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After four years of repairing computers, Parker had established a small circle of regular customers. That circle had widened considerably when Mrs. Ella B. Harrington came calling on the boy's technical services. She was easily the richest person Parker had met. Her house had two elevators, and when he entered the room, a butler came to take his coat. It both disgusted and captivated Parker. He had never seen such lavish living; of course, on the reverse, her blatant misuse of money was the exact kind of thing that The Proletariat Provost loved to rail against. Still, whatever he had done, it had pleased her, and apparently, she took it upon herself to recommend him to friends. Before long, the majority of Parker's clientele had shifted to the richer members of society, which was really just as well. Welcomed into their homes, Parker was instantly made privy to details and secrets that were not publicly know, things that he could rehash and share on his anti-bourgeoisie blog.

Today was no different. The ad in the phone book had been paying off, but Parker suspected it was Mrs. Ella B. Harrington's seal of approval that had really done the trick. He arrived at the lavish (and therefore disgusting) home five minutes before the scheduled appointment, only to be herded upstairs and given a firm list of dos and don'ts. There was a problem with file access -- got it. All these rich types had files that they wanted protected, and many times, they ended up locking themselves out of the very files they were trying to protect from others. Setting his messenger bag to the side, Parker set to work on discovering the problem, tapping away on the keys so fast that it sounded like hail on a tin roof.

He barely noticed the girl come in until she spoke. Parker swiveled in the chair abruptly, brows drawn together. "Hi," he said and then turned back around. He gave his knuckles a crack, straightening the tie of his shirt. Parker didn't have the money to buy expensive clothes. When he wanted to look professional, he simply wore his whitest, brightest Hillworth button-up shirt with a black tie and a pair of dark jeans. To these kind of people, he probably looked like trash, he reasoned. Pretentious animals suckling at the teat of society.

Sigh.

Cracking his knuckles again, he continued to type, more or less totally ignoring the girl. It was not uncommon for the rich types to order someone to babysit him, fearing he might steal or otherwise destroy one of their millions of belongings. Pigs. He was a bit surprised they would assign the task to their daughter -- who else could she be dressed like that?

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

Parker's typing echoed off the walls. It might be the smallest room in the Kinderman household, but it was easily twice the size of Parker's dorm room at Hillworth, a room designed for three people to live in. He had no intention of paying much attention to Serenity. Dealing with rich a*****e adults was one thing -- but their spoiled, pretentious, never-worked-a-day-in-their-lives kids? It made his skin crawl. He felt completely polarized from people like Serenity, people who, he assumed, had everything. At the very least, Serenity had two parents, and that was a hell of a lot more than Parker had.

Unfortunately, the Kindermans were clients. Parker couldn't exactly treat their daughter like s**t. The money they would give him would help him pay his cellphone bill that month. Continued appointments from them would only increase the amount of money he was making. With a bit of a subdued sigh, he spoke to Serenity, though he did not turn to look at her. He was busy. "Hello, Serenity," he said, tone clipped but polite. "I'm Parker. Your parents hired me to fix this computer." His fingers never paused not for a moment, but he contemplated the offer that she had made.

He had not been given breakfast or lunch that day as punishment for tripping another student in the hallway. Of course, Parker hadn't done it, but at this point in his career at Hillworth, an accident could happen on the other side of the school and the administrators would come looking for Parker, convinced he had a hand in it. His stomach rumbled, and he tried to clear his throat to cover it. Pausing his fingers for a moment, he turned to look at Serenity. Her features were strikingly pale, certainly in stark contrast to Parker's own. He appraised her silently and then said, "Actually, a glass of water would be nice. Tap is fine." The boy could really use some food too, but he hated to accept handouts. Water was all he was willing to request; he did not want to feel any kind of debt, or invite them to garnish his pay because he ate some of their food.

Having said that, he turned back around and continued to work.

OMG. KITTY.

No sooner had Serenity left the room that a cat slinked in, rubbing its length along Parker's leg. His heart gave a little tug. His own cat, Darwin, had been taken from him when he was forced into the foster system. His father's lawyer swore up and down that he would take care of the little cat until Parker could take it back, but the boy found out that, not more than a year after handing it over, the lawyer had sent Darwin to the pound. Parker screamed at him, really lost control, but the lawyer merely echoed that the cat was not his responsibility. It had clawed at his curtains, and therefore, it had to go. Really, he would have given it back to Parker, but the boy was a student at Hillworth. No pets allowed.

Parker didn't cry over it, but he punched the side of the payphone he was calling from. The action broke his hand. He spent the rest of the day sitting in a hospital waiting room so that his hand could be set, casted, and then had to use the money he had been saving for a cellphone to pay for it. Sometimes, Parker imagined Darwin -- the sweet little gray cat -- mewling pathetically in the corner of a tiny cage. His cat... probably poisoned and then burned. Burned like his mother. Burned like everything he ever loved. Life was not just unfair; it was cruel.

