Chapter 3 - Part 3

He barely made the train he needed to catch.  Aunt Tabitha had insisted that Howell take some leftovers home and then Dylan and Uncle Will had both wanted one more rematch on the game console.  In the end, Howell had to run and practically dive through the closing train doors.

All of the city-states were large, but Camern City was the second biggest, rivaled only by Tarric, the capital city.  Traveling from the rich district where Dylan lived to the center of the city took a half an hour, transfers included.  From there, Howell had to go down three levels to reach the museum library that he had in his records as his home address.

The library was one of the few that had not been turned into a government run bookstore, though the museum gift shop was almost the same thing.  Howell rarely went up to the museum floors anymore, unless there was a new exhibit.  He instead went down a floor and toward the employee locker room.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out.  “The library is closing now.”

Howell turned around and spotted the new worker, probably fresh out of college.  Howell’s mind tensed, but his body reacted like it always did when he felt threatened.  He shifted his weight so that he could run if he needed.  Appearance and acting were crucial to surviving some of the neighborhoods he had been through, and they were second nature.

His mind took in the situation, and his body reacted to it.  He was in a midlevel library, and the employee must have been hired during the summer.  The moment his mind registered that, his body relaxed and his face portrayed an innocent student.  If none of the older workers had the late shift then he was going to have a problem.

Luckily he did not have to flounder for long.  Another librarian happened to walk by and rescued Howell from needing to explain.  As Howell turned and continued on to the employee locker room, he could hear the employees discussing him.

“Why are we letting that kid go back there?” the new girl asked.

“He has some sort of connection with one of the managers, I think,” the older man answered.  “He’s a good kid, but he comes from a bad neighborhood.  Think of it this way.  The more often he’s here, the less likely he is to get involved in drugs and gangs.  At least that’s what the rest of us hope.”

The conversation probably continued along those lines, but Howell ignored it as the voices were cut off by the closing locker room door.  It was nice to know what people thought of him.  It made it easier to act the way they expected.  A struggling kid trying to rise above the slums he lived in, which was pretty accurate.  With the exception that Howell felt more comfortable in the dangerous ghettos than he did in the rich heights.

The librarians had given him a locker to store his stuff, sort of another home.  Howell had several of these places, but the library was his favorite and easiest to access.  The locker was the equivalent of a closet as it held a few pairs of patchwork clothing as well as some extra clothes for his school uniform.

Wearing a prep school uniform in the slums of the city was even more suicidal than riding on top of a train, which was more illegal than physically dangerous to Howell.  It was the reason, though, why Howell always stopped here or one of his other places before and after school.  If he did not make it before closing time, then he was not going to go home for the evening.

Howell quickly changed into his patchwork clothes and then shoved his head under one of the sinks as he scrubbed the gel out.  The gel he used to tame his hair for school had a slight tint to it.  His hair was rainbow-streaked at school, but the teachers had no idea how muted the colors were from the gel.

The vibrant, rainbow streaked hair that dripped from his head was certainly iconic.  In the slums of the city, people aimed for two things: to be easily identified, or to be unnoticeable.  Most people went for the later because being identifiable made you an easier target.  Howell preferred a combination of the two.  He was easily identified, but the reputation he had with the identity meant he was ignored and left alone for the most part.

Aunt Tabi had tried to give him a proper hair cut during the summer, but Howell had successfully avoided it.  He always cut and dyed his own hair the way he wanted.  If a piece of hair bothered him, than he either cut it or colored it.  His head was an ever changing work of art.  It was necessary for his survival.

Howell sorted through the plethora of hair products that was in his locker and finally picked a tinted gel that he felt like using.  It was actually a female hair gel, all blue and glittery, but Howell and dug it out of a dumpster and found it worked quite well.  He spiked random portions of his hair until the thick mess was even more chaotic.

Satisfied with his look, Howell grabbed a patchwork bag and headed out through the backdoor alley.  It would take him another two hours before he would get home, but that was mainly because he never took a direct route.  His currently empty bag would be full by the time he reached the lowest levels of the city.

With the right stuff from the dumpsters, a person could pay any toll to get past gangs or dealers with little trouble.  Of course, most of them just ignored him now.  Identifiable anonymity was Howell’s way of life when he was in the ghettos.  As crazy and as dangerous as the place could be, it was the only home Howell felt he really had.