WARNINGS

|| Underage Drug Usage (marijuana) || Depiction of Self-Harm (nondescriptive) ||

"I need 200 dollars. Now!"

I squint my eyes, hoping my look of disbelief will be swiftly conveyed to Kian - though, I knew, I must have looked mostly wiped out. That's cuz I was. Today's practice, the guys' yapping, the talk with Coach Truck, my own shit, and adding to all that a healthy dose of AP Lit homework, proved enough to make my brains unpeel themselves outta my limp mortal coil at this very moment.

A dull pressure began building up behind my eyes and forehead, like a heavy wintercoat wearing down your posture pressing onto your shoulders and smothering. Fatigue charred the seams of my vision, only pronged further after a hot steamy shower. All I wanted was rest. Let my body heal. Let my mind drift to nowhereland, so that all this annoying fuzziness, all the anxious thrumming in my chest and finger pads would be halted temporarily.

However

If anything, I quite admire Kian's ruthlessness. He sauntered inside my bedroom just as I came out of the shower and perched himself, legs crossed, on my bed, all of his skinny 4'10" frame of a nugget trying to conjure something akin to seriousness - but which did nothing coming from an 8th grader, that happened to be my littlest sibling. He was sitting in anticipation, demand made clear with zero context - his bottom lip chewed-through, frizzy mess of a hair that resembled a birdnest cascading over big shiny eyes. Fingers and toes wiggling (cuticles and nails gnawed at as well) telling me his patience was worn thin.

I sighed audibly.

"What for?"

"Books."

"What books?"

"From Mrs. Chee's bookstore.

That's the bookstore Kian made his personal haven of sorts and safe space since we moved here. Eliza Chee owned it - a cheery science fiction hardcore fan I only met twice or thrice whenever giving Kian a drive there or accompanying Celeste. I barely understood a thing Kian and her discussed over, but it was one of the only instances I have seen him at ease and smiling. Smiling like a child should - which he still was, and always will be in my eyes.

"They are having a charity sale and give away tons of donated books for 2 or 3 dollars!"

I don't even have to do the math.

"You don't need almost 100 more books."

I have seen his bedroom. Floor to ceiling shelves completely filled up, stacks upon stacks lining the walls. Hell, half his bed was always occupied by books he slept in the middle of!

But that was not an answer Kian could even conceive of. Because right now he looked at me as if I have just committed at least a dozen hate crimes.

"So, you are anti-charity is what you are telling me."

I roll my eyes. Classic Kian. I love his creativity - especially when it comes to comebacks, but dang it is frustrating to be on the end of it.

So I try to swerve the convo myself as well.

"200 bucks is a lot of money. The hell, you think I can just give you that much?"

Kian pouts. Cute, if his gaze wasn't a sharpened spear looking for the softest spot to plunge into.

"You have got plenty of money. You have sponsors, don't you?"

I reign in the urge to roll my eyes again and to say something like 'the hell you think I am? Sponsored by Sugar Momma Inc.???' or 'yar ass thinks I got Michael Jordan himself handing me money or what???'.

"I did do endorsement deals. But if you think I got cash flowing in my bank account every day, you'd be greatly disappointed."

Just how I told Darryn, TJ, and the other guys on the team. It don't be like that.

But Kian scrunches his nose, still defiant.

"But you bought that car all by yourself!"

Correction!

"No. Half the money was mine and half came from mom and dad - which I will pay back fully in installments."

They actually didn't wanna even hear about me paying them back, but after a long conversation I made them give in. It was maybe part pride, but also just knowing I achieved something - got myself something. Made myself a point.

That I didn't need to be looked after anymore.

That I could provide for myself and others.

So, sure, Kian was right - I was not broke. I had savings. And, don't mean to brag, 200 dollars wasn't that big of a deal for me.

But this was more than that.

"What about your own savings?"

I prodded and Kian averted his gaze - as if my question came out as an accusation. And that would be half-a-truth to be frank. I inhale deeply, my skull feeling compacted and thudding. Even the bulb's light hurt - every flicker a crinkle of migraine screwed in.

"How about this? How about I go with you and we can decide together what books you gonna get?"

"When? Tomorrow?" Kian asked, softly chewing on his thumb, pulling at the seams of his munched-on skin.

"I can't. How about we go Friday? Promise."

