This choice: You're grounded and need to get home. • Go Back...Chapter #9Some Ginger and Mary Jane by: Seuzz   You don't know Justin that well, and have never hung out with him. He has a mixed reputation. He is shabby and unkempt, dressing in sloppy t-shirts and torn jeans. His shaggy brown hair hangs down over his eyebrows and ears, and he has a stoner's stare and his baritone is scuffed with a smoker's rasp. He hangs out at the portables with a tough crowd, and you've heard rumors that his drug intake is considerably wider than just weed. But he's a good-looking kid, and you've heard girls moaning about how hot he is.
You shake your head. "I'm late getting home," you tell him. "I got detention and I'm grounded."
"Oh, fucking live a little, why don'cha?" he sneers, and extends you the joint. But the jeer only hardens your determination to shake him off. And when Dane comes shuffling up just then with a joyful "Justin, man, whatcha got there for me?" he distracts Roth long enough for you to make your escape.
* * * * *
You haven't just lost your internet privileges but your cell phone privileges, so that it's not until the next morning that you're able to talk to your friends again. At least Caleb is hanging out next to the gym as you come in from the student parking lot. "Hey, you waiting for me or something?" you call out.
He looks startled at your appearance. "What? Oh. Hey. No, I'm waiting for—"
He bites his lip and glances around. "Yeah, sure, I'm waiting for you," he says, and detaches himself from the wall. "So, how was your night?" he asks as you trudge down the breezeway toward the main building.
"Pisser. I got my homework done by eight, then laid on my bed staring at the ceiling."
"You should've called someone, gone somewhere."
"I'm grounded, asshole. Remember?"
He shoots you a dark look.
"So the whole time I was laying there," you continue, "all I could think of was my dad saying, How about you try reading a book for once? Fuck. If I wanted to read a book—"
You break off as the doors ahead swing open and a quartet of cheerleaders comes striding out. Chelsea Cooper, the imperious head cheerleader, is in the lead, with her flunkies Gloria Rea, Kendra Saunders, and Maria Vasquez trailing behind. Caleb slows up and stops, and you stop with him, to give the girls a fast, admiring look as they charge past, and to stare at their asses after they're gone.
Caleb punches you in the side. "Put your eyes back in your head," he says, as though he wasn't doing the same thing.
* * * * *
You don't know what his problem is—it's not like he's the one that got grounded and had his electronics taken away—but Caleb is cool to you all morning long. He grunts at you in first and fourth periods, and when it's time for lunch he says he's got some stuff to think about and will be eating alone. So you and Keith wind up eating out front again with Carson and his friends.
They still want to talk about your time capsule disaster. "Don't you at least get your choice of topic to write on?" James asks. He's not even paying attention to you as he talks, but lazily eats his sandwich while staring off across the quad toward the main office. "I mean, technically you submitted two items—"
"Prescott only submitted one," Carson interrupts. "The hair dryer. That's how come he's screwed."
"No, I do gotta write two papers," you mumble. You don't know why you tell them this—it's not like they'll feel any pity for you, and will likely only cackle over your misfortune—but you're feeling lower than goose shit. "One on each. And Walberg will only pass me with an automatic D on them."
But no one laughs. Instead, Carson sucks some peanut butter off a tooth and gives James a querying glance. "So you're saying," he says when he turns back to you, "that you can write a brilliant paper—two brilliant papers—and the best you can do is get a D on them?"
"That's right," you sigh.
"What if you write a jerk-off paper? Will he lower it to a D-minus, or flunk you outright?"
"I don't know," you sigh.
"I'd go for the jerk-off paper, then," Carson says. "Walberg's totally screwed up your incentives, so there ain't no reason to—"
"But my dad wants to see the papers I write," you explain. "And he says he wants to see some 'A-plus material' from me."
"Fuck," James sighs. It almost shocks you to see that you're getting sympathy from him and Carson.
"Marijuana paper shouldn't be too hard to write," Carson observes, half to himself. "It was a good choice. Walberg told you that, didn't he?" You shake your head. "Well, he should have. It's an excellent choice. Sending the future a sample of a popular but controlled substance."
