5. In the back seat of the car.
Detention only lasts for an hour on Wednesdays because the chess club needs the room for whatever nerdy jerk-off shit they do.
“Chess?”
“I guess,” Mac shrugs, passing the spliff over. His head falls back against the seat, comfortably heavy. “I dunno why you’d want to hang out here after school anyway.”
Dennis chokes on his inhale, laughing. “Dude,” he says, “we’re hanging out here after school.”
Mac rolls his eyes and half-heartedly shoves Dennis’ shoulder. “Shut up.”
He has a point, though. They could swing by Dennis’ place, take a few beers from the basement fridge and get wasted at Mac’s - that routine is so well-rehearsed, Mac doesn’t think he could forget his lines if he had to. Whatever it is he and Dennis started when Dennis got this sweet Buick from his parents, it’s as natural as breathing. They end up driving around Philly for hours, and sure, Dennis plays Madonna like she’s dying or something, but it’s not like Mac has anything better to do.
But they’re still in the school parking lot, and it’s weird, but not bad-weird. He just doesn’t get why they’re not elbow-deep in the Reynolds’ property.
Mac clears his throat. “So, what’s the deal?”
“What?”
Dennis isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the lit end of the joint as it creeps closer to his fingertips, eating away at Mac’s stash. Yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s a thing about Dennis not many people understand, and it’s that getting pissed over the small stuff only distracts from the big picture.
“What,” Mac repeats, “is - your - deal?”
Dennis laughs again, airy and just a little shrill. “I’m not deaf, dumbass, and I don’t have a ‘deal’.” He lifts the joint to his lips. “This is shit, by the way.” He takes another hit anyway.
“Dennis -”
“You’re getting soft, man. Ever since you ratted on Joe O’Reilly there’s been no competition and that,” Dennis says, jabbing a finger at Mac without looking at him, “is why you’re getting shit weed.”
“It’s not shit,” Mac mutters, snatching the joint and snuffing it out on the ashtray perched precariously on his knee. “You’re shit. And you’re avoiding the question.”
“There is no question, Mac, you’re just being fucking delusional again.”
It’s there, sitting under his tongue, the easy way out: a handful of arguments they’ve rehashed again and again, so mindless Mac is sorely tempted to give in. So sue him, it’s been a long day and he’s only just starting to get high - but there’s that weirdness still, hovering around Dennis in his peripheral, and it’s starting to get bad-weird the longer he ignores it.
Mac shifts to face Dennis fully. The ashtray falls to the floor, and it’s a testament to Mac’s gut that Dennis doesn’t even bitch about ash getting on the carpet. “C’mon, dude,” he says, lowering his voice, “What’s up?”
Dennis’ fists clench in his lap. “None of your business,” he remarks, still staring somewhere beyond the front seat’s headrest. The late November sun is just starting to set, spilling pink across the near cloudless sky. It’s the kind of soft light Mac thinks Dennis looks best in, something that smoothes the edges out, kinda like watching an old movie half-asleep. Of course, Dennis has to ruin it by adding, “And that’s pretty gay, bro.”
“That’s not gay,” Mac snaps automatically. “I’m your friend. Friends tell each other when shit happens.”
“Well, nothing’s happened, so congratulations, you’re a good friend.” Dennis throws a hand out, almost smacking Mac in the jaw. “Can you please just roll another joint?”
Mac covers his face with his hands and groans. “Dude, just tell me what’s going on and I’ll drop it, alright?”
There’s a moment of silence, thick like molasses, and Mac thinks that maybe he’s done the impossible. Except when he opens his eyes, Dennis has that look to him like he’s already five steps ahead and putting the final touches on his bait. “I’ll tell you,” he says carefully, unable to keep the smug little tone out of his voice, “if you give me the rest of your stash.”
Mac immediately shakes his head. “No way, man, I’ve got to sell this.”
“Fine, then,” Dennis replies, reaching for the door handle, “I guess I’ll just go home and -”
“Okay, okay, wait.” Mac digs around in his bag and unearths a zip-lock bag. He could have got fifty bucks for this, easy, maybe seventy if he cut it with oregano and sold it to those kids from Central. He shoves it at Dennis. “Don’t waste it.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Dennis chuckles, opening the baggie and pretending to sniff deeply. “Shit weed is still weed, bud.”
“For the last time, it’s not shit.”
“Oh yeah?” Dennis throws the bag back. “Roll me one.”
“Jesus Christ, you bitch,” Mac sighs. He still preps a paper, pinching just the right amount of pot and rolling the joint by the last of the sun’s light. Dennis is silent, watching him work, and knowing he has his full attention makes Mac’s hands go clammy despite the chill.
“Here,” he mumbles, passing the final product over. Not his best handiwork, sure, but decent enough. “Can you just tell me what’s -”
Dennis tuts. “Not yet,” he says, and flicks open the fancy old school lighter he probably stole from his father. He lights up, joint tucked between his lips, and takes a long, deep inhale. The smoke disappears almost instantly, soaking into the corners of his car. Looking at it melt away makes Mac’s eyes go fuzzy, like he’s watching something that shouldn’t be watched. It feels like that being with Dennis, sometimes.
There’s a muffled shout from the football pitch. Someone’s pulling out of the parking lot. A crow lands on the entry gate and screeches, but it might as well be mute for all Mac cares.
Dennis doesn’t look at him when he speaks. He doesn’t say anything when Mac’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He barely even reacts when Mac pulls him into a hug, frozen in place while Mac breathes heavy against his neck.
The joint has burned itself out by the time he stops shaking.
