Kamal Patel blew up halfway through a gravity bong hit, his body liquefying and cascading down into the orange Home Depot bucket of bong water that Laura Riggs was holding steady with her bare feet. It was a special bong hit, a bong hit of purpose, though Kamal hardly required his bong hits to be purposeful. And it’s no coincidence that this hit took place hours after the deaths of the Dalton twins, because it was meant to eulogize them.
Upon learning of Joe’s and Jenna’s spontaneous combustions, Kamal, Laura, and Greer Holloway gathered in the rickety remains of a tree house perched in a willow on the edge of Laura’s backyard. This is where, in seventh grade, they first got high together. Those three and the Dalton twins all huddled around a balloon full of nitrous, giggling their way into a new hobby.
It was a defining moment for them, and I remember hearing whispers in middle school about the “crack tree house” and all the debauchery that took place up there, including make-out games and partial nudity to go along with, well, not crack, but a mix of mild sedatives and hallucinogens.
Back then, the stories terrified me. By sophomore year, when they finally tickled my curiosity, the crack tree house had been replaced by Laura’s basement, which had the added comforts of indoor plumbing, Wi-Fi, and parents who did not give the first shit about teenage hooligans hanging out downstairs amid clouds of carcinogens. They had one of those we’d-rather-it-happen-in-our-basement-than-out-on-the-streets attitudes, which is great in theory, but in reality the streets can be fucking cold at night and the streets don’t have fold-out couches. So, as far as environments conducive to shenanigans go, basements are always preferable to streets.
Actually, I hate to refer to what went on down there as shenanigans. It was at first, I guess, and it was most of the other times too, but a few undeniably dark things happened in Laura’s basement as well.
They all involved Kamal Patel. Now, I can’t tell you too much about Kamal without getting all stabby. I’m not ashamed to admit that I hated the bastard. The fact that girls like Laura and Greer still hung out with him made me question my feelings about them too. He was that toxic a person. I only hoped they didn’t know the stories.
The stories were multiple and despicable. For the sake of protecting those who should be protected, I’ll simply say that more than one girl passed out in Laura’s basement over the years, and more than one girl woke up alone in the dark with Kamal Patel on top of them, his stank breath creeping down their neck and his knuckly hands creeping everywhere else.
Christ. The tears shed because of that slime, the shame tucked away and only shared with those who promised not to say a thing. Including me. And yes, I’m saying a few things now, but I’m only naming one name. Kamal Patel.
To many, Kamal was a lovable stoner. To me and a few others, he was a predator, and whenever I was invited to Laura’s house, I always had to ask “Who’s gonna be there?” If his name was on the guest list, then I made my excuses and had my fun elsewhere. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I was disgusted by him.
So when I saw his picture on the TV screen in my hospital room and learned that he was lucky number seven in our ever-growing list of spontaneous combustions, I certainly didn’t shed a tear. If anything, I felt relief. Not that he deserved death, but he certainly deserved it more than the others. Still, what Kamal deserved had little to do with what this meant. A bloody car full of drugs plus a bloody tree house full of drugs equals a community about to rip itself apart.