Worth Telling
two
Foster was one of those nice boys, who never did anything that was too wrong, who had lots of well-mannered friends, who was nervous to buy weed. I was bad, but not in the typical smoking-drinking-drug-doing kind of way. I was a back-talking, know-it-all, sarcastic, build-you-up and then tear-you-down kind of bad.
I was thinking about that as I led him up the stairs to the room that The Baby and I shared. Behind me, he was going on and on about some party he was going to on Saturday and about how that’s what he wanted the drugs for. He said that he didn't even smoke weed (I didn't either, actually.)
“You can shut up now,” I told him as we entered the room. “I don’t care what you want the pot for.”
Foster shut up. I went into our closet. In the very back there was a hole in the wall, a gaping cavity with crumbling bits of plaster around the edges. Nestled in the hole was secret stuff. A sister manifesto (from when were ten and eleven), seventeen love/porn letters (all for The Baby), my journal (locked of course), and all the drugs.
“So you just want pot?” I asked reemerging from the closet with the product.
He nodded and reached into the pocket of his jeans, bringing forth a wad of crumpled bills. We exchanged and I walked him downstairs.
Just as I was about to shut my dirty front door in his face, he said, “Did you, maybe, want to come?”
“What?” I asked, unsure of what he meant.
“On Saturday. To the party, at my friend’s lake house.”
I raised my right eyebrow, a habit that The Baby is always making fun of.
Foster stared at me, waiting for an answer, and then as opened my mouth to decline he blurted, “I’ll just come and pick you up. Saturday, say nineish.” Then he took off down my driveway, running across the street, before disappearing into his own house.
I was thinking about that as I led him up the stairs to the room that The Baby and I shared. Behind me, he was going on and on about some party he was going to on Saturday and about how that’s what he wanted the drugs for. He said that he didn't even smoke weed (I didn't either, actually.)
“You can shut up now,” I told him as we entered the room. “I don’t care what you want the pot for.”
Foster shut up. I went into our closet. In the very back there was a hole in the wall, a gaping cavity with crumbling bits of plaster around the edges. Nestled in the hole was secret stuff. A sister manifesto (from when were ten and eleven), seventeen love/porn letters (all for The Baby), my journal (locked of course), and all the drugs.
“So you just want pot?” I asked reemerging from the closet with the product.
He nodded and reached into the pocket of his jeans, bringing forth a wad of crumpled bills. We exchanged and I walked him downstairs.
Just as I was about to shut my dirty front door in his face, he said, “Did you, maybe, want to come?”
“What?” I asked, unsure of what he meant.
“On Saturday. To the party, at my friend’s lake house.”
I raised my right eyebrow, a habit that The Baby is always making fun of.
Foster stared at me, waiting for an answer, and then as opened my mouth to decline he blurted, “I’ll just come and pick you up. Saturday, say nineish.” Then he took off down my driveway, running across the street, before disappearing into his own house.