"No way. They will be gone by then! Someone will come and take them all. I made Mrs. Chee promise me to keep them stashed for me, but they will be found! We talkin' old editions of Blood Meridian and Gravity's Rainbow! Can you imagine that???"

I honestly cannot, because I never heard of those books in my life. I try not to sigh, try to placate my in-growing headache and bubbling unrest. I need to be careful handling this.

The shakiness. The excessive nail and skin biting. The alertness. The paranoia. The need to spend or get stuff almost irrationally. These were signs of a mania episode. It was lukewarm for now, thankfully, so I could try to appease Kian.

"Please? I am sure Mrs. Chee will keep your hoard safe. You are her number one customer." That was no exaggeration. "So, we will go together, on Friday, and you can get as many books as you want."

I have zero idea if promising this is a good thing, but I don't want Kian to meltdown. Refusing him anything will get you there. He is non-negotiable. Couple that with his bipolar disorder, it is a recipe for some otherworldly stuff. Which I hate seeing him go through. It is painful. It is messy. It is better this way. Hell, I'd have gotten him as many books as he wanted any day of the week. Mom, dad, or his therapist might know better than to encourage this mindset, but for now it is all I got. He can have it. Always.

Proof in question right here. Kian looks up towards me, flicks his gaze as if trying to peek underneath my flesh, checking for any hint of a lie, anything that might resemble an untruth - which wasn't there.

"Friday, first thing after school. Promise?"

He extends his arm waiting for me to shake his hand, as if we were on the brink of a time-altering accord.

I chuckle.

"I promise. Now come here."

It was a mistake on his end, because one thug is all it takes to pull him from my bed and balance him against my chest, one single arm used to support him.

"Now let's get you to bed."

"Fuck you! That was dirty!"

I pfft at him childishly and he brims with laughter in return that eases some of the pressure within. Unwinds the tight bolts fixed in my lungs, my heart, my limbs.

Over our dyadic chortling a third layer joins us - lighter, calmer, a suncoated clink.

"Idris! Get this manimal off me! This is kidnapping! Abduction! Deliberate attempt on my free will!"

Leaning against my doorframe, Idris was watching both of us, effortless smile glazed in amusement, messy braids tickling his sides, a rolled futon mattress under his left arm I asked Ruka to give him.

He might have been content just sitting there (for how long?) looking, but Kian's rattling stirred a lively howl out of him.

"Ya heard lil crinkling, Rian."

"Yeah yeah."

I tumble out, and release Kian who is a giggling mess despite all his big accusations. His cheeks are ruddy, eyes glistening from all the laughter, smile-too-big blooming across his face.

"I can walk, dumbass."

He fires back and I raise my eyebrow in response.

"Really? When did you learn that?"

"Oooo piss off, you gargantuan gorilla."

Pffft.

Trying to hold in my laughter proved useless, given how Idris exploded into a fit the very next second, futon dropping to the floor with a muted sound, as he bent over himself.

I let Kian have this one and ushered him outside my room.

"It is late. Now go to bed. Alright? Get some sleep. No reading. Try and sleep."

"I will I will - my sleep's been good for a while now."

It was. Kian was prone to bouts of insomnia he usually spent reading up all night under a lamp. By morning, he'd be a tiny stumbling zombie, which made him miss school and just shut down at its worst. He was miles and miles AND MILES better now from where he have been.

"Yes, and I am proud of ya. Now go." I take a moment. "Love you, Ki. Goodnight."

He glances at me, gaze swirling with something, mouth slightly gaping - threaded words on the edge of his lips and tongue he swallows back at the last moment.

"Yeah. Night."

I watched him scurry off to his bedroom.

I exhale. Try to expel the fumes that collected inside my lungs, loosen the tight strings that coiled tighter around my joints, my moving parts. I will need to tell mom and dad about this; the others too. Keep an eye out on Kian. I don't wanna have Shaye and Matis worry too much - even though they will; they always are. They are a set after all - the three of them; been with eachother before even being born.

But so far so good. Kian's been doing great for a while now - I guess his new therapist and meds are helping and school is less of a hellhole. Still a hellhole, but less hell and more hole, is what I am hoping for.

