"What are you guys doing?"
I don’t even get the words "tai chi" out of my mouth before Brooklyn falls over and she’s screaming: "Soren!"
Soren shakes my hand. He’s formal like that—even his cap. It looks like it’s from the Netherlands. Honestly, Soren looks like he should be in an office somewhere—he looks that way most of any of us. His face is very stern. He’s got stiff hands. He’s tall. He drives a Jetta. I think his parents are leaving him an inheritance—like a big one—which is why he doesn’t care what he does with his life.
Christina’s standing next to him, fucking with her iPod. "I hate slow-intro shit." She skips a song. "Fuck Korn." She skips. She’s kissing me hello and helping me keep my balance. We do it right on the porch: Soren pulls out his eye-dropper and feeds me and Brooklyn liquid LSD like we’re baby birds. He puts two drops and tells me "it’s concentrated."
Then we go inside the house.