by Nick Osaada

Created on: November 13, 2008

It was rather ironic, Brad decided, that the calmest he could remember being in the past week was right now, crouched behind a row of parked cars in a Burger Bazaar lot at three in the morning.

It had taken a lot of bald-faced lying and careful cover-ups to bring him to this point; Mom thought he was at his best friend's house and that he needed the money for a pizza and movie all-nighter. She had been reluctant to let him go, but Brad knew that her Bible, the " Parent's Guide to Your Healthy Teenager," would advise her that thirteen was old enough to be out late with friends. So he had the money, the alibi, and a small pocketknife just in case things went sour. All things considered, he was calmer than he'd ever been.

He was dressed warmly; for an autumn night, it was really, really cold and gusty. Brad stared, momentarily entranced, at the dead leaves swirling about in the bursts of frigid wind. The hues and colors of them became garish in the orange light of the streetlamps, and they seemed to be dancing, round and round, to some hidden tune that only they could hear. It was hypnotic, and a small, daring part of Brad's mind wanted nothing more than to dance and swirl alongside them.

"PSST!"

Brad's head snapped around, his reverie dissolving. Lanky Gordo, a freshman in Greencity High, must've materialized while his potential customer watched the leaves. Clutched in one gloved hand was a matchbox, and inside the matchbox was, hopefully, the first hit of weed Brad was ever to experience.

He was at Gordo's side in a twinkling, his breath misting excitedly in the air. "Let me see it."

Gordo frowned. "Why?"

"Just let me SEE it!"

There was a tense moment, but then Gordo shrugged and slid the matchbox open. The prize was inside, chopped finely and looking for all the world like dried spinach leaves or coarse oregano. But there was a WRONGNESS to it that suggested the illegal. Brad was so titillated that he couldn't quite clamp his lips over an excited little giggle.

"Shut up!" growled Gordo, grabbing a handful of the younger boy's jacket and jerking him forward roughly. "Do you have the money?"

Wordlessly, Brad pulled a wad of bills from the pocket of his jeans and handed them to Gordo.

The older boy grinned savagely as he stuffed the money into his own pocket and then released his customer, who sank into a sitting position, staring at the matchbox in his hands.

"Pleasure doing business," he snickered, and then the night swallowed him as quickly as it had spat him out.

-

Autumn

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