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about was the moorage fee, the electric bill, the heating bill, the sewage fee, the food bills—and how we didn't have money to pay any of them.
    When I reached my locker, Melissa was waiting for me. "Why didn't you say anything? You just sat there all through class."
    Her eyes were both angry and disappointed. How could I explain? She lived in a big house overlooking Puget Sound. She drove a brand-new blue Jetta, wore hundred-dollar shoes and hundred-dollar pants and hundred-dollar shirts.
    I closed my locker. "I've got to go," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow." Before she could say anything else, I walked away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Ever since I turned fifteen I've worked weekends washing pots at Ray's restaurant, a fancy fish place right down from Pier B, from two to ten. It's hot, sweaty work. The water is almost boiling, the garbage cans stink of fish guts, and I have to hunch over the whole time. The only good thing about the job is the money, and there isn't much of that.
    My boss is Jeff Creager, a big guy with a big voice who is always worked up about something. Everybody stays clear of him if they can. When I stepped into the kitchen the Saturday after my dad got fired, Creager was by the grill, arguing with the chef, Carl Thorgenson. Instead of going to the sink, I went over to Creager. "I've got to talk to you," I said.
    "Not now," he snapped, and he started going on about some salmon recipe Thorgenson wanted to use. I stood listening to them yell at each other about how much pepper was too much, wondering if they'd ever stop. The other kitchen-
help guys were peeling potatoes or chopping lettuce, all the time sneaking peeks over at me, wondering what I was doing.
    Finally Creager stopped for a moment and glared at me. "Didn't I tell you to get to work?"
    "I've got to talk to you," I said.
    "This better be important," he said.
    My throat went dry. I licked my lips and then swallowed. "I need more hours," I said.
    He laughed sarcastically, and then motioned to the entire work crew. "You hear him? He says he needs more hours. Well, I'll tell you and I'll tell everyone. I've got no more hours to give."
    "You don't understand, Mr. Creager," I said. "I've—"
    "I do understand," he said, interrupting. "Your old man lost that job over at Sunset West. I heard about it. It's a tough break for you. But this isn't a church, Chance. This is a business, and right now business isn't good. You're lucky to have the hours you've got. So put on your apron and get busy."
    I did what he said, and for the rest of that afternoon I stopped thinking about anything but the greasy pots and the hot water and the steam—and how much I hated them all. When my shift ended, I was too tired to worry about money or my father or anything. I just went back to the boat and slept.

    You can't think about something all the time, no matter how important it is. For the next few weeks my mind would go back and forth between long periods of a vague drifting and short times of intense focus. When my mind was drifting, my dad's drinking, the moorage fees, school—none of it seemed
to matter much. The blood in my body and the thoughts in my brain moved slowly like a wide river close to the ocean. But every once in a while I'd snap out of that state and everything would seem as sharp as if it were under a microscope. Sometimes all I could think about was money. I'd look around and it seemed like every kid but me had it. Money for cars, money for clothes, money for movies, money for CD players, money for cell phones. Walking home after school I'd watch the Lexuses and the Mercedes pull out of the parking lot, the owners hidden behind tinted glass. I'd look at the houses on Sunset Hill with their fancy landscaping and their statues and fountains. All of it cost money, lots of money, money that all these people had. How could money be so easy to get for some people and so hard for others?
    When the end of the month finally came, I told myself that I