"Matt, you bitch, open the fucking door!"
I'm standing outside my best friend's house with a package of grape blunt wraps clutched in my palm. Agumon is positioned at my side, a claw pressed against his mouth. He absolutely hates it when I bring him over to Matt's to get high. Before Agumon can express his disapproval, Matt opens the door.
"Hey Tai," he greets. His blonde hair is damp from dragging a wet comb through it. Every day he attempts to tame his hair, but not even a combination of water and gel seems to get his strands to stay down. Matt's eyes, normally bright and blue, are glazed and pink. He's started without me.
I enter Matt's house with Agumon trailing behind me. Without saying a word, he disappears in the basement to hang out with Gabumon, who also hates the fact that Matt and I toke. Our two digimon partners just can't accept that we're no longer the innocent kids we used to be. When I told Agumon I lost my virginity to Sora at Mimi's sweet sixteen, he refused to talk to me for the remainder of the weekend. At least he's less hard on me than Gabumon, who hid Matt's wallet to try to prevent him from buying cigarettes. And by hid his wallet, I mean ate it.
"I already took some rips from my bong," Matt announces as we open the door to his bedroom.
I shrug. Bongs aren't my thing anyway. I sit down on the couch Matt has shoved against the corner of his room. While it's covered in Gabumon's fur, I know it's the cleanest thing I can sit on. I kick off my sneakers, prop my legs up on the small table in front of me, then peel the plastic off of the blunt wraps and begin licking away at one. Matt throws himself onto the cushion beside me, simultaneously handing me a mason jar containing a nugget of weed. I go to work, rolling my wrap delicately between my fingers. Matt watches eagerly as I finish it, then raise my lighter to its end.
I exhale before taking a hit. The smoke is thick and harsh as it settles into my lungs. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then let the smoke curl out of my mouth. It keeps coming and I realize I underestimated how big of a hit I took. A second later, I sputter out a series of coughs. My chest aches, and for a second I think I might puke, but the coughing eases. My body slowly starts to feel heavy. Everything seems sharper, brighter even. My cheeks dimple and my lips part. I lick them, capturing a slight taste of the grape-flavored blunt wrap on my tongue. I smile, then take another hit. This time the smoke hits smooth and I don't cough.
"I'm so fucking baked," I laugh. I'm the biggest lightweight of all our friends. I took one hit from a bowl last month at Matt's birthday party last year couldn't stand for ten minutes (granted, it was the first time I ever smoked). A few of Matt's band mates called me "One-Hit-Wonder" for the rest of the night. I only endured their ridicule for about an hour. After that, they were so shitfaced they could barely remember my name.
I lean over to pass the blunt back to Matt. I knock my elbow against the corner of the table and am met with a sharp crack.
"Aw, shit!" I snap.
The blunt falls from my fingers and lands on Matt's lap.
"Fuck!" he shouts, brushing it off of his thighs. He frantically swipes at the area, clawing at the ashes collected on his skin. The blunt falls to the ground. Due to too many accidental fires from Agumon, I am quick to react. Instinctively, I raise my shoe above the embers, then grind the lit blunt into the carpet. It only takes an instant for me to come to terms with what I've done.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Matt yells. He neglects the burn on his thigh and throws himself to the floor. He picks up the tattered blunt, staring at its ragged remains with bloodshot eyes.
"Seriously, Tai?" he scolds. "That was my last gram. Ugh. Goddammit."
"Chill out, we're already high," I comfort.
"You're high. Fucking lightweight. I don't feel anything," Matt growls.
"I'm sorry, Matt."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You owe me."
"I'll pay the next time we pick up. "
"You better. I swear, you always do shit like-Oh shit, Tai, your arm!"
I glance down at my elbow. An egg-sized purple lump has appeared at the hinge of my tricep and forearm. A growing dot of blood marks the center of the swollen bruise.
"We should get some ice on that," Matt suggests. He pinches the flakes of weed off the carpet and plunges them into the pocket of his shorts. He stands up and offers me a hand. With my good arm, I reach forward, grab it, and raise myself from the couch lethargically.
"Good idea," I agree.
We shuffle across the piles of clothes thrown on the floor. Matt's room is filthy. Every surface is littered in something: plates caked in crumbs, guitar picks, empty Marlboro boxes, and bottle caps. I have the urge to return to the couch to get my shoes, but I don't bother. The grime, while unsettling, isn't dangerous...at least to my knowledge. There was that time when I found a used condom on the corner of Matt's dresser. I'm pretty sure he's fucking Sora now. I try to pretend like it doesn't bother me, but I can't help feeling jealous that she prefers him over me, especially in bed.
Matt arrives in the kitchen before I do. He opens the fridge and tosses me a lambchop swaddled in plastic wrap. I apply it to my swollen elbow and look up at him.
"Should we hit up Joe?" I ask him.
Joe began dealing when he transferred to a medical magnet school last fall once he found that the stressful environment drove most of his peers to hit either blunts or bottles on the weekends. He claimed he wasn't in it for the money and was only doing it because he believed selling others pot was no different than acting as a pharmacist. He actually cited the Hippocratic Oath and said that dealing was the right ethical thing to do in order to help others. Most of our friends called bullshit, but I believe Joe has nothing but honorable intentions. Plus, I'm not one to complain, considering the weed he sells us is incredible.
"Joe's at that scholar program this week, remember?" Matt says.
Fuck. I forgot. We really are out of weed. Joe is our only dependable source.
"You don't know anyone that's good right now?" I ask, growing worried. I shift the lambchop on my arm to assess my wound. The bruise is growing darker. This sucks.
"Nah," Matt pouts.
"What about Davis?" I ask. I'm pretty uncomfortable approaching Davis considering he's dating my little sister, but what choice to I have? That kid's impulsivity has lead him to trying a vast array of drugs, so he's bound to have an eighth lying around somewhere.
"Good idea. Although he might just have molly instead," Matt comments.
Whatever. I'm desperate. To Davis's it is.