"Don't smoke it all." Ritchie tugged a joint from Claude's hands, He took a long drag on the joint, a smile spreading across his face as he exhaled the smoke. "C'mon, Carl, just try it," Ritchie said, forcing the smoldering stick into the hands of a boy sitting next to him. Carl looked up at Ritchie and frowned.
"Don't be a wuss," Claude said. He ran a hand through his white-blonde hair. Hesitantly, Carl brought the joint to his lips and inhaled. He quickly passed the joint to Johnny, who was the next person in the small circle of boys. Johnny put it to his lips and breathed in, making the joint grow smaller as glowing embers engulfed it's tip.
Carl coughed, sending a giant puff of smoke into the air to join the cloud of grey waves already looming overhead. Whatever had been in that joint was bitter. Carl could still feel his lungs burning, even though the smoke was no longer there, and the taste in his mouth was stinging his tongue.
Ritchie had the joint again and handed it to Carl as the smoke left his lips. Carl took it and dragged on the weed, doing a better job of blowing the smoke from his lungs instead of forcing it out as he handed the joint to Johnny.
The cycle repeated itself for an hour or so. Ritchie, Carl, Johnny, Claude. Ritchie, Carl, Johnny, Claude. The four boys had gone through at least twelve joints from the paper bag that was settled in the middle of the circle.
Carl looked over at Ritchie, who had a wolfish grin on his lips and red lines shooting across his brown eyes. All of the boys wore similar expressions. Carl's vision was hazed, and it wasn't because of the thick smoke lapping over itself in the air. He hadn't felt this good in a long while. Even alcohol couldn't trick his body into feeling this weightless. Carl felt like he would be lifted up and carried from the basement by the smoke.
"Do we have any more weed?" Ritchie asked, searching through the paper bag with his bloodshot eyes. After taking one out, he crumpled the bag into a ball with one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. "Last one." Ritchie struck a match and lit the joint. He shook out the flame and tossed the match into a small pile of used ones. Someone might clean it up later.
After taking a hit on the joint, Ritchie handed it to Carl, who inhaled some as well. Johnny was asleep when Carl turned to hand off the weed. No one had noticed. Johnny never spoke, so him drifting off hadn't caught anyones attention. Carl leaned over and gave the joint to Claude.
For another fifteen minutes they sat there, inhaling the joint and the smoke until it was gone. Carl was laughing for no apparent reason, Ritchie was propped up on his elbows, staring blankly at the wall on the other side of the room, and Claude had rested his head on Johnny's chest, apparently asleep. They stayed like that for an hour, Carl's laughing ceasing for several minutes at a time before it started again. The effects of the high slowly wore off. Visions cleared, smoke dispersed, red lines seeped out of the whites of the boys' eyes, and the feeling of weight had returned.
Ritchie blinked and brushed his long, shaggy brown hair back with his fingers. He looked at Johnny and Claude, who were still curled up to each other as they slept, and then at Carl.
"That was . . . awesome," Carl said, grinning.
"Yup," Ritchie responded as he stood up. "Let's go before someone realizes we broke in here. Johnny and Claude'll find their way out once they're done being gay with each other." He jerked a thumb at the two boys. Carl stood up and looked at Johnny and Claude before following Ritchie out into the dimming sunlight.