Billy strode across the pavement of the school parking lot. Only a few cars remained. Moving vehicles filled Churchill Drive, some of the cars turning into the driveways of the houses across the way.
René smoked a cigarette. He’d never said anything when they’d left the detention room. He’d never said anything when they’d walked down the stairs. And he’d never said anything when they trekked through the main entranceway.
Somehow, Billy had to get them back in their earlier groove or he could kiss off a budding friendship. “You still take your rat out for a spin?”
“No.”
“Why not?” The stuffed bear Hoyt’s girlfriend kept in the asshole’s bedroom talked more than René did. Funny how he found his mouth if surrounded by his buddies and adoring fans in the school hallways.
“Don’t have the time.” René puffed on the cigarette. Smoke billowed from his nostrils and between his lips.
“What’s keeping you busy?”
“Work. Studying. Rehearsal.”
“Yeah. Noticed you guys rehearse a lot. What are you rehearsing for?”
Anarchic Aggregation, or AA as everyone jokingly referred to their gigs as, was the rock group René drummed in. They’d already played the homecoming dance last week, which Billy had attended to only sell weed. The next school event was the Halloween Dance.
“You gotta rehearse to stay tight. Same as when you draw. I bet you draw for the heck of it.” René flicked away his cigarette butt.
True. Billy stopped at the truck. They got in.
The engine roared to life and settled to an idling rumble.
For Billy to buy something remotely close to these wheels, he’d have to go all Goodfellas and pull off a Lufthansa heist. “Ever lucky.”
René hit a button on the stereo and ejected the CD. He reached into the console and swapped out the music. White Zombie blasted through the speakers. The crisp, clean sound vibrated in Billy’s throat. Not an ounce of feedback with the music at eleven. He pointed at the button.
René huffed a pfft from the corner of his mouth and flicked the volume dial lower. “What?”
“Thought you might wanna keep rapping. Your wheels are boss. Nice leather.” Billy rubbed the seat’s smooth upholstery.
“It’s a special edition.” René shifted the stick and guided them through the parking lot. “I didn’t want cloth.”
“Didn’t think you were a cloth guy.” Billy cleared his throat. “I’m getting a dirt bike. Been saving my coin.”
“Seriously?” Leave it to René to sound shocked at a Redsky purchasing something instead of stealing it.
“Yeah. Been eyeing one at Moe’s Motorcycles.”
“Moe’s?” René let out a low whistle under his breath. He turned the truck onto the street. “They got prime stuff. That’s where I got both of mine. Whatcha eyeballing?”
“An eighty-eight Rocket.” Billy glanced at the bungalows and perfectly mowed lawns they passed.
“Why the Rocket?” The tone of René’s voice said Billy was forking over cash for a moped.
Unlike the royal spare, Billy could only afford the lowest class of dirt bikes ever produced. “It’s the cheapest one.”
“I see.” René steered the truck onto the super-busy James Street, which led to the reserve. “Is that why you’re dealing?”
“Err... yeah.”
René tilted his head to the side and tapped his lower lip, the way Mr. Jones did in math class when the teacher was thinking. He again cranked the tunes.
Billy folded his arms and sat back. The dude was making conversation impossible. Something might change his mind, though. Who could resist a hoot?
He reached over and lowered the stereo button.
René’s nose twitched.
Tough. Billy had something to say, and he was saying it. “Y’know, I offered to write up the report ‘cause you did a lot of the work. Got forced to stay after school and lost an evening’s pay. Major props, man. Nobody’s done that for me before. You’re even typing it up on your laptop.”
“No prob.” René offered a small smile.
“So what d’you say? Smoke one? It’s on me.” Billy patted the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Sure. Why not?” René’s smile broadened to a teeth-baring grin, flashing his dimples. “We can take a cruise up the mountain.”
He led them over the swing bridge. They drove another click before coming to a stop at the T.
René guided them left onto City Road. They headed for the main area of the reserve, following the bike path on the right and passing the usual Oshawee businesses.
