Bottled Up (3 page)

How do they know which ones are supposed to be yellow and which ones are supposed to be green?

I almost always give him the same answer.

Shut up, I tell him.

He's got a whole load of questions about our family too. Same answer.

Shut up.

After getting rattled by Giraldi and having to sit through the rest of my classes without a buzz, all I wanted to do was smoke a joint. I wasn't in the mood for a pain-in-the-butt six-year-old and his stupid questions. I just wanted to kick back and forget things for a little while.

He was standing next to a tree in front of the school, looking at his hand.

“Let's go,” I said.

“Look at this.” He put the back of his hand in front of his face.

“It's a ladybug,” I told the little genius. “You've seen a million of those.”

“Not like this one. This one doesn't have any spots.”

“Let's get out of here.”

“I'm naming her No Spots.”

He was just standing there, not listening to me. I should call him No Ears.

“Come on.” I grabbed the top of his shirt and pulled him to start walking.

“Look over there,” he said, pointing with his other hand behind him at a yellow backhoe and a dump truck. “They started digging today. I think they're fixing something. Cool, right?”

I pulled on his shirt a little harder and got him crossing the street.

“Stop,” he yelled, and bent down to the double yellow line, feeling around with his hands. “I dropped her.”

“Who?”

“No Spots.”

The light turned green and a car honked at us. I gave the lady a good look at my middle finger, and pulled my brother across the street.

“She'll get squished,” he yelled at me.

“Forget the bug,
we're
going to get flattened.” I pulled him the rest of the way across the street. “You couldn't find her because she probably flew away.”

His Superman backpack was falling off his shoulders and I yanked it up when we got to the sidewalk.

“Pip? Why do ladybugs fly?”

“Because their legs are too small to walk on all day.”

“They got a lot of places to go?”

“Maybe.”

“God gave them wings so they wouldn't get tired?”

“I don't know about God.”

“So how'd they get wings?”

“Could you just shut up and walk?” I needed a joint more than I needed to breathe. I felt like some extra layer of skin was growing on me and the only way to lose it was to get stoned. I pulled a pack of Marlboros out of the front of my jeans and shook out a cigarette.

“Pip? Are you taking me to Eddie's house again?”

“Yeah. His mother is gonna watch you for a little while.”

I lit the butt and took a breath in.

“How come you don't take me home anymore?” He was whining. “I'm sick of going to Eddie's house. You're supposed to pick me up and take me home.”

I blew out the smoke. “Eddie's your friend. You two can hang out—”

“I want to hang out with
you.
”

“You can't.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“So why can't I come?”

“Shut up, Bugs.”

The kid was mad at me. He was sick of getting dumped off, but I didn't care. I wanted to finish that one joint I had in my sock, even though it wasn't going to be enough to un-rattle me.

I took a long drag on my cigarette.

“Can I try that?”

“Try what? My cigarette?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

I squatted down and blew smoke into his face. He started coughing and waved his hands to push it away.

Sometimes I wonder who Mikey's going to be in ten years. I could really come up with some ideas around that, but none of them would be good. Crap. I don't need any of it on my head, that's for sure. There was no way he was getting his first butt off of me.

I pulled his backpack up on his shoulders again when we got to Eddie's front door.

“Tell Eddie's mom I'll pick you up at four-thirty.”

“Pip?”

I could feel that joint in my sock. I would have lit it right there if I could.

“What?”

“Who puts the
m
's on the M&M's?”

I should have seen something like that coming.

“An elf,” I told him. “A purple one with lots of paintbrushes.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Mikey looked at me like I had something growing out of my forehead.

“What are you gawking at? Go on. Eddie's waiting for you at the door.”

He kept standing there, so I took off. I flipped my cigarette butt into the street, then looked back to see if he'd gone in yet. He was still watching me.

Man. Sometimes he looks so young—so little.

“What?” I asked him, and put my hands up over my head.

He waved to me and I nodded back real quick before breaking into a sprint. I pulled another cigarette out of my pack and lit it on my way to the only place I can ever go where nobody hassles me.

I got a lot of friends. Some of them are dead. Some of them are on their way. All of them hang out at what I call the Site. It's this one part of the Mountain of Hope Cemetery where there's a whole slew of real old graves nobody visits anymore. I bet anybody who knew these people is six feet under now too.

One of my friends at the Site is George Beattie, Beloved Husband, Loving Father, born 1875, died 1925. He knows me as good as anybody. There's Agnes, who I'm pretty tight with too. Agnes Jaffe, Devoted Wife and Friend. She's right next to George.

After I dropped Mikey off at Eddie's, I went to the Site. I knew my guys were going to be there. We're always there. It's where we hang out and nobody can find us—not that anybody is looking. It's also where Johnny passes out the stash, and I was pretty low on supply that day. The joint in my sock was all I had left.

“Pip, man,” Slayer yells to me from in front of Robert Hahn, 1817-1878. “Where the hell you been?”

Frankie got the name Slayer after he dyed his buzz cut and his eyebrows white. His skin is almost gray and he's got the reddest freakin' lips you ever saw on a guy that wasn't wearing a dress. He looks just like the skinny guy on that
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
show. None of us knew his name so we just started calling him the Slayer guy. Frankie thought it was so cool, he got
Slayer
tattooed on his arm, right over his wrist, with a dagger going through the
y.

“I went over to the Dumpster looking for you after sixth period,” he said. “Friggin' Tony came out and grubbed my last roach.” Slayer took a drink from a bottle he was holding, then passed it up to me.

