Scanning me, his mustache twitched. “Kenneth Cornwall.” Despite his obvious reticence, he offered a hand to shake. “Come on back to my office.”

He says to the little children. I shuddered and glanced around the bank, fearful for my nonvirginity. Would any of these people save me if they heard me cry out for help?

His cubicle space was big enough for his desk and one hard plastic chair. It was cramped and far too small for my liking.

Framed photographs lined a shelf on the wall behind his desk, and each one showed the same woman and two little girls. So Mr. Creepy Mustache Man was happily married. Good for him.

“How can I help you today?” His features were so pinched, I wondered if he ever smiled.

“I want to take out a loan to help pay for my last year of school.”

“You’re aware the province has loans designed for that purpose?”

“I’m aware.” I managed to contain my snark. “I don’t qualify.”

“I see.” He flipped to his computer and slipped on a pair of glasses. His caterpillar moved up and down as he adjusted them. “Do you have a copy of last year’s tax assessment on you?”

“No.”

The man sighed and moved his upper lip, making his mustache dance. God, between the unibrow and that thing above his lip, I was too distracted.

“In order to apply for a loan—”

“I know, Kenneth.” I enunciated his name, putting emphasis on the th at the end. “I need a tax assessment form. Well, the number on that form would be a big fat zero. Because I made zero dollars last year, okay? Ze-ro. Nil. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I didn’t work. I had nothing to report to the government, ergo, I didn’t file. But I work now.”

At a stupid gas station for pennies.

“And I assume you brought a pay stub.”

“I did.” I slid it across the desk, smug because I was sure he didn’t expect me to have remembered to bring one.

He took the paper and studied it through his glasses. “You’ve been working at West End Pumps for how long now?”

“One month.”

“And this is your first job?”

“Yes. I’m in school,” I reminded him.

“And you’re”—he referenced his computer—“twenty-one?”

Why did that sound judgy?

“Yes.”

“I see.” I didn’t appreciate the look he gave me. “Do you have any idea how your credit score looks?”

“I do not.”

Mustache man Kenneth sighed again like I was wasting his time. “I’ll punch these numbers into our system and see if you qualify. How much of a loan were you looking for today?”