After another click, they came upon Ojibway Drive.
Billy sat straighter. Wait till everyone saw him in the truck. But there was nobody around. Not even kids playing in the overgrown ditches. Everyone was probably inside eating supper.
They left behind the homes. The road became turns and slight hills. They veered off Ojibway Drive and took the vehicle up Mountain Road. The thick brush was green-leaved hands stretching to sweep the sides of the truck.
“You keep this to yourself.” René pointed.
Whenever he did this, the dude meant business. Billy had wanted to brag about getting the royal spare high, but he’d be chill, or René might start turning up his nose again.
Halfway up the mountain, the truck rolled into the lookout area. Nobody was in the parking lot. René steered them to a spot. Below them was a full view of the reserve and millions of jack pine. Farther out was the river and then the city. Beyond that was the awesome panorama of Lake Superior and the Sleeping Giant, a huge rock formation resembling an enormous man resting on his back.
“I could sit here forever.” Billy got out of the truck.
In the trees, crows cawed. A squirrel darted into the underbrush.
René followed.
They wandered to the railing and leaned against it. The smell was even stronger up here—a mixture of sap, musk, and fresh air.
From the cigarette package, Billy removed the joint. He handed the spliff over to René. “It’s grade-A Acapulco Gold. My bro only scores the best of the best. Go ahead. Light ‘er up.”
“Yeah?” René slid the joint between his lips. He withdrew a box-like platinum lighter with a checkered pattern and rolled his thumb across the silver wheel. A flame appeared—the kind even the wind couldn’t extinguish.
“Nice. Didn’t think you were a disposable lighter sort of guy.”
René puffed. He pocketed the lighter. After a couple of drags, the smoke curled from his mouth. He just as quickly drew it back between his full lips. “‘Ere.”
While pinching the white reed between his index finger and thumb, Billy brushed René’s fingers. The heat from René’s flesh seared Billy’s skin. He snatched the joint, breath jumping. His fluttering lungs weren’t ready to draw in the sweet aroma, but he had no choice. He puffed a few times. His pounding heart quickened in rhythm.
Shit, he had to return the joint back to René.
Billy held out his hand. When René’s smooth flesh steamed against Billy’s, he shuddered. Before his shaking knees gave way, René’s hand vanished.
The smoke swirling in Billy’s windpipe caught somewhere. The burning sensation raked his throat. He doubled over, coughing. Phlegm saturated his mouth. He hocked out the spit. Great. Just great. He was a total doofus for blowing his toke. He hadn’t blown a toke since he’d first started smoking in grade eight.
No snide remarks. No cracking jokes. René simply sucked on the joint and rolled the smoke out as he’d done before and drew it back between his lips. He held out his hand. “‘Ere.”
Billy seized the joint. He’d prove he knew what he was doing. He inhaled. Shit, he’d taken too big of a drag. His throat screamed again. The flesh lining his neck cried for water as a fire erupted in his windpipe. For the second time, he doubled over and coughed.
“Dude?”
“I...” Cough, cough, cough. “I...”
“Hang on a sec.”
Billy kept hacking. He held his throat, rubbing the raw area.
René’s boot heels scraped the gravel. Billy rested his hand on the railing and wiped his mouth. He sure could use a big drink of something.
“Here.”
Billy snatched the can and dumped the ice-cold pop down his throat. His windpipe sang in approval. He wiped his mouth. His lids flickered to René puffing on the joint.
“‘Ere.”
This time Billy would start small. He clasped the joint and took a tiny toke. There, that was better. He puffed again. This was doable. The smoke was a line of satin coating his raw throat all the way to his lungs.
The longer they passed the joint back and forth, the more Billy’s head lightened. Fuzz crept up his spine. He sat back on the ground and hung his arms over the railing.
René also sank to the ground. His long legs and boots dangled over the ledge. “Do me a favor and get me a cream soda from the cooler. It’s in the box of my wheels.”
“Sure.” Billy pulled his heavy legs up. As he meandered to the truck, his body buzzed. Everything weighed a ton—arms, head, and feet. He reached into the box and slid a cream soda from the small drink cooler.