He was wearing an oversized tshirt and shorts (he even grew comfortable enough with that around us; and that's been huge) so it gave me a chance to quickly look over his arms and thighs. There was nothing fresh. No new cuts. No new scars. No new bite marks. No relapse. That was most important. That needed to stay that way.

"Ya gud, Rian?"

Idris finished rolling out the futon next to bed; leaving just enough room to navigate around. He was staying the night, what with his lil sibs looked after and the extra school workload unfurled viciously across my desk.

He cocked his head and must have caught glimpse of my broiling unease. He hopped to his feet and circled towards me, his arm draping me, breath and gaze drawing forward concern.

I nodded loosely, for the dull ache edged itself to a sharp stab of a migraine dotting all the way down to my clenched jaw.

"Yeah..just.."

Just that I need Kian to be well. Just that I need you to get that scholarship you deserve. Just that I need this season to go well. Just that my stats are horseshit. Just that I feel like I might have reached my ceiling. Just that my dream for the League seems more and more impossible. Just that I am just this.

All this worry feels like molten lead poured down my throat.

"Nothing, Dris. Am cool." I reassure, but he don't buy it. Doesn't prod any further, though; just keeps me grounded and steady under his arm.

I shake my head, try to shuck off these thoughts, keep them at bay.

It is a school week, not even weekend on the horizon yet, I have a quiz tomorrow as well, and I can't head over to Celeste's no more.

So this is the next best thing. I let my eyes trail to the left corner shelf, stacked with whatevers, landing on the gold and glittery purple worn-out trinket. Idris knows exactly the implications when he catches what I am looking at and shoots me an amused lopsided grin.

"Reeally?"

He trails but it is more of a 'why not' than 'hell nah', in my experience.

I shrug and grab the shabby mini-trophy that sat camouflaged between bigger and brighter medals and prizes. I won this one when I was 5 - my first. So, sure, you can call it sentimental value, but moreso a tactical stash hideout.

I flip it upside down and unscrew its bottom - what would normally be a hollowed out inside, was instead filled with rolling paper, a lighter, and one single pre-rolled out joint. I grimace.

"Shiet. I forgot to ask Kev for more." He was the go-to guy in my team, and probably the whole school, when thinking about it. Thankfully, his shit was strong.

"Should be good enough for tonight." I say.

Idris rolls his eyes at me and grabs the joint from my fingers, putting it behind his ear - keeps it steady in place even as his braids sway.

"Iz gud. We don' wanna be smashed first thing 'morrow morning."

I chuckle. Facts. Even if a cold shower, ibuprofen, and the rush of morning practice will definitely kill any leftover high.

Idris takes the lead - we are already familiar with this drill - and we step out my bedroom. While I figure that mom and dad won't scorch me off the face of the earth for smoking pot, it definitely won't help my record to have done it on a school night and imbue the taupe-colored wallpaper with indica spice.

So doing it under the night sky is the best solution to chase off the grazing throb pummeling beneath my temples.

The hallways are quiet - it is past midnight by this point - only the orange-tinged light coming from downstairs outlining the walls. There is always a couple lights left on inside the house. Need to always have it feel lived-in and awake from the outside, too, after all.

I take out my phone and switch on the flashlight as we make our way to the staircase. The steps are waning crescents from centuries of feet going up and down them. They squeak, whine, and sing with every movement we make. The whole house is never quiet. Even when empty, it never is. I found it annoying at first, after just moving in - as if every purr of an old hinge was history drilling itself a bit inside my brain. But now I grew content with it - as me and my family came to swell the house's insides with ourselves; its noises lacing our own so much, that you couldn't even tell them apart anymore.

We arrive on the second floor and thread our way like water curls through gravel, attempting to make as little noise as possible. We make it past the triplets' bedrooms and arrive at the hallway-end door - this is where the rattery is, aaand the best way to access the roof unseen.

The inside is as I have last seen it when Ruka decided to upgrade the cages for his mischief, which currently totals 12 rats. I can hear the little critters rummaging around at the sound of our figures stepping inside their home; my flashlight briefly illuminating over them. I am familiar with some - Hashbrown, Pringle,.. and Crouton, of course. Me and that rodent got long-standing beef - but that's a flashback for another time.

I am only here to get high and forget about my current problems. Just like everyone. And don't worry. I won't do it inside your place - is what I'd like to tell them.

