One of the things I'm suspected of is dealing drugs. That one's true, but with limits. Most kids around here can get booze easily enough—their parents all have home bars and bottles galore. So nobody comes to me for that, not even beer. I . . . sell weed. I get it from Reefer Rick who gives me a cut of whatever I make, and he's fair. I'm not sayin' it's a good way to make money, but I do have about six people in Hawkins who count on me for their weekend jollies, and anything smaller than a half ounce I can hang onto.

I'm not gonna argue about weed being good, or any better than booze. For me, weed helps me sleep on those nights when my brain is a hamster on a wheel doing the Indianapolis 500. I think too much, and while booze can drown it, the hangovers suck. Weed is cheaper and works for me.

Nothing harder than that. I don't touch anything in a powder or pill or injectable, no fucking way. I'm already behind the 8-ball just by being my old man's kid, so I keep it small and local, with the handful of people in the know. I wish I could stop, but it's one of the few ways I can earn some money, and money is always tight. I have the fifty a week from the Hideaway gig, and I've sold my blood a few times for some cash as well, but D&D is expensive, and the car always needs gas.

At lunch I generally walk around, to make it easy for anyone to come up and talk to me, or make arrangements to meet somewhere. I'm not going to say who's buying, but I have supplied supplies to some unlikely people at Hawkins High.

So I was circling the lunch room and went to get some water when I spotted a familiar pair of legs in the alcove next to the fountain.

"Fi? Shit, Fi are you . . . okay, babe?"

She had her hood up on her sweatshirt hiding her face, but as someone who's been there, I could tell she was crying.

"I'm fine," Fi snuffled, wiping her face and trying to look fine.

"Yeeeeeah. Because people always cry their eyes out when things are goin' great. Talk to me," I told her and slid down the wall to sit next to her. In the quiet, we could hear the distant voices from the cafeteria.

She gave this sigh from the floor of her soul.

"She's still not eating. I'm making every meal she's ever liked, and she's barely touching them," Fi sniffled. "My mom's lost fifteen pounds since starting chemo, and I don't know what to do, Eddie. I . . . I don't want her to die."

Shit, shit, shit. I didn't know what to say, or do. Comforting people is not my thing, but Fi looked so beaten that my heart hurt. Like, physically hurt for her.

And I had a good idea about how it feels to lose your mom.

Then I realized something. It was so out of left field that I didn't know if it would fly or not, but it was all I could offer at the moment.

I looked straight ahead, swallowing my nervousness. "I've got an . . . idea," I told her in a soft little voice, barely over a whisper. "But it's . . . risky."

"At this point," Fi sighed, "I'll take anything."

"Weed."

"What?" I could feel Fi staring at me, so I kept looking at the wall across from us. Her shoulder was pressed to mine and it felt good.

"One of the effects is getting the munchies," I spoke slowly. "It . . . wakes up your appetite."

She sucked in a breath. "Yeah?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I think it's because it lets you . . . relax. Like, weed un-clenches everything. And when you're not in pain and feeling all loose, that boosts feeling hungry."

"I thought . . . I thought the munchies were made up," she confessed. "Just part of the BS about marijuana."

"No. Speaking from experience, it's true. But I don't know like, how you'd convince her," I pointed out. "According to the First Lady, we're in the middle of a War on Drugs and need to Just Say No. Given where your mom works, it could be trouble for ALL of us."

That was the big stumbling block. If Fi gave her weed and Mrs. Myers demanded to know where she got it, connecting the dots would be very damned short and quick.

"I'd never rat you out," Fi assured me. "Never."

That made me smile.

"I know that, but your mom . . . she's the one who has to decide. That is, if you're gonna suggest it to her."

I watched her think about it as she chewed her lower lip, and I realized Fi had a cute bunch of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She shifted to face me, keeping her voice low because we only had a minute or two until lunch was over.

"Okay, I'm going to suggest it and we'll see. If Mom freaks out I'll drop the whole idea but . . . my mom is a realist, so fingers crossed."

I nodded. "You got, uh, supplies?"

She looked at me while I trying not to laugh. "Rolling papers? A grinder? Or am I speaking French here?"

"I don't . . . know how to roll a joint," Fi confessed in a whisper. The bell rang and you could feel the shift in energy in the building. I rose first and extended a hand to her, pulling her up.

For a wiry guy, I DO have some strength. I gave her fingers a squeeze. "I'll show you how, if it's a go," I promised, and smiled again. "It's gonna be okay, Fi. I know it is."

The smile I got for that was damned sweet.

-oo00oo—

Fi and I managed a quick rehearsal in Mr. Kostick's room on Wednesday after school, and we had the words down, but she was still worried about stage fright.

"I just don't want to blow it," she told me as we finished. "I mean how do YOU do it? Get up in front of people and play?"

"'cause it's not for them," I replied seriously. "That's the thing, Fi—when I get up there, it's for ME. If they want to come along on the ride, great, but when I play, I'm layin' tracks down and ridin' them where I want to go."

I hoped she would get it.

"Baring your teeth," she mused. "Yeah, I can see that."

Bingo. She did understand!

"Exactly. So . . . your mom?"

She moved closer to me, even though nobody else was in the room, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "She brought it up before I did!"

"No shit?" I turned my head, she was so close I could see how blue her eyes were as she stared at me.

"No shit," Fi murmured. "The funny part what when she asked me if YOU might know somebody."

