So we all agree to pretend. I pretend that I never got Jules’s text and Chad pretends that I never sucked Chad’s dick; Zombie pretends she isn’t technically still married and MJ also pretends that Zombie isn’t technically still married—to a man. Brooklyn and I pretend that it doesn’t matter what you do when your people aren’t looking, and we each stow an extra hit of ecstasy on the way back to my car.
It’s that second one that really gets you going. That’s what Soren always says.
Plug five. Snort three. Take one under your tongue. (Goes the general advice.)
"Smoke two," Soren says, "Snort seven."
Then Drug Dealer Christina chimes in: "Eat three. Swallow ten."
And Soren says: "Have you guys ever heard of parachuting?"
Some people stick it up their ass.
One will give you a nice roll.
It’s that second one that really gets you going.
Me and Brooklyn are sitting in my Honda listening to the Chemical Brothers—and I hate the Chemical Brothers—and everyone, both of us in this car and everyone in the house, is pretending that we didn’t invite Soren and Christina over.
"Christina just needs to clean up." That’s what MJ always says when someone talks about how off-the-fucking planet Christina has become. Christina just needs to clean up. Yeah. That’s true. And Hitler just needed to stop killing people. Just adjust that one little thing, and he woulda been fine. What’s a little genocide among friends?
Brooklyn chose the Chemical Brothers. I don’t why it’s still in my iPod.
I put the car in reverse.
Brooklyn’s extra pill is sitting on the dashboard of my car.
"Brooklyn."
She looks up.
I hold the pill above her hand, which she opens. I drop it.
"Put that in your pocket."
"I’m gonna put it in my sock."
"You’ll step on it."
"I’ll put it in my bra."
I watch her do this. It doesn’t seem like the best place—but how would I know? "That’s better," I say.
She turns up the Chemical Brothers but I don’t care. We’ve already swallowed one ecstasy pill but it’s too soon for that "I love everything" phase to be hitting. Half my pill is under my tongue, still dissolving. You can feel it sooner that way. Plus it’s easier on your stomach. It burns a hole in your tongue, but..I prefer that.
"Where’s your extra one?"
I pat my cargo pocket, the bottom one.
Brooklyn feels my pocket from the outside, locates the pill, and twiddles it in her fingers. "Just loose like that?"
I shrug. I ease the car back, looking in my mirrors.
"What if you lose your pants?"
I bust out laughing.
"What if someone.." she says "..takes them off." Her hand is on my leg.
"I’ll have to get back to you on that," I say. And I was right—I would—though at the time I had no idea what state I would be in when I finally did get back to her.