"You think they won't have mary jane in the future?" Keith jeers.
"Depends on how long they wait to dig it up. Anyway, it's a highly emblematic token of our times."
"Highly emblematic toke, you mean," Keith sniggers.
Carson gives him a cold look. "Do you use, Tilley?"
"Use what?"
"Use what?" Carson mimics in a jeer. "The fuck do you think I mean? You'd shit yourself before—" He turns to you. "Where'd you get the stuff for the time capsule? You didn't fuckin' buy it off'a Chen, I know that."
"I got it from Spencer Osbourne. I thought I told you."
Carson grunts. "And where is it now?"
Keith interrupts. "Me and my peeps celebrated its liberation by, you know—" He mimes smoking a joint.
Carson turns back to him. "I will give you a twenty dollar bill to buy a single doobie off Gary Chen," he tells Keith. "You can keep the change after bringing it to me."
"How much do they cost?" Keith asks.
"See?" Carson informs the group. "Tilley doesn't even know the market price—"
"Yeah, I'll do it, cocksucker!" Keith snarls, and puts out his palm. Carson raises a hip to extract his wallet. "Come find me after school, and I'll have your—"
"No, you come find me," Carson retorts. "And I'll give you till Friday, even. But if you don't bring me blunt by then, I want forty back from you."
"End of business today," Keith promises. "End of business today!"
* * * * *
Seventh period. Caleb is still in the library for his study hall when you enter for yours, and you stop short in the doorway when you see the tableau. He's sharing a table with Kendra Saunders.
Kendra is one of the cheerleaders, and one of the snootiest as well as one of the most beautiful. Her figure, in truth, is nothing to write home about, for she a little too scrawny for your taste, with small boobs and a track runner's build. Maybe she got it from her ancestors, who probably hunted on the Serengeti, for she is of Kenyan descent (a point she is proud to emphasize when her African-ness is discussed), with a milk-chocolate complexion and high cheekbones. Her hair is dyed an auburn shade and hangs in tightly bound dreadlocks down to her shoulders. With her strong bones and regal bearing, it isn't hard to imagine her in a Pharaoh's headdress, playing the part of Cleopatra.
And, like Caleb, she is just rising from the table they are sharing, and packing her books.
Caleb sees you out of the corner of his eye, and visibly flinches. Kendra also pauses when her eye falls on you, then resumes packing her things. You assume she is going to flee in embarrassment at being seen with your friend. But instead, to your amazement, she puts her hand on Caleb's arm, smiles brightly, and murmurs something at him. He reddens and remains stiffly on his feet as she breezes past.
She hardly looks at you, though, as she exits.
"Dude," you mutter when you join Caleb at his table. "Were you studying with Kendra?"
He runs a fast tongue over his lower lip and dodges your eye. "She's, uh, looking for a tutor," he mutters.
"No!" you exclaim.
"Just a little tutoring. She, uh, has to brush up for her SATs, and wants some help on the math."
"And she asked you?"
"I was in here when she came in, so she just asked me. It's only for, like, a session or two."
You chortle. "That's the way it starts! And then it's— Oh!"
"What?"
You lean in on him and grin. "You're gonna let me hang out with you two, right?"
He pales. "No!"
"Why not? If it's just a tutoring session—"
"Just shut up." He flushes. "Shut up," he repeats, and hurries away.
* * * * *
You're at your locker changing out books for your last class of the day when Keith sidles up. "Hey, you wanna make ten bucks?" he asks you in a low voice.
"I wouldn't blow you for ten thousand."
He makes a face. "No," he says, "it's my bet with Ioeger. Picking him up that spliff. I need you to handle it for me."
"The fuck? Man, you are a chicken-shit!"
"I am not! Problem is, Chen won't sell to me."
"What?"
"I went and found him after lunch, told him what I wanted, and he told me no!"
"I don't believe it."
"Well, you try! You can have ten of what he gives you back in change for the blunt."
He holds up a twenty dollar bill, and arches his eyebrows pleadingly. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author