347 DAYS

"This is Logan with today's inspirational message: The meaning of life is that it stops, Franz Kafka."

-

He'd gone to class on Monday and every day since. He'd even shown up on time for his meeting with Lorraine yesterday. It filled up some of the hours of his day, keeping him away from the drugs he'd stashed in the house. He wasn't using them (yet), but having them close was comforting (just in case).

The original plan was to hide them in his car—he didn't want Dick getting rid of them again—but he'd thought better of it. If he was busted outside of Neptune and the police found his stash, he'd be screwed. An ounce would get him arrested for more than possession; it would kick up the charges to include intent to distribute. The house it was.

Pushing aside his bed, he'd carefully pried up the floorboards, and tucked the coke and weed between the floor joists. After he'd stored it inside a full can of coffee, that is. It was probably an urban legend that coffee would hide the scent from a dog, or else fucking Juan Valdez would be the richest guy in Columbia, but fuck it, what did he have to lose? Not that he really believed Dick used drug-sniffing dogs to root out his previous hiding spots, but why take chances.

School wasn't long enough—there's a phrase I thought I'd never say—and he still had too much time on his hands. The drugs called to him from beneath his bed. A tell-tale heart, whispering beautiful words like oblivion, analgesia, pleasure, relief, satisfaction, contentment. To avoid its seduction, he'd joined a gym, spent inordinate amounts of time surfing, and had indulged Dick in his newfound love of… cooking?

Logan shook his head, still in disbelief. If he hadn't actually seen Dick in the kitchen trying to work the blender to make a smoothie, he would have called bullshit on the entire thing. It was Pam's influence. She'd left Dick with a list of "Healthy Foods for Logan" and Dick was taking it seriously: "you need to repair your body, dude." Fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts, protein, and water. So far Dick had mastered scrambled eggs and grilled cheese.

I'm breaking the habit.

Logan finished his five minute cool down and hopped off the treadmill. Wiping the sweat from his face, he sucked back a bottle of water and opened another one. Saturday stretched out before him, endless and boring. He needed something or someone to do. Fast.

It was a no-nonsense gym not a fitness club or a juice bar passing itself off as a place to workout. Great for killing time on the cardio machines and weight-lifting, not so great for picking up an afternoon diversion.

Veronica would have a plan. If she was here, there would be some intellectual pursuit designed to broaden his horizons: a foreign film or gallery opening, a book reading, an experimental art show at the museum, a poetry slam. Reject, reject, reject.

Dear Veronica: Your choice of entertainment sucks. Sincerely, Logan.

Grabbing his stuff from his locker, he hit the showers, dried, and got dressed.

He still had to finish reading Camus' The First Man for his final, and start chapters eighteen and nineteen of his humanities textbook—The Triumph of the Bourgeoisie and The Age of Early Modernism, respectively—for Lorraine's quiz. She'd reminded him about the test, twice, during their meeting yesterday. To which he'd responded, "I thought you were trying to keep me OFF drugs." She was not pleased. Seriously, the woman really needed to get a sense of humor.

And he needed to get laid.

Or have a drink.

Or go home to the floorboards.

Logan banged his forehead on the roof panel of the Shelby. What did average people do on a Saturday afternoon? People who were not trying to mute out the world. The ones who actually enjoyed their lives. So much for the 'joy of a life of clarity.'

He threw his bag on the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and started to drive. When the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune. Logan turned the car in the direction of the beach. His refuge. But not Dog Beach. Black's, he decided.

This disquiet wasn't about Veronica. Or being sober. Or boredom. It was this place. His suffering soul was tethered to Neptune. Or was it?

Yesterday's meeting with Boring Brach had taken an interesting turn. After her lectures about his finals, she'd made a proposal.

XXXX

"Mr. Echolls, I have an offer for you."

"Are you propositioning me?" He smirked. "Because while flattering, I think I'm a little too young for you and I'm very happy with my grade in your class." Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs on the corner of her desk.

"We'll see if you feel the same way AFTER your final." She straightened the papers on her desk, squaring the stack in a nice neat pile, glared at his feet, and then leveled him with an unwavering stare. "I have a friend who teaches at Brown University in Rhode Island."

"Gee, is that where it is? Guess I deserved that F in geography. Maybe I should send Mrs. Stewart an apology note." He tapped his chin in mock contemplation.

Lorraine ignored his sarcasm, but there was a slight tick above her left eye. "I sent him your transcripts and the research paper you wrote for Professor Montgomery and he's agreed to sponsor your admission to the university."

He jerked upright, dropping his feet to the floor. "You got me into BROWN?"

"Not on my own, both your former principal Mr. Clemmons and your English teacher, Mr. Daniels, wrote recommendation letters for you."

Logan was positive he was sober, but none of this made sense. The only letters of recommendation he could see Clemmons and Daniels writing were to a future parole board, urging them to keep Logan behind bars.

Maybe he'd done some of that coke before hiding it under the floor? Was it laced with something? Because he was DEFINITELY tripping.

"Of course there are a few conditions."

He slumped back in his chair, relieved. Here was the healthy dose of reality- a list of hoops he couldn't possibly hope to jump through. "Always a catch." He swung his arm and snapped his fingers in an 'aw shucks' gesture and whistled the opening bar of The Impossible Dream.

"You'll need to attend summer school at NYU- I've taken the liberty of registering you for the three classes you need. Plus you'll need to do some volunteer work. There's a men's homeless shelter not far from campus. And you'll need to attend weekly therapy sessions with a licensed psychologist."

Logan opened his mouth to tell her no because therapy? Seriously? No fucking way. But the word didn't materialize. He just stared at her, dumbstruck, and nodded. It was like a ghost-Lilly maybe-had taken over his body and was committing him to this crazy idea just for shits and giggles. It would be just like her to fuck with his head from the afterlife.

"I know how much you hate it here in Neptune." Lorraine tore a sheet from the pad by her phone. "You don't need to give me an answer today; I just want you to think about it."

XXXX

Think about it was the last thing he wanted to do. Leave Neptune? The idea was both frightening-better the devil you know-and exhilarating. He could walk down new streets, unplagued by his past screwups and constant thoughts of Veronica.

A different life. Unplanned and unexpected and just waiting for him to say yes.

So what are you going to do, Logan? Black's Beach to surf, or home to pack?