Stoner & Spaz by Ron Koertge Read Free Book Online Page A

fault?”
    “I’m a spaz, in case you haven’t noticed.”
    Colleen holds out her hand and lifts a finger for every name: “Don Secoli is in a wheelchair, and he’s Mr. High School. Karen Radley’s practically deaf, and she still plays drums in some garage band. Doris Schumacher’s blind, but all you have to do is say one word to her and she knows who you are. Get over yourself, okay?”
    I lean in. “Will you not rant, please? People are looking at us.”
    “Oh, who cares.”
    “I care. You’ve got a purse full of drugs.”
    “Ed will bail us out. All you’ll get is probation for a first offense.”
    I tug at her, draw her deeper into the shadows. “I don’t want Ed to bail me out; I don’t want probation; I don’t want to go to jail, period.” Then I watch her light another joint. Her purse is like something from a fairy tale, one of those magic sacks that’s never empty. “Aren’t you high enough?”
    She takes a gargantuan hit, then offers it to me. I wave it away as she says, “I never get high enough.”
    With each word, out comes a little puff of smoke like those ominous signals the settlers saw when they crossed into Indian territory.
    When I hear people behind us whispering and snickering, I turn on them. “What are you looking at?” I demand. “There’s nothing to see, okay?” Then I lean against the nearest tree.
    Colleen fiddles with the joint she’s just lit, stares at it, inhales a little smoke by passing it under her nose like some plutocrat with a Havana cigar. Then she flicks off the lit end and drops the rest back into her purse. “I’d better lie down,” she says, sinking onto the lawn. “I’ve kind of got the whirlies.”
    I go and stand over her, half-mad and half-worried. “Are you sick?”
    “Maybe sit by me for a minute. I’ll be okay.”
    I lower myself onto the damp grass, which takes a little doing. “I can call a cab if you want. You shouldn’t drive.”
    “Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine. I’m used to this.”
    “Why do you do it?”
    Colleen props herself up on both elbows. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a point where I’m just about perfect: just high enough but not too high. Everything makes sense to me, or if it doesn’t, I don’t care. So I guess I figure if I feel this good on a few hits, I’ll feel twice as good on twice as many. Stupid, huh?”
    “Kind of.”
    She sits up then and rubs my arm. The nearest one. The withered one. I flinch, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry I called you a snob.”
    She’s not looking at me, so I’m not looking at her. Yet. But her bare hand on my skin feels out of this world. “I’m sorry I called you a drug addict.”
    She lets her hand slide down to my fist then, because that’s what I have on that side. A permanent fist. “I know I smoke too much.”
    “I don’t try hard enough. I should talk to people more.”
    Colleen leans into me then. She puts a hand on my cheek. “I like your hair.”
    “Man, you are loaded.”
    “It’s cute. You’re cute.”
    “If you pet me,” I say, “I’ll follow you home.”
    “Yeah? What’ll you do if I kiss you?”
    I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t think of a thing. You have to remember: I’ve been a spaz all my life. I never kiss anybody. Nobody ever kisses me.
    Colleen murmurs, “My science teacher is always saying, ‘Try. You won’t know what a combination of elements will do unless you try.’” She leans closer. Her breath is heavy and sweet. “What’s the worst that could happen, huh?”
    I think,
I could explode and then you’ll wish you’d worn your safety glasses.
But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I’m getting ready for this kiss. I’m licking my lips, because that’s what people do in the movies, and I’ve seen a million of those.
    About an hour later, I ease through the front door and close it behind me. I’m as stealthy as Tom Cruise in
Mission: Impossible.
    “Ben? Is that you?”
    But,