The air outside hums with music. All the lights in the house are on. If Alex’s parents have gotten any smarter since the infamous rager we threw after Winter Formal, the neighbors are on the lookout for suspicious activity. Everything inside me says we’re going to get busted any minute, and I have the worst possible timing in the world.
But right now, I don’t care about the neighbors or the cops or even Savannah. I just . . . WANT.
A couple of minutes are all I need. And then I’ll get Savannah out of the house, tell her to get home before the shit hits the fan. Just a couple of minutes.
I scrounge under my seat for the empty CD case, then reach into the glove compartment for the Burger King straw I’ve cut down to size. I hook a finger under the mat and feel around for the baggie. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. Sweat beads on my upper lip.
I crack open a pill, sprinkle it onto the plastic case. It doesn’t look like very much, definitely not enough, so fuck it, I crack open another.
My hands shake as I cut the powder with my driver’s license, scrape it into twin tracks.
A distant siren sounds.
Hurry, hurry.
There’s yelling from the house, and somebody’s turned off the music.
I prop the case on my knee, duck my head, and snort the powder through the straw.
One line. Then the other.
I squeeze my eyes shut until the burn in my nostrils fades to a steady chemical drip at the back of my throat, and the surge of heat spreads through my frozen body like liquid sunshine.
A siren screams; blue and red stars light up the night. Bodies flood out of Alex’s house like it’s on fire.
I shut my eyes and lean back against my seat.
The noise from the house fades. My body melts like crayons in the sun, colors merging in a puddle of rainbow wax. And I . . .
. . . can’t . . .
. . . feel . . .
. . . anything.