This choice: Offer to trade it to Spencer • Go Back...Chapter #7Joint Ventures by: Seuzz   "Hey, you still have that doobie?" you ask Spencer.
He looks up at you from under his eyebrows. "What doobie?" he asks in a heavy voice.
"The one you guys were playing with."
A nasty grin spreads over Spencer's face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Prescott," he says.
You sigh. You don't deal a lot with Spencer, but every time you do, it seems like he's an asshole to you.
"Fine. If you don't wanna sell it." You turn around to leave.
"Maybe I wanna keep it for myself," Spencer calls after you.
"You do that."
"You lookin' to buy?"
You glance back at him. He hasn't moved—he's still squatting under Mr. Walberg's window with his phone—but there's a hungry expression on his face.
"I'm looking to trade." You show him the book. "Trade you this for that joint."
He snorts. "Fuck that."
"Well, how long are you gonna be hanging out here? I got a guy lined up'll buy this book off me. If I can find him and get my fifty bucks, will you be here before—"
"Fifty?" Spencer scrambles to his feet. "Shit, that thing ain't worth fifty bucks!" But he hurries up to join you.
You shrug. "They were selling it at the used book store for two hundred," you inform him. "'Cos it's old. Like, an antique."
"Jesus. Lemme see." Spencer wrenches the book from you, and brushes the cover. "So if you bought it for two hundred," he says, "how come you're selling it for fifty? Or for a doobie?" He gives you a sharp look.
"'Cos I only paid two for it. Two dollars. Yeah, bookstore thought it was an old edition or something, but the pages are all glued shut. Look for yourself. So," you continue as Spencer fumbles with the book, "they sold it to me for two as a paperweight. But I showed it to my dad, and he thinks it's a trick book. A fake. There's a secret compartment or something in it. So, as a book it's only worth two bucks, but as a—"
"How do you work it?"
"I dunno. We can't figure it out. That's how come I'm getting rid of it. But, like, it's old, and I think it's got a secret compartment in it, with who knows what inside, so I'm asking for more than two for it."
Spencer sucks in a cheek, and he gives you a shrewd glance.
"I've got—" he says as he fumbles inside the pockets of his windbreaker. "You say a guy'll give you fifty for it?"
"If I can find him again. But I want a joint. I like Marc's idea about—"
"You ever buy at school? They'll cost you twenty-five each," Spencer says when you shake your head. He pulls a plastic baggie from his pocket. "So I'll give you two for your book. And the name of the hoser you're—"
"Sean Wilcox."
Spencer starts as though he's been slapped. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Two joints for your book. Is it a deal, man?"
You hesitate—now that the moment has come—then put out your hand. Spencer grins and drops the baggie, with its two joints and some loose flakes, into your palm. "Awesome," he says. "See you around, Prescott, if you're ever in the market to buy again."
You nod and back away. You doubt you'll have anything more to do with Spencer than you can help. Even when he's being helpful, like now, he feels slimy.
* * * * *
Mr. Walberg only said one word when you gave him one of the joints—"Interesting"—and you ran out before he could say anything more. You call Caleb to give him the news. "So I got this extra doobie," you conclude. "You wanna get together tonight, smoke it?"
"It's Monday."
"So?"
Caleb sighs. "It's a weeknight. If I'm gonna get high I wanna do it on a weekend. Give time for the fumes to clear before I see my mom again."
"I don't wanna wait until the weekend, man," you tell him. "I don't want this thing in my house where my dad could find it."
"He doesn't search your room, does he?"
"No, but Robert's always digging through my shit, and he'll find it and he'll either steal it or tell my—"
"So leave it in your locker at school. Jesus."
But you get a different idea on your way home.
There's an old elementary school a few blocks from your house. It's an ancient thing, built almost a hundred years ago, of faded, crumbling brick. It closed a couple of decades ago and part of it was converted into a community center. But on the opposite side of the building you one day last year found an outside door. It was recessed at the bottom of a short flight of steps, and nearby was a row of windows that peeped out behind the weeds at just above ground height. It looked like the door to a basement, and it aroused your curiosity. After fooling around with the padlock unsuccessfully, you went home to get a crowbar and jimmied it off.
