“Let me make it up to you,” he said, nodding at my schedule, which I still had in my hand. “You need directions? ”
“Nope,” I said, pulling my bag higher up on my shoulder.
I expected him to look surprised—I couldn’t imagine he got turned down much for anything—but instead he just shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ll just see you around. Or tomorrow morning, anyway.”
There was a burst of laughter from beside me as two girls sharing a pair of earphones attached to an iPod brushed past. “What’s happening tomorrow morning?”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “The carpool,” he said, like I was supposed to have any idea what he was talking about. “Jamie said you needed a ride to school.”
“With you?”
He stepped back, putting a hand over his chest. “Careful,” he said, all serious. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.”
I just looked at him. “I don’t need a ride.”
“Jamie seems to think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging again. Mr. Easygoing. “I’ll come by around seven thirty. If you don’t come out, I’ll move on. No biggie.”
No biggie, I thought. Who talks like that? He flashed me another million-dollar smile and turned to leave, sliding his hands into his pockets as he loped back, casual as ever, to his crop of well-manicured friends.
The first warning bell rang just as started toward what I hoped—but was in no way sure—was Building C. Don’t trust the natives, Olivia had told me, but I was already a step ahead of her: I didn’t trust anyone. Not for directions, not for rides, and not for advice, either. Sure, it sucked to be lost, but I’d long ago realized I preferred it to depending on anyone else to get me where I needed to go. That was the thing about being alone, in theory or in principle. Whatever happened—good, bad, or anywhere in between—it was always, if nothing else, all your own.
After school, I was supposed to take a bus home. Instead, I walked out of Perkins Day’s stone gates and a half mile down the road to the Quik Zip, where I bought myself a Zip Coke, then settled inside the phone booth. I held the sticky receiver away from my ear as I dropped in a few coins, then dialed a number I knew by heart.
“Hello? ”
“Hey, it’s me,” I said. Then, too late, I added, “Ruby.”
I listened as Marshall took in a breath, then let it out. “Ah,” he said finally. “Mystery solved.”
“I was a mystery?” I asked.
“You were something,” he replied. “You okay?”
This was unexpected, as was the lump that rose up in my throat as I heard it. I swallowed, then said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Marshall was eighteen and had graduated from Jackson the year before, although we hadn’t known each other until he moved in with Rogerson, the guy who sold all my friends their pot. At first, Marshall didn’t make much of an impression—just a tall, skinny guy who was always passing through or in the kitchen when we went over there to get bags. I’d never even talked to him until one day I went over by myself and Rogerson wasn’t around, so it was just the two of us.
Rogerson was all business and little conversation. You knocked, you came in, got what you needed, and got out. I was expecting pretty much the same with Marshall, and at first he didn’t disappoint, barely speaking as I followed him to the living room and watched him measure out the bag. I paid him and was just about to get to my feet when he reached over to a nearby cabinet, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small ceramic bowl. “You want some?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, and then he handed it over, along with a lighter. I could feel him watching me, his dark eyes narrowed, as I lit it, took some in, and passed it back.
The pot was good, better than the stuff we bought, and I felt it almost instantly, the room and my brain slowly taking on a heavy, rolling haze. Suddenly, everything seemed that much more fascinating, from the pattern on the couch beneath me to Marshall himself, sitting back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. After a few minutes, I realized we’d stopped passing the bowl back and forth and were just sitting there in silence, for how long I had no idea.
“You know what we need,” he said suddenly, his voice low and flat.
“What’s that?” My own tongue felt thick, my entire mouth dry.
“Slurpees,” he said. “Come on.”
I’d been afraid he would ask me to drive, which was completely out of the question, but instead, once outside, he led the way down a path that cut across a nearby field dotted with power lines, emerging a block down from a convenience store. We didn’t talk the entire way there, or when we were in the store itself. It was not until we were leaving, in fact, each of us sucking away at our Slurpees—which were cold and sweet and perfect—that he finally spoke.
“Good stuff,” he said, glancing over at me.
I nodded. “It’s fantastic.”
Hearing this, he smiled, which was unnerving simply because it was something I’d never seen before. Even stranger, as we started back across the path, he reached behind him, grabbing my hand, and then held it, walking a little bit ahead, the whole way home. I will never forget that, my Slurpee cold on my teeth and Marshall’s palm warm against mine as we walked in the late-afternoon sunshine, those power lines rising up and casting long shadows all around us.