When he returned, René puffed on a cigarette.
“Here.”
“Thanks, man.”
Their fingers brushed together. The same electrifying current sizzled up Billy’s arm to his throbbing heart. He plopped down beside René to his clean, crisp scent. What Billy wouldn’t give to lean in and sniff the guy.
René snapped open the pop can. He tilted his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed while he swallowed. “What?”
“N-nothing.” The dude wasn’t just handsome. He was beautiful. Sweat coated Billy’s skin, threatening to morph into a blaze and consume his insides.
“So you really wanna buy a rat, hey?” René took a drag off the cigarette. Smoke swirled around his face and drifted off.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll sell you mine.”
Get out of town. The inferno vanished, and the light heat of a cozy candle simmered in Billy’s blood. The dude dug him. Why else would René offer to sell the dirt bike? “For real?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I just didn’t think...” you liked me.
“I’ll talk to my uncle. He needs someone to clean the store twice a week. I do the light stuff. Sweeping before close-up and whatnot, but my uncle wants the floors mopped and waxed, bathroom kept spotless, shelves and counter dusted... y’know. You up for it?”
“Yeah. For sure.” Wait’ll everyone saw Billy working at the video store.
“He doesn’t want the place looking like shit. You gotta do a good job.”
“I can. I already do. Who d’you think cleans my crib?”
“You clean the house?” René’s contorted face said only losers cleaned.
“I do it all.”
“Your mom doesn’t work. What does she do all day?”
“Drink. What else?” If not for her welfare check, she could drop off planet Earth for all Billy cared.
“So why do you have to play maid?”
“‘I don’t want my nose busted.”
“Your nose?” René’s brows tilted downward at the corners, and his mouth dropped open. “She threatened to bust your nose?”
“No. My bro did. If I don’t take care of biz, Hoyt lets me have it.” Billy’s stomach rumbled. He shouldn’t have split his lunch with his buddies, but hell, it wasn’t their fault their moms didn’t buy food either.
“Munchies?” René snickered.
“I’ll go home later and make a peanut butter sammich... if there’s bread.” Billy had used the last slices to fix his sandwiches today.
“Are you telling me there’s no food in the house?”
“Mom gets those food boxes from the band office. The bread don’t last long. I use that up the first week.” Shit, Billy hadn’t admitted this to anyone—except for his main men who were living in the same hell—so why tell René?
“You mean those monthly food boxes?”
“Yeah.”
“Nobody eats at your place?”
“Why would they? All they care about is dope, coke, and booze.”
“How’d your brother morph into The Terminator by not eating?”
“He eats. He has supper somewhere, usually Ted’s Restaurant.” It was the biggest dive in the city, where all the Indians gathered to eat or drink coffee.
Again, Billy’s stomach rumbled. He’d kill for Chunky Chicken’s eleven herbs and spices, fries, and gravy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten fast food.
“I’m hungry, too. Let’s get some nachos.”
The gas bar sold those. “Sure, man.”
They got into the truck and raced down the mountain with the speakers blasting Tool’s latest CD.
Billy stole a peek at René, who looked straight ahead, doing his drumming thing on the steering wheel. His thick, straight hair brushed his jacket collar from his movement. The window was ajar, and the breeze ruffled his long bangs parted down the middle. His lips were puckered in a slight pout.
“What, man?” René reached for the volume button on the stereo.
“Huh?”
“Why you staring at me?”
Billy had been staring? So what? The ganja left him floating on clouds. Why not stare at something dreamy-looking? “I dunno.”
“Don’t. It’s weird.” René turned onto Ojibway Drive.
Normally, the insult would nick Billy’s pride with a little wound. Not this evening. He leaned his head on the leather seat. “I feel awesome.”
For once he did, and it wasn’t from the joint. Rene’s presence had eased Billy into a soothing slumber cozier than a big blanket.
This was meant to be. They were meant to be. He just had to make René see it, too.