“Get your own!” I scowl.
At 85¢ per pack (plus tax) I can’t afford to be giving my cigarettes away, can I?
“I’ll be your Best Friend.”
Max follows fast upon my footsteps towards the double doors at the far end of the hall.
“You already are my Best Friend,” I remind him, even though he’s already aware of this.
In fact, Max Wilson was the first person ever to talk to me when my family moved to Ferndale…
“You like Star Wars?”
I remember Max getting totally geeked when he saw me parade my Luke Skywalker action figure up and down my desk during playtime in Miss Norbert’s 4th grade class back at Webster.
“Sure,” I lied. The movie came out years before, but I still hadn’t seen it. In fact, I had no real desire to. I just happened to think Luke Skywalker was cute from all the commercials, but I didn’t tell Max that. Instead, I said, “I seen it like five times.”
“I only seen it three,” he replied, sounding disappointed that I had one up on him. “What’s your favorite part?”
“I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to ruin my chance at making my first new friend. “What’s yours?”
Max answered without hesitation. “When Luke Skywalker and Han Solo and Princess Leia are all trapped in the trash compactor and they’re about to get smashed to smithereens!”
“That part’s pretty good, I guess.”
I tried my best feigning enthusiasm, even though I didn’t know what the hell Max was talking about.
He lifted the lid to his desk. There amongst his purple Level 4 reading book, Hooked on Phonics worksheets, and Ranger Rick magazine, Max held hostage a collection of characters I only seen in the Star Wars section of the Sears Wish Book.
“I got an X-wing and a Y-wing fighter at home,” he bragged, “but my stupid mom won’t let me bring ’em to school.”
“That’s okay…I got both of them,” I totally lied again.
Luckily, Max never found me out for the fibber that I am. Eight years later, we’re still Best Friends.
“Today!”
Making a break for the parking lot, I tuck the slightly-bent-but-still-smokeable cig behind my ear, à la my new favorite actor, James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Oh, my God…He’s sooo good!
The second we hit the pavement, I bust out my purple Bic and fire it up. I know we’re not supposed to smoke on school property, but with only forty-five minutes for lunch, it doesn’t give me much time to jump in Max’s car, get outta the parking lot, head over to the BK in BF Warren, scarf down a couple bacon double cheeseburgers, and indulge myself in my dirty habit.
“Roll ’em down.”
There’s nothing worse than sitting on boiling hot vinyl, you know what I mean?
Crawling into the passenger seat, I immediately crank the window down. I hate Indian Summer. After spending the last three months in nothing but shorts and sandals, it always sucks being back in school all bundled up in jeans and shoes and a shirt.
“Dude!” Max groans the second I kick off my topsiders. “Your feet stank.”
He turns on the stereo, as if cranking The Cure is gonna mask my stench.
Catching a glimpse of my freckled face in the sideview mirror, I drape my arm ever so dramatically out the open window, hitting my cigarette hard. I love the way the paper crackles as it burns. The orange-red glow reminds me of campfire coals on a cool summer’s night.
I realize smoking is totally bad for me, but I gotta know how to do it, as an actor—yes, I’m also a Drama Queer. I mean, what if I get a part in a movie and my character calls for it?
“Step on it,” I order, soon as Max puts the LeMans in reverse.
“I’m stepping, I’m stepping,” he replies, sounding a tad annoyed.
We file in line behind all the other late ’70s and early ’80s model cars making their exit. Suddenly, I shout, “Honk!”
In front of us, I notice the blue Chevy Citation belonging to HPHS’s own Viking Marching Band drum major, Ava Reese. In the passenger seat sits Ava’s Best Friend and fellow clarinet player, Carrie Johnson. Both brunettes turn around and give a wave before Ava makes the right turn onto Felker.
“Where they going?” Max wonders, taking us in the opposite direction.
“Probably to Carrie’s house to watch Days of our Lives.” She’s a big fan, and tapes it every day on her VCR…Must be nice!
Me and Max have both known Ava since elementary school, but Carrie I didn’t meet till 7th grade Varsity Band at Webb Junior High. In fact, she was my first French kiss. Too bad big mouth Max went and told my mom about it on the way home from the Fun Night. I got grounded for a week.
“What class you got 4th hour?” Max asks, after I remind him we don’t have to hurry back.
“Chorale.”
“What is that,” he snorts, “some kinda horse thing?”
I roll my eyes. Max knows perfectly well that Chorale is the top choir at Hillbilly High in Hazeltucky, taught by Mr. Harold “Call me Hal” Fish.
Not that he’s not a nice guy, but sometimes I think Mr. Fish—I mean, Hal—thinks he’s one of us students and not our teacher. Sure, it’s cool he lets us get away with stuff like being late for class and smoking when we’re out at a gig, but it’s like, Dude…You’re thirty! Not to mention the fact that he’s sorta heavy and he sweats a lot.
I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad except he carries this rag around that he uses to mop himself off once the works start flowing. And since it’s seventy-five degrees on the first day of fall, I can just imagine the mess Hal’s gonna be by the time I finally show up to his class.
Oh, my God…Don’t look now!
Burger King is packed with a bunch of obnoxious, post-pubescent, hormones-raging high schoolers, but at least the air-conditioning works. Only I’m more in need of a cold shower when a maroon and gray Vikings Varsity football jacket catches my eye.
“What’s up, Bradley?”
As me and Max snake around the mile-long line, who do I see coming towards us?
None other than #23: Rob Berger.
“Nothing much.” I feel my face go flush the second his brown eyes meet my blues. “What’s up with you?”
“You know…Getting some grub.”
Rob flashes a sheepish smile. When I see the space between his two front teeth, it’s just about all I can do not to wet myself right then and there.
“’s up, Berger?” asks Max with a nod, as if seeing Rob out in public is totally no biggie.
I’m sorry, but you should see this guy…For starters, he’s got on these totally tight jeans, pegged at the bottom, with gray slip-on shoes, and no socks—love it! He’s also SWB (Short With a Bod), which I also love. Like 5’8”, 190 pounds, and built like a brick shithouse, with dark brown hair, cut over the ear, and buzzed in back. Did I mention his beautiful brown eyes?
Oh! And he’s got the sexiest little mustache. Plus a totally hairy chest and a totally big dick.
Wanna know how I know this?
Every day after Swimming back in 7th grade, Rob used to walk around butt naked in the locker room. You can bet I took my sweet old time getting dressed while I secretly checked him out toweling himself off. I’m