With the cat mewling for attention at his feet, Parker could not resist. He stopped typing and reached down to pull Poppy into his lap, scratching under the cat's chin and along her spine. He didn't talk to her like some idiots might do, but he allowed himself to smile -- be it a small, sad gesture -- as his hands traced patterns in her fur.

Parker's brows pressed together as Serenity returned, a little deeper as she took the cat away. "I was just getting back to work," he said, hoping she had no plans on squealing to Mommy and Daddy. Parker was paid by the hour. Whenever possible, he would drag out the repair, making it take three hours instead of the thirty minutes it actually required. The rich families never complained, and he never did it to anyone else.

When he noted the toast she carried, Parker felt a wave of hunger wash over him. He had meant to stop on the way over here and buy a snack, but he was afraid he'd miss his train on the subway. Punctuality was very important to the rich and overprivileged. Parker could sacrifice his meal for a nudge toward greater professionalism, especially if it yielded another appointment. "Thank you," he said, a bit more gruff than he intended. "No, this is fine. No spread." Normally, Parker would have refused the food entirely, but he was starving. Two pieces of toast wasn't a big deal, right?

He didn't say anything about the cat as an interruption. She belonged to Serenity, not him. He wouldn't forget that. Still, when the pale girl returned the cat to his lap, Parker slipped on hand to its back and resumed his scratching. "The cat is not bothering me," he said, though that seemed plainly obvious. His fingers typed away, pausing only when he reached to lift the glass of water to his mouth.

If Serenity wanted to have a conversation, it was up to her to continue it.

Parker's hand froze over Poppy's back. Serenity wanted to know how Hillworth was? It seemed like an insult -- a blatant attempt to point out how underprivileged he was. He was not some animal in a cage walking in circles for her amusement. His mouth fell into a hard line, and Parker worked his jaw, fighting not to say the things that he wanted to say. Goddamnit, she was the kid of a client. A client. He tried to picture bouncing coins and dollar bills, taking several more seconds than necessary to form his response.

"It's fine," he said, tone suggesting otherwise. In spite of himself, he added, "It's not like there are people trailing behind me to do my bidding, cooking five star meals and making my bed." He wanted to say more -- oh, so much more -- but his restraint took hold again. "People don't choose to go to Hillworth." His voice was hard, but not biting with vitriol as it typically did when speaking with Crystal girls. They just had no idea how different life was. Serenity might have been standing right next to him, but they were worlds apart. Their life experiences had whirred off in different directions: hers toward a life of ease and his toward a life of hardship. Parker did not believe she could ever understand what it was like be him, to come from the life that he had come from.

He fell silent again, his manic typing on the keyboard filling the space between them.

Whatever silence might have passed between them, Parker did not notice. He was doubly occupied -- one hand brushing the cat, the other doing double-duty on the keyboard. Every so often, he would stop for a sip of water, a bite of toast. When Serenity spoke again, he realized that he'd offended her. And he didn't care. Oh, she felt hurt by words? He couldn't imagine how she would handle having her father take a broken beer bottle to her face at thirteen years old. No, Serenity was soft, spoiled, weak. This world would chew her up and spit her out much worse than Parker would do.

"I go to a school for boys who have no other option. Does that seem like a pleasant topic of conversation? You asked. I answered. It's not my fault if you feel I was too curt." Despite the sharp cut of his words, Parker's tone was relatively soft, slow. He wanted to say what he thought, but he didn't want the girl in tears. If her parents found out, they'd probably not even pay him.

After a moment, he spoke again, ignoring her offer to get him something else. "Did you parents tell you to sit here and watch me?" he asked. His tone did not show anger, just a simple question. It was a common thing for the rich folks to do, but he was curious if her parents were just as paranoid. His fingers continued to tap a steady pace as if he weren't in the middle of a conversation at all.

"Every animal steals," he said, leaning away from the keyboard for a moment to peer at the disk drive. He dragged a finger across it, and then went back to typing. After a few seconds, his hands froze mid-type. Parker tossed a cool blue gaze to Serenity. He spoke slowly, "I have no intention of stealing from your family." And he didn't. He had stolen from other houses before, things that he knew would go unnoticed. Mostly electronics. He once worked at a house where a family had a drawer of old digital cameras. Some were only a year or so old with minor imperfections: a scratch on the lens, a scuff on the casing, a stain on the viewfinder. He'd pocketed several, sold most of them, kept one. It had been stolen last month by someone at Hillworth. He knew he'd gotten away with it because the family still called him regularly.

The Kinderman Household was not a target. He had a guard anyway.

He shrugged, his fingers resuming their work at the keys. "Are your parents usually paranoid about stuff like that? You know, maybe they work in fields where people are just out from themselves?" Parker feigned mild interest, but he was much more curious than he let on. The Kindermans had yet to appear on his infamous blog. He could use this little meeting with their daughter to get more information.