Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Read Free Book Online

That’s my blood type.”
    The guy behind the counter glared.
    “Could you pick that up?” he asked. He wasn’t really asking.
    “We could,” said Morgan. She still didn’t move. It was almost funny, but I didn’t feel like laughing.
    The bookstore dude was pissed. “Now. Pick it up.”
    “Isn’t that your job?”
    He stared at her.
    “For god’s sake.” She reached down and plopped the magazines on the table. A bunch of people turned around and shushed us.
    “Yo. I’m calling the manager,” the guy said, grabbing the phone.
    “Whatever,” said Morgan.
    “Okay, troublemaker,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    By this time, my ears were tingling and I couldn’t find the door fast enough.
    “So you’ve traveled around a lot?” asked Morgan, as we made our way through the sweltering parking lot.
    I got the feeling she was trying to place me in some category and couldn’t settle on one yet.
    We climbed into her “suburban assault vehicle,” a dented Ford Explorer. The bumper was plastered with faded stickers—everything from the Miami Dade Humane Society to Apple computers, along with local bands like Poison the Well and Jacuzzi Boys. If I could’ve given Morgan a heads-up, I’d tell her to keep her car clean, but I wasn’t there to dish out warnings.
    I climbed into the passenger seat, scrambling over a heap of crumpled soda cans.
    “Sorry about the mess.” Morgan cranked the engine and rolled down the windows, just a crack. A blast of heavy bass squirted out of the radio speakers, what my old band teacher would’ve called a crescendo. “Is this one of those pirate radio stations?” She winced. “They play this song like a hundred times a day.”
    “You call this a song?” I snorted. “Sounds like the seventh circle of hell.”
    “Never heard of them. Were they on Total Request Live?” She asked. I couldn’t tell if she was joking. She popped the glove box, rustled around inside, pulled out a tiny sandwich bag and something metallic, as slim as a credit card.
    “Ever read The Divine Comedy ?” I asked.
    “Nope,” she said, sprinkling weed into the circular dent at the end of the card. “Is it funny?”
    “Hilarious.”
    “That would make a great name for my band … if I had a band.” Morgan jerked the steering wheel and made an illegal U-turn out of the parking lot. She reached for her tote bag, found a Zippo that said South Beach in fancy cursive. When she lit up, the damp vegetable smell of pot hung heavy in the car.
    Man, I could’ve used a hit. This girl was making me nervous. She was on another level I could never hope to reach.
    “I’m trying to get a band going,” she said before lapsing into a fit of deathlike coughing. “Basically, I had a band. Past tense. It was just Skully playing the piano and me singing. Sort of like Mates of State. Only we sucked.”
    I nodded like I understood.
    “And we were, like, eight years old,” she added. “That’s why I hang out with Skully. Our checkered pasts.”
    Morgan smile wickedly and dangled the pipe in front of me. A million thoughts raced through my mind: What if we got pulled over? What if she crashed?
    “I’ll pass.”
    “You sure?” She waved it back and forth, as if trying to hypnotize me. “Aren’t you the boy who’s always drawing pot leaves on your notebook?”
    “That’s just for show.”
    Morgan twisted around to look at me. “I know the truth, right?”
    “What’s that?”
    She grinned. “You’re really a narc.”
    The car grew quiet.
    I tried to laugh, but the air got caught in my throat. “I just don’t smoke when I’m drinking.”
    “I hear that,” she said, laughing.
    Morgan shifted and the Explorer stalled in the middle of US-1. Cars honked and swerved around us while she jiggled the stick. “Okay, okay.” She gasped. “Give me a second.” At last, the engine roared and we lurched forward.
    “Hey. What about the Silver Palm Leaves?” I asked.
    “You’d christen my band