Inside was another flight of steps that, as you guessed, opened into a basement. It was a large basement, and it smelt of ancient dust and grease, of old wood and old metal. It was packed with cast-off school junk: desks and tables and chairs; bookcases and cabinetry; gymnastics equipment; even old sinks and toilets. By the dim light from the windows you explored, shifting the junk to widen the paths through the debris, and rearranging some of the stacks to make little cubbyholes and hiding places. After an hour or so of poking around, you went home, got a new padlock, and put it on the door.
You returned a few days later, expecting to find you padlock gone, but it was still there, so you poked around some more, then called Caleb and Keith out to show them. They were suitably impressed, and for a couple of months your trio made it a kind of club house, where you hid some whiskey and beer and cigarettes and hung out not doing much. But eventually the novelty palled, and you haven't been back out there in almost a year.
So you are again expecting to find your padlock gone and replaced, but the key you fetched from you house (on a chance) fits the lock on the door, and you let yourself in. It still looks the same, and you recognize the little open spaces that you and your friends made for camping in, where you could sit and hide out without being spotted from the windows or the door. With a short, private chuckle you set the joint on the large conference table that sits directly below the windows. Even if you don't make this place a regular hangout spot again, you and Caleb and Keith could at least come down here one more time for old times' sake, and share some beers and weed.
* * * * *
At least life gives you twenty-four hours of respite before it grabs you by the lapels and rattles your teeth. You thought you were done with Mr. Walberg's time capsule assignment, but at lunch the next day, after you tell them what you put in the time capsule, Carson Ioeger reminds you that you're supposed to write a paper on it. "That's just a rumor!" you retort.
"That's what the poor cocksuckers had to do last year," he replies, and he sounds very cheerful. "So what are you gonna say?"
"I dunno," you mumble. "I'll worry about it when he makes the assignment."
"What you are gonna tell your dad if he asks to see the paper you write?" He waggles his eyebrows at you. "Never mind explaining how you got the idea," he continues as you feel the blood drain from your face. "How're you gonna explain where you got the weed to give to Mr. Walberg, and how you knew where to get it?"
So you run to find Caleb the first chance you get. "Dude," you pant when you catch up to him outside his math class, "are you still all set on breaking into Mr. Walberg's desk to get your thumb drive out?"
Caleb nods. "Went home at lunch to pick up the other one."
"Awesome! I need to get into his desk too. I gotta get that, uh, thing out that I gave him."
Caleb stares. "I thought you got two of them," he says. "Don't tell me you already smoked the first one!"
"No! I just realized, I can't write a paper on that! What if my dad wants to see it?"
"But Walberg already knows what you gave him," Caleb points out. "You can't steal it back, make a substitute, then pretend you gave him something else."
"That's what you're doing!"
"He only knows I gave him a thumb drive. He doesn't know what's on it." He gives you a look. "You are going to help me get into his desk this afternoon, aren't you, for the swap?"
"But I gotta make my own swap, and I don't got anything yet to swap in!"
"I told you, Will, it's too late for you to—"
"Tomorrow! I'll help you tomorrow, after I've got something!" The bell rings. "See you later!" You scamper off, to leave Caleb glaring after you.
* * * * *
Then, to make things worse, your dad asks about that book and why it's gone from his office. When you tell him that you sold it to a guy at school, he tells you to buy it back—if you can retrieve it for less than sixty dollars.
So the next morning you reluctantly go looking for Spencer Osbourne.
"No can help you, Willie-boy," he tells you with an insolent grin. "No givebacks."
"But I need it! My dad—!"
"What do you know about it? The book."
"Just what I told you," you admit.
He gives you a sidelong look.
"Well, come hang out with me after school," he says, "and we'll talk about it." | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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