.

“That’s the way of the world, Angel. It always has been,” he agrees sagely.

Gladys ruffles up his feathers and comes over to me, making me grin. He stands by my leg and waits. I scratch the back of his neck and pet his comb. If roosters could purr, that’s probably the broken sound that he makes – it’s at least the chicken equivalent. Then he flaps his wings and struts back to the box. I swear it’s like he’s talking under his breath the whole way, although it’s obviously in chicken talk, and because of that I can’t understand it. I’m pretty sure he’s giving both me and his owner a hard time, though.

“It’s going to get cold tonight,” I warn Rooster when the night grows silent around us. Rooster doesn’t talk much, but I’ve learned in just the short time I’ve known him that when he does, it’s worth listening.

“That’s okay, Angel. I found this blanket in the trash,” he says, pulling up the thick blanket I put in the trash bin next to Rooster’s home before I left for school this morning. I grin. He may not take handouts – except for food, because those will go to waste if they’re not eaten – but he will take anything he finds in the trash. I’m sure he recognizes the blanket as one I tried to give him earlier, but he doesn’t mention it and I don’t, either.

“That was lucky,” I murmur, slowly getting up.

“A gift from above, from my guardian angel.”

“You and Gladys are welcome to come home with me tonight, you know?”