I grinned, because that was pretty funny. "And?"

"I said you might," Fi replied, and her voice was all husky.

I realized she was nervous, so I figured I'd distract her.

"Pop goes the weasel," I laughed, and played the riff on my guitar. "Okay then. Tomorrow. You know where the picnic table is between the woods here and the Motel 6? Meet me there around four thirty, yeah?"

"Don't you have Hellfire then?"

"We're skipping this week; Gareth's been grounded, and Wheeler's family is taking a trip to Indianapolis for some damn reason. So, meet up?"

"Meet up," she agreed.

On Thursday I headed for the picnic table, feeling a little anxious. I'd asked Rick for something a little more potent than the usual, and he gave me some leaf from Yucatan, promising it would be mellow city. I wanted Fi's mom to eat, not pass out, though, so I wanted to keep things light. I made it to the table just as Fi was coming from the other direction, carrying that Lacrosse stick of hers across her shoulders.

She walked like a paladin carrying that thing.

"So, everything cool for tomorrow?" I wanted to know as I pulled out the leather box from my back pack and settled in next to Fi at the table.

"Cool. Mom suggested we wear costumes, but I'm drawing the line on that. Hard enough to sing without worrying about the outfit you're in," Fi sighed.

I cocked my head, picturing it. "Damn, wish I'd thought of it!"

She laughed. "Really? Wooden clogs, Eddie, do not go with electric guitars."

"Yeah, but you'd rock the mob cap look," I assured Fi. "You've got that Madam DeFarge look to you with those curls."

"Forget it. No costumes," she replied. "I'm nervous enough as it is! So, um, you have . . ." she gestured at the box. I glanced down and I felt my shoulders tense a bit as our conversation shifted gears.

"I do. Tell me, Fi . . . are you experienced?" I tried to sound like Hendrix and failed THAT role when she snorted giggles.

"No, and I'm not a foxy lady."

"Not what I've heard, but moving on. Never smoked?"

"Not grass, not tobacco," I responded. "Sports kind of takes up my time. Consider me a tyro."

"Ooooh, vocab word of the day! Mr. Kolnick would be so proud, babe. Okay, here's the deal. I've got a couple of ounces here, and some Zig-Zag. I can show you how to roll 'em, or we can just roll all of them and your mom won't have to worry about it."

I'd figured she wouldn't know anything, even if it sounded like her mom would. And spending time rolling joints with Fi would be cool.

Spending time . . . with Fi. Yeah, I could get used to that.

She nodded, looking grateful, and I almost couldn't take that, so I cleared my throat. "Okay, so let's get this started . . ."

I talked as I worked, and showed Fi about using a grinder, as well as how to sprinkle a good line onto the paper.

"Like dropping oregano on a lasagna," she commented. "Even across, no clumping."

"Yeah, so the secret to sealing it—"

"You lick it, and—" Before I could stop her, Fi lifted the paper to do that, and all the weed instantly dropped on the notebook we using as a surface between us.

I laughed. Seriously, I couldn't help it. She had her tongue out with the rolling paper stuck on it, looking like an annoyed cat while I scooped the grind up and sett it back in the bag. "Oh God, your face!" I tried to stop but I was wheezing. "Sorry babe, but that was the funniest shit I've seen in a long time!"

"How?" she demanded, picking little bits of wet paper off her lower lip. "This is stupid!"

"Learning curve," I pointed out. "Nobody is born a natural at this. What you do-" and I dropped a line on a fresh paper, then looked at her. she was still picking bits of paper from her bottom lip, but paying attention. "Okay, watch—"

I stuck my index finger in my mouth, and then ran it along the edge of the rolling paper, wetting it evenly. I rolled the joint, twisted each end, and held it up. "Tadah!"

Fi stared. "I can do that," she murmured with determination. "I know I can do that."

"Yes, you can," I told her, and I something in the way I said it made her look at me like . . . I dunno. Like she was really seeing me now.

"Eddie . . ."

I just cocked my head and looked at her, feeling a little giddy. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," She sighed. "So . . . how many joints can we make?"

I kept looking at her. "Ten, roughly. If you want her to eat dinner, she should have one around noon or so, and maybe one before bed. Now this batch is kind of in the middle, so it should last for the week and I can get you guys more before next Friday."

I was hoping that these would do the trick, because I didn't think Mrs. Myers could afford to lose any more weight at this point.

Fi nodded taking in the instructions as if I was some sort of doctor.

"Okay. Oh!" She dug in my pocket for the money, but I shook his head, pushing it back across the table.

"Forget it. This is . . . a prescription," I told her firmly. "You're covered."

"No," Fi was getting stubborn too, but then she added, "I'm not going to take charity here! How do you feel about paella?"

No clue, but it sounded edible. I made a 'go on' look.

Fi clarified. "It's like, rice and vegetables and chicken or fish and it's one of the best meals my mom makes. She wants to make it in exchange."

"Money, no. But food . . . This is acceptable," I intoned, and then grinned. "I'm getting the better end of this deal. You know that, right?"

"Yes," she admitted with a laugh. "So, let's get these done and and I can spend the rest of the night worrying about tomorrow."

"No!" I pointed a stern finger at her. "No worrying. We're going to rock the hell out of Lydecker's class, earn our As and invite the rest of the school to kiss our asses!"

She laughed, and it was a great sound.

We got to work, rolling the joints.