Summer Sons(31)

“Here,” Riley said as he returned, offering a large hardcover labeled Algebra II.

Halse fished a plastic baggie out of his hip pocket and tapped a snowdrift of cocaine onto the textbook. Riley handed him a credit card and he grunted his approval, cutting out three lines.

“Thanks, buddy,” Riley said.

“I don’t—” Andrew started.

Halse barreled over his objection with a smile: “Think it over before you say no. It’s free, and you need to get out of your fucking skin tonight, don’t you?”

All three men paused while Andrew drummed his fingertips on his knee. The ache of his missing half chewed at him. Eddie had left him this.

“Here’s the plan,” Halse said. He snagged a straw and flipped his pocketknife out, snipping it short with a fluid twitch of the wrist. “I’m going to do this line. Y’all are going to do yours. I’m going to go outside, fill a beer bottle full of gas, stuff a rag in it, and we’re going to light that. And then you,” he pointed at Andrew, “are going to start our bonfire in the most spectacular way possible.”

Riley said, “And then we’ll all be friends.”

“If nobody goes to the hospital tonight, then we’ll be friends,” Halse corrected, prompting the thrill of impending risk.

Andrew scrubbed his hands over his face. His head pounded along with the music. He stood and took the two steps to put his hip against the countertop next to Halse, who punched his arm hard enough to jar his shoulder. He watched Halse bend down to the line, pressing one nostril shut, and thought, Did someone here fuck Eddie up?

The sweat on Halse’s scalp glistened through his stubble. He snorted loud then reared back, nose scrunched and eyes squinted. He made a soft hissing sound as he passed the straw to Andrew.

“The last time I did coke, it was ’cause Eddie kept putting it in my drink,” Andrew said.

“The bastard,” Halse said with a fond edge.

“Yeah,” he choked out as he bent to the textbook.

The straw edge cut into his nostril. He lined it up and tilted his chin, inhaling in one long burning go. Fire poured through his sinuses and dripped a liquid astringent rush down the back of his throat. He tipped his head up with a gagging swallow. His eyes watered. Riley stole the straw and muscled him aside, the lines of their legs pressed together. He finished his fast.

Andrew stared at him while he blinked and snuffled. Riley occupied two worlds but neither matched the other, and Eddie had straddled that same impossible divide without effort or concern. The blistering noise of the crowd outside battered his screaming nerves as the leash around Andrew’s neck slipped another notch looser.

“Let’s light something on fire,” Halse said.

“Fuck yeah,” Riley growled back.

The pair hustled him outside with broad hands and toothy smiles. He found himself standing with Riley in front of the unlit bonfire, the thirty or so boys spread out in the yard around them hollering and carrying on.

“Ready?” Halse said from behind him, so close to his ear he felt the gust of hot breath.

“Give it,” he said, sticking his hand out.

“Back up.” Halse jerked him by the belt loop, and he staggered back a few more feet from the pit.

The sun set like a tether snapping. He felt the change, night coming in like a stinging slap on the soles of his feet. The woods loomed on the outskirts of the property, blacker than any city night. Eddie had been here too, without him. A lighter flicked. The soft whoosh of the rag catching set him ablaze inside, threatening raw orange glow kicking his heart against his ribs. The blur of chemicals and liquor and heat on his wrist all stung as drops of sizzling gas speckled him. He heard himself laugh, and then Halse said, “Throw it.”

He pitched the bottle into the pile of wood and scraps so hard it shattered with a burst of flame and glass. The crowd roared. He staggered through a laugh that kept on going into wheezing giggles, and Riley jostled him with an elbow in turn. He tripped. Halse caught him around the waist to buffer his fall, his cackle closer to a snarl of delight in the flickering hot glow.

“You’re totally fucked, good, awesome,” he said.

“Halse,” Andrew slurred.

“Call me Sam, bitch.” He patted Andrew’s cheek, almost a smack, then grabbed his chin in a squeeze that puckered his mouth. “I gotta go make friends and host and shit. Riley, keep him busy.”

The support of his muscled arm and bony hand disappeared at once as he withdrew into the crowd. Andrew wavered in place, spat a mouthful of bitter saliva on the ground. The roar and glow of the bonfire cast jumping shadows over anonymous faces and bodies. The lines of strong fingers haunted his stinging cheek. His eager pulse raced, teetering on the edge of nausea.

“Come on, let’s go find Ethan,” Riley said.

Tunnel vision. He placed his feet in the exact track of the other boy’s, eyes on his heels, chaos spilling off around them. He wasn’t certain if he followed for hours or minutes. When Riley abruptly whooped and leapt up onto another man, Andrew almost ran into them, staggering to a stop. Ethan’s shouted greeting slipped out of Andrew’s head in an instant, pushed loose by Ethan’s hands clutching Riley’s ass; Riley’s legs locked around Ethan’s waist. His dark eyes glinted in the ghost of firelight. Riley’s lips slanted over Ethan’s, sloppy, hungry, a flash of wet tongue—half on his mouth, half on his face. Andrew’s hands hung loose at his sides. He swayed a step backward, and another, head blank. Riley’s shirt rode up. He had dimples at the small of his back, divots for Ethan’s grip to settle onto. Riley braced his forearms on Ethan’s shoulders to lift his seat higher and press closer on his—friend. Ethan’s hands squeezed at his thighs. Spit glistened between their moving mouths.