Any time, he said. Happy enjoyed the company.
If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be spending my fall living at home and hanging out with Adam Willis, it would’ve sounded like a nightmare to me. But it was weird how normal it was starting to feel, like this was my life now, and Adam was way more a part of it than Jake or Josh or even Heather, who’d broken up with me a couple of weeks after she got to Pomona, sparing me the nightly Skype updates about her awesome roommates and amazing professors.
At the top of the hill, we sat down on a fallen log in the shade of the water tower. Adam took out his little one-hit pipe and packed it with weed. He offered it to me, and I shook my head, the way I always did, though I wasn’t sure what was stopping me. In high school, I’d stayed away from weed because I thought it might interfere with my studies and sap my motivation, but what did that matter now?
“The thing I don’t get,” he said, in that squeaky, holding-it-in voice, “is how your boss even knows my number.”
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to him.”
“And how’d he know I was selling?” Adam released a cloud of smoke so big I couldn’t believe it had all been stored inside his lungs. “It’s not like I’m advertising.”
I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that it was common knowledge that he sold some kind of killer weed, the source of which no one could pinpoint. We lived in a small town, and you couldn’t keep something like that a secret for long.
“You know what?” I said. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just give Eddie his money back. It’s no big deal.”
Happy was sitting at our feet, panting cheerfully, thick body heaving, tongue lolling sideways from his mouth. Adam leaned forward and kissed him on top of his big square head. When Adam looked up, I could see that the weed had kicked in. His eyes were cloudy, his face dreamy and trouble-free.
“Chill out,” he told me. “I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to jam you up with your boss.”
I DIDN’T realize I had a problem until my next run-in with Lt. Finnegan. This time I wasn’t speeding and hadn’t violated any traffic laws. I was just minding my business, heading back to Sustainable around nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, when an unmarked Crown Victoria popped up in my rearview mirror, that familiar white-haired douchebag at the wheel. There were no flashing lights, but he tailgated me for a couple of blocks before finally hitting the siren, a quick bloop-bloop to get my attention.
We were right by Edmunds Elementary School, the quiet stretch of Warren Road that runs alongside the playing fields. I pulled over, his car still glued to my bumper, and cut the engine. It felt like a bad dream, the same cop stopping me for the third time in less than two weeks.
I was fishing around in the glove box for the registration when he startled me by tapping on the passenger window — he usually approached from the other side — and yanking the door open. Before I could react, he had ducked inside my car and shut the door behind him.
The Prius was pretty roomy, but Lt. Finnegan seemed to fill all the available space. He reached down, groping for the adjuster bar, then grunted with relief as the seat slid back.
“That’s better.” He rotated his bulk in my direction. He was wearing civilian clothes, khakis and a sport coat, but he still looked like a cop. “How are you, Donald?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Not that I know of.”
“Then why’d you pull me over?”
“I didn’t pull you over.”
“Yes, you did. You hit the siren.”
“Oh, that.” He chuckled at the misunderstanding. “I just wanted to say hi. Haven’t seen you for a couple of days.”
“Oh. Okay.” I nodded as if this made perfect sense. “I just assumed—”
“I get it.” He laid his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
I waited for him to remove his hand, but he kept it where it was. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my jeans.
“Umm,” I said. “You know what? I really have to get back to work.”
“You’re dedicated,” he observed. “I like that.”
“I just got hired. I’m trying to make a good impression.”
He tilted his head, giving me a thorough once-over. I was uncomfortably aware of his aftershave, a sharp lime scent that mingled badly with the stale pizza funk inside the car.
“You seem a little tense, Donald.” He lifted his hand off my knee and placed it on my shoulder. “I bet you could use a backrub.”
I shook my head, but he didn’t seem to notice. His left hand was already cupping the back of my neck, squeezing and releasing, exerting a gentle, disturbing pressure.
Oh, God, I thought. This isn’t happening.
“Just relax, Donald. I’m really good at this.”
He slipped his hand under my collar, his fingers rough against my skin, tracing the knobs on my spine.
“Please don’t do that,” I told him.
He pretended not to hear me, shifting in the seat so he could get his other hand into the act. He went to work on my right arm, stroking and kneading my shoulder. I could hear him breathing raggedly through his nose, as if he were climbing a hill.
“Wow,” he said in this faraway voice. “Your deltoid’s really tight.”
“Stop it!” I twisted out of his grasp, scooting away from him until my back was pressed against the door. The violence of my reaction startled us both.
“Whoa!” he said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Jesus.”
“I don’t want a backrub,” I told him.
“Okay, fine.” He sounded a little hurt. “Take it easy, Donald. I was just trying to be nice.”
“Could you please get out of my car?”
He turned away, scowling at the empty street in front of us. There was something sulky and stubborn in his posture.
“I really don’t get you, Donald.” He said this with weird conviction in his voice, like we’d had some kind of long history together. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing with your life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve been asking around. People say you’re a pretty smart kid.”
“Yeah?” I was flattered in spite of myself, glad to know that people still thought well of me. “So?”
“So what’s the deal? How come you’re not in college?”
“I’m taking a gap year.”
This was the explanation my parents and I had agreed on, but I could hear how lame it sounded.
He heard it, too, and snorted with contempt. “A gap year to deliver pizza? What was that, your lifelong dream?”
I should have just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, like he had the right to judge me.
“I’m trying to save some money,” I said. “I’m going to Africa in the spring to work in an orphanage. Is that okay with you?”
He didn’t answer right away, and I could see that I’d caught him off guard.
“Africa, huh? What country?”
“Uganda.”
“Wow.” He sounded skeptical, but I could tell he was impressed. “Good for you.”
Just then my phone started buzzing. It was Eddie. I held it up so he could see the display.
“You mind if I take this, Lieutenant? My boss is wondering where I am.”
MY STORY about the orphanage wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t just a load of random bullshit, either. For most of the spring and all of the summer, it had been an actual plan, the answer I gave whenever anyone asked about my future. It was a pretty good answer, too, which is probably why I dusted it off for Lt. Finnegan.