"Dam', there's more o'them now." Idris whisper-tells me and gestures me to point the light towards the single window inside the former-office-turned-rat-haven-room.

He cracks it open and out we are.

The window opens to the outermost right corner of the house, which faces nothing in particular. Just the towering oaks and maples outlining our backyard. From this spot no one and nothing can spot you - from inside, or from outside the house. Which makes it a primetime spot for torching up.

This part of the roof, however, has definitely seen better days. The first layer of shingles was more decrepit than not, fragments crunching and shifting under our weights as we carefully navigated and sat down on a flat cleaned-out spot among the pockmarked housetop surface.

Our feet and knees interlace, making room for both of us to stretch. Shoulders touching, Idris leans slightly on his back, giving me more room. He takes the joint tucked behind his ear and holds it out for me. I take the crutch between my lips, as Idris flicks the lighter on and lights up for me.

I inhale.

It is a stale dense night. The darkness leaves no room even for the stars; molasses-thick, it feels like it could wrap us both so easily and be away with us. I let my thoughts swim outta me, zapping headache tuned out by the imploding galaxy inside my brain. Fuck, this shiz good.

I let my gaze slip down to Idris and hold up the joint for him. He takes a deep one, as well, and unlike me, holds it in for a bit - as if test-tasting it, as if savoring every silvery tendril.

In the darkness, the glow of the joint is incandescent, the smoke rivulets unspooling into moth colonies migrating deep into the swallowing nothing. I am floating alongside them.

Idris chuckles, pulling me outta my haze. His eyes are half closed, figure blending in he might become one with the warm night.

"Man, I forgot how gud Kev's stuff is."

He leans into me, cheek resting against the edge of my shoulder blade. I take another hit from the joint, and when I look down he has me fixated with a gaze I have trouble making sense of.

"What?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Are ya gud? Like for real. You been stressed out as hell."

I try to brush it off.

"We all are. Don't sweat it."

"I mean it, though. Ya shudn't worry dat hard. Yar golden. Will be great. Any college wud die to have ya. And if they dun wanna make ya an offer, then fuck them."

He slurs some of his words, which tells me he was just as busted as I was feeling at the moment. Even so, his words left me a tad afoot.

I know I shouldn't worry this much, but I do. I want the others to be good, as well. I feel like I could have done so much more up until this point. My game could have been a lot better, then the team would have been a lot better, and everyone would have gotten more offers by this point.

I shake my head, the smoke frizzling my lip.

"Yeah.. yeah. Yeah, you right. I just... want Chicago to give ya that offer, too, Idris. You earned it."

Because you are a solid point guard, and more of a natural leader than I could ever be. Because you want to be close to home for your family. Because you don't have to throw away college after graduation. Because there are ways, and I will get you there. Because, more than anyone, you deserve it. Because you are my dearest friend.

So even if not Division I (though I beg to differ), any D2 school would be hella lucky to have you on their roster.

Idris looks up to me, with a sprouted tender smile. He don't say nothing, just flicks his gaze to the remainder of the joint resting between my fingers. One last drag.

I hold it up to his lips, my fingers airily brushing them. He inhales and the sizzle of the flare is almost ready to burn me, as Idris takes it all in. When he is done, I kill the leftover embers, stray cinders highlighting the night for one brief second.

Idris holds it in, slowly bringing up his fingers to my face. He traces the fading bruise on my cheek gingerly, his touch gliding across my whole body, sending me both hyperaware and somewhere lost between stages of feel.

He runs the same hand to the back of my head and guides my face closer to his. His thumb ghosts my chin, and I let my lips fall open. He gets mere inches away before opening his own mouth and allows the cascading smoke plumes out. I kiss the smoky sweet-grass which tastes of Idris's mouth, gulping the remaining vestiges of it; as it stings my eyes; as time slows down interminably.

I let myself dissolve in that moment - and it must have been a good moment, because Idris calls out for me.

"We shud go. Get sum sleep."

Only then I open my eyes and meet his. The night is as heavy as before. I simply nod and let Idris help me up to my feet and to the window, then back to my bedroom.

I am warm and heavy. The dark is a feathery blanket. My head is light.

Notes:

crinkling - an affectionate term for a smaller-than-average child

(a joint's) crutch - the filter/tip/mouthpiece

torching up - slang for getting high

3. just because

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