Spoonbenders

They drove across Norridge, or maybe out of it; in the Chicagoland sprawl it was impossible to tell. Malice was looser and happier than he’d ever seen her; she kept falling into Janelle, and the four of them—everyone except Matty—seemed to talk in a language composed entirely of in-jokes, sex slang, and the word “fuck.” He gradually caught on to a few things. The driver’s real name was Robbie and the passenger’s was Lucas; Malice had a crush on Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth; and Robbie was recently grounded by his father (a minister, or maybe a deacon) for listening to the Wu-Tang Clan.

“RZA’s from Pittsburgh,” Matty said, relieved to have something to add to the conversation.

“You listen to Wu-Tang?” Malice asked. He liked the amazement in her voice.

“They’re cool,” Matty said, not answering her question. “RZA lives in Pittsburgh” was a Key Fact at his junior high, and it was the sum total of his knowledge about both the rapper and the group.

Eventually they ended up at a Burger King. Malice and Janelle shared an order of fries and, at one point, a single fry.

“Fuck, ladies,” Lucas said. “Why don’t you just make out for the crowd?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Malice said. “Mike’s here.”

A pickup truck had pulled into the parking lot.

“Why don’t you go see your boyfriend, then?” Lucas said.

Malice held up a fry like a cigarette and said, “I think I shall.” She sashayed across the cement picnic area to the truck. No one had gotten out of the cab.

“Is that really her boyfriend?” Matty asked Robbie, on the theory that a preacher’s son was less threatening.

“Let’s just say they see each other on the regular,” Robbie said.

“Chronically!” Lucas said, and fell out laughing.

Malice stood at the driver’s side of the pickup, leaning into the window, her arms inside it. Then she pulled back and tucked something into the pocket of her shirt. A few more words with the driver, and then she was walking back to them, smiling. “All set,” she said.

The five of them got back into Robbie’s car and pulled out. “Kmart?” Lucas asked.

“No!” Janelle said. “Priscilla’s!”

“Not the fucking swing sets again,” Lucas said. “We’re going to get busted.” But minutes later they were hopping a fence and running across a wide yard to reach a playground in the shadow of a prison-like building: St. Priscilla’s Academy. Janelle and Malice ran for the swings, while the boys sat on the rusty merry-go-round.

“Those girls are crazy,” Lucas said. He held a cigarette to his mouth and leaned forward. Robbie lit it for him. “Kuh-razy.”

“So crazy,” Matty said lamely. The girls were now sitting on top of each other, trying to ride on the same swing. He couldn’t get over how different Malice was with her friends. She was happy. Robbie said, “Are we going to do this or what?”

Do what? Matty thought, but followed the group to the shadows below the walls of the academy. Malice produced a cigarette from her bra. No, not a cigarette.

“You know, you guys could pay every once in a while,” Malice said.

“Like it’s your money,” Lucas said, and they all laughed, even Matty, though he had no idea why.

Matty had smoked once before, in eighth grade, outside a CoGo’s, and had not detected any effect except dizziness. This time he inhaled with confidence, and then coughed for an uncomfortably long time. This brought out not laughter, as he’d feared, but concern, sympathy, and much coaching about technique. They kept handing the joint to him for another try. “Hold it in your lungs,” Janelle said. “That’s it.”

Malice patted him on the back after he managed to exhale smoothly.

“How do you feel?” Robbie said.

“Fine,” Matty said. “This is good stuff.” They all cracked up—but now he felt that they were laughing with him. He lay back on the cool cement and stared up at the sheer wall of the school and the black sky beyond. The clouds had pulled back, revealing bright stars.

He had no idea if this was good stuff, because he couldn’t feel any effect. Maybe he was immune. Maybe he was part of a special subset of the population with an innate resistance to the effects of marijuana. A mutant. A sober mutant. A sober, chubby, white, boring mutant. Captain Beige.