I grabbed it.

“Got snagged by Giraldi today,” I told him. “I had to hit all my classes.”

“No way.” Johnny stood up in front of George Beattie and we knocked shoulders.

“I'm in deep, man,” I told them, then took a drink from the bottle. I didn't even care what I was drinking. I had an edge on me so sharp, I could slice something just by looking at it. It was going to take a hell of a lot of drink and smoke to keep from cutting myself on me.

“Giraldi's after my ass.”

“What's his problem?” Johnny dropped back down on his butt and leaned against George. I sat in front of Agnes.

“If I don't go to every class, he's kickin' my ass out of school and calling the old man to tell him about it.”

“Then we'd have to dig you a nice hole in the ground right here next to George and Agnes,” Johnny said, and Slayer started laughing.

“No joke,” I said, thinking about how I almost wet my pants when Giraldi had my father's office on the line.

Johnny lit up a joint and held it out to me. “So just go to classes for a couple of weeks. Then he'll forget you just like everybody else does.”

“I don't think so,” I said, hoping my head would stop racing. “Not this time.”

I didn't tell the guys about Giraldi blackmailing me—nothing about the counseling. If those guys thought I was going to talk to anybody, they'd start looking over their shoulders. They wouldn't trust me anymore.

They weren't going to know about the counseling—if I went.

“Don't let Giraldi get to your old man,” Johnny said. “Just do what you got to do to keep that phone from ringing.”

Johnny knew what he was talking about. He'd seen my father in action a couple of times. You don't forget that. Back when me and Johnny were in the seventh grade, right after his father split, he came over a lot. He saw things. He heard. He knows.

I don't go to Johnny's apartment too much anymore either. Somewhere around the eighth grade his place started smelling funky. Everything was always a mess, old pizza on the table, dishes and cruddy pots in the sink. His mother is a garbage-head who keeps herself in supply by trading her body for drugs.

I'm the only one of us guys who knows about that. Me and Johnny go back to junior high. We go back to when we didn't know enough to keep our mouths shut and our front doors off-limits.

“What are you going to do?” Slayer handed me back the bottle and I took another long pull on it before answering him.

“After I drop my brother off at school in the mornings, I'm gonna get myself behind the Dumpster and smoke as much weed as I can before first period. I'm going to try and grab a few hits out the bathroom window between classes.”

Slayer shook his head. “You're going to have to, man. You'll never make it all day without a buzz. I keep a bottle in my locker and get a bathroom pass so I can take a few swigs when the hall is empty.”

“See you tomorrow fourth period?” I asked him.

“I'm there.” Slayer put his fist out and I hit mine on top of it. Then he put his Walkman headphones on and leaned back against Robert Hahn's cement pillow. He had the damn music cranked so loud, I could hear the exact song he was blasting.

The pictures in my head were slowing down. I didn't see Fleming anymore, with her finger slamming into my brain. Giraldi's hand on the phone was a blur. I couldn't see Jenna watching me walk out of class . . . Coach Fredericks blowing his whistle . . . Mikey waving good-bye.

“Pip,” Johnny said, sounding like he had cotton in his mouth. “I figured out a way you can get some driving lessons.”

“Hm?” I had my eyes closed. I took a couple of quick inhales on the joint.

“We can get some cash together real easy for you if you want. One of those dorky driving schools, you know, with the signs on the roof, could take you on the road.”

“How?”

“Mo is setting me up.”

“With a driving school?” I still had my eyes closed. I didn't really want to talk.

“I'm going to sell for him.”

Mo is this guy in the Bronx who Johnny takes the train to see once or twice a week to pick up stash. I went with him a couple of times. Slayer takes the ride once in a while. But Johnny goes every week. He gets enough product to sell to the two of us, but I never heard of him dealing to anybody else.

“I'm going to get me some serious money, Pip. I'm going to unload so much weed and coke and ecstasy for this guy, I'm going to be rich. You can get in on this with me if you want.”

I opened my eyes and looked over at Johnny. He was staring at me like he really wanted me to go in on it with him.

“I don't know,” I said. We never say no to each other, me and Johnny. If he wants to sneak into a movie, we go. If I want to kick somebody's ass for giving me trouble, he's right there. We don't say no. We say I don't know.

“What do you mean, you don't know. Forget money for driving lessons. You could get enough cash to buy your own wheels. Hell, if Giraldi kicks you out, we'll buy you your own
school.
”

“I'm so wasted right now, Johnny. I can't think about nothin'.”

“I hear you.” He leaned back against the headstone.

“I could use another bag now, though,” I told him.

Johnny shook his head and shoved a small bag of pot at my chest.

“Here,” he said. “But I'm not covering you forever. You're going to have to get a job. Go price peas at the damn Stop and Shop if you're not going in on this with me, but I'm not covering you forever.”

“I'll get you money for the bag.”

“How about for the last three I spotted you?”

“It's coming,” I told him. But I didn't have any paper money at all. I had a few quarters and a dime.

“We could be a couple of very rich assholes,” Johnny said.

I took a last hit off the joint and flicked the rest away before it burned my thumb.

“Anyway,” he said, “come out with us tonight. We're crashing some cheerleader's party. I'm bringing the bong and a case of Bud.”

“What time?”

Just when he said eight o'clock, I jumped up.

“What time is it?”

Johnny clicked his lighter in front of a cigarette. “Ten after five,” he said.

“Crap,” I yelled, then ran my ass through the cemetery, jumping over a couple of freshly covered holes in the ground.