Service Day, but Adam’s math class was for sophomores and juniors. Which meant enduring both a brain-busting test and the curious stares of his classmates who obviously wondered what kind of loser he was to get left so far behind. Now that he was free for the day, he wasn’t going back.
He stomped out of the school, the pounding of his footsteps mirrored by the rhythmic battering of a single word against his brain:
His basketball was in the trunk, and the court across from the school parking lot was empty. It was a no- brainer- fortunately, since his brain was otherwise occupied.
Adam dribbled up and down the court, forcing himself to take it slow and easy. At first the word beat louder, in time with the ball slapping his palm and then slamming into the concrete.
But then he sank his first basket. Adam had always been able to lose himself in the soft sigh of the ball sinking through the net, and today was no different. He emptied his mind and let his body take over, relaxing into the familiar thwack and crack and swoosh that made him feel more alive. Chest heaving, muscles aching, sweat pouring down his face, he didn’t notice the time passing or the sky darkening. He stopped only briefly to take a few swigs of water, and again to pull off his shirt and toss it to the sidelines, dimly registering that the scalding afternoon sun had given way to a cool breeze.
He didn’t notice Kane step onto the court-it wasn’t until the rebound dropped into Kane’s hands that Adam looked up. It wasn’t the sight of Kane’s tall, angular figure poised under the basket that knocked Adam out of the zone; it was the break in the rhythm, when suddenly the expected crack of the ball against pavement was replaced by a soft slap and then silence, as Kane cradled the ball to his chest.
They hadn’t faced each other on a basketball court since the game last month, when Adam started a fight with the other team and, in the chaos, flattened Kane, accidentally on purpose. The bruises had taken a couple weeks to fade; Kane’s basketball career had dissipated more quickly, as he hadn’t returned to practice since.
Kane held the ball and looked at Adam expectantly, his infuriating smirk gone. There were a lot of things Adam could have said-many that he’d said before, many he’d been holding in for a long time:
“Check it,” he called, reaching for the ball. Kane bounced it toward him. “First to fifteen.”
“Make it twenty-one,” Kane suggested, chasing after Adam as he dribbled the ball up the court.
Adam feinted left, then went right, darting around Kane, sprinting toward the basket, and sinking an easy layup. “Done,” he agreed.
That was the end of the talking. After that it was all grunting and panting, punctuated by the occasional groan of displeasure as a ball rolled off the rim or a hoot of triumph after a wild shot from the three-point line sailed in with nothing but net. An hour passed, and soon they were playing in the shadows, tracking a sound and a silhouette to chase down the ball, shooting as much by feel as by sight.
Kane sank the final shot. “Twenty-one!” he crowed.
He always won. Adam felt the familiar anger bubble up, but instead of exploding, it just popped and drizzled away, like a string of soap bubbles turning to mist. “Good game,” he grunted, slapping Kane’s sweaty palm. He grabbed his water bottle and dumped it over his head, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the cool stream.
“Morgan…?” Kane, who looked as sleek and unruffled as when he’d first appeared, tossed Adam his shirt and a second bottle of water. He rubbed his lower back and looked over toward the empty parking lot. “Look. About… everything…”
“Forget it, Geary.” Adam pulled his shirt on over his dripping torso and grabbed the ball out of Kane’s loose grip. He rolled it around in his hands, enjoying the familiar grooves and ridges of its rough grain. “Rematch tomorrow?” he suggested. He turned his back on Kane without waiting for an answer and headed for the car.
“Same time, same place,” Kane agreed from behind him, and it was impossible to tell whether his unfailingly sardonic tone masked relief, eagerness, apathy, or regret.
Adam bounced the ball a few times, then tossed it high in the air and caught it with his eyes closed, cupping his hands in a loose cradle and stretching them out to where he knew the ball would be. “I’ll be there.”
“Aw yeah, that’s right.” The one named Hale clapped his hands together once as Fish hoisted a giant glass tube out of the crawl space behind the lopsided couch. “Give it here, dude.”
“Hold your shit,” Fish said, flourishing a lighter.
Beth tucked her hair behind her ears and tried not to look nervous.
“You okay?” Reed asked, as if he could sense her discomfort. It probably wasn’t too hard, she realized, since she was squeezed into the corner of the couch, as far away from Fish as she could get, her arms scrunched up against her sides and her mouth glued shut. She nodded.
“Over here, baby,” Hale requested, beckoning Fish to hand over the bong.
“Dude, don’t you have any manners?” Fish grabbed one of the discarded fast-food wrappers off the ground, scrunched it up, and threw it at his head. “Ladies first.” He stretched across the couch and handed the long, glass tube to Beth, giving her an encouraging nod. She noticed that his hair was even paler than hers, and almost as long.
“Guys, I don’t think…” Reed, who was perched on an orange milk crate, leaned forward, speaking softly enough that only Beth could hear. “You don’t have to. We can go, if you want.”
He’d said the same thing when they’d walked into the house and he’d seen the look on her face. There were some empty rooms upstairs, he’d suggested, if she didn’t want to hang with the guys-and then he’d flushed, stumbling over his words, hurrying to explain that he hadn’t meant bedrooms, not like that. Or they could just go. Anywhere. But for some reason, Beth had insisted they stay, and now here she was, the bong delicately balanced in her hands, nauseating fumes rising toward her, a trippy hip-hop beat shaking the walls-which were covered with fading posters of half-naked women-and for the first time that day, Beth smiled.
“Just tell me what to do,” she said firmly. She’d always sworn she wouldn’t smoke pot-it was illegal, not to mention dangerous. But she was already a criminal, she reminded herself, and danger didn’t scare her anymore- things couldn’t get much worse. If she could find a way to turn off her brain, maybe, for a little while, they could actually be better.
Reed didn’t try to talk her out of it, and didn’t ask about the sudden change of heart. He just rested his hand on top of hers and guided the opening toward her mouth, then gently pressed her finger over a small hole and flicked on the lighter. “Take a deep breath, but don’t-”
A spasm of coughing wracked through her body and she inadvertently jerked the bong away, spilling warm, grayish water all over her jeans. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her face flushing red.
“No problem. Take a smaller breath the next time,” Reed suggested. “And don’t uncover the hole until you’re ready. Then suck the smoke into your mouth and kind of breathe it down into your lungs.”
“Okay, I think-” She broke off as another cough ripped out of her. Reed put his hand on her back, rubbing in small, slow circles.
“Take it easy,” he said quietly. “Go slow.”
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” she protested, straightening up so that he would take his hand away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. “Let me try this again.” This time she got a hot lungful down without much coughing. She passed the bong to Fish and leaned back against the couch, waiting for it to take effect.
“Man, this is some good shit!” Fish sputtered as he took his mouth off the tube.
