He thought how cool it would be to walk into the band room and take out twelve, thirteen, maybe fifteen students and their fucking band director, Mr. Curry, who thought he knew so much and wouldn’t let Smoke play in the marching band because Smoke was tone-deaf and couldn’t keep rhythm on the snare drum. But Weed got to play the cymbals when he didn’t know them from garbage can lids, and why? Because Weed was good in art and never got into trouble. Well, all that was about to change.

“. . . Who you know do it better . . .” Smoke rapped along, out of sync and off key, his blood heating up. “Don’t make an ass out of yourself . . . I’m gonna make you love me baby . . .”

Weed joined in on percussion, playing his hands on his thighs and the dashboard and jumping in his seat as if he had a synthesizer for a central nervous system and a drumbeat for a pulse. Smoke hated it. He hated that Weed saw rainbow colors and pictures to draw everywhere he went. He was tired of Weed’s art being put on display in the library. At least Weed was stupid. He was so stupid he had no clue that the only reason Smoke had befriended him and started giving him rides to school was that Smoke intended to use Weed up.

“Ri-dicu-u-lous . . . you’re in the danger zone you shouldn’t be alone . . .” Smoke’s monotone got louder.

Smoke turned up the volume on the CD player and pumped up the bass as far as it would go. He kept working the switch for the left back window and swearing when the glass remained stuck open halfway. Air slapped and the music throbbed as Weed played on.

“Hey, retard, cut it out,” Smoke said, grabbing one of Weed’s hands to make him stop his solo.

Weed went still. Smoke imagined he could smell Weed’s fear.

“Listen to me, retard,” Smoke went on. “Maybe I’m coming around to giving you what you been dreaming about, the biggest offer in your puny nothing life.”

“Oh.” Weed dreaded what Smoke was about to say.

“You want to be cool, right? You want to be just like me, right?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Smoke blurted.

He flicked Weed’s nose so hard it started bleeding. Tears jumped into Weed’s eyes.

“Now, what was that you said, retard?” Smoke’s voice was flat with hate.

Blood trickled down Weed’s face and dripped onto his Route 66 sand-blasted, relaxed-leg jeans.

“You get blood in my car, and I’m gonna throw your ass out. How’d you like to be a skid mark on the road?” Smoke told him.

“I wouldn’t,” Weed quietly said.

“I know how much you want to be a Pike and been waiting for my answer,” Smoke said. “And after a lot of consideration, I’ve decided to let you have a shot at it, even though you don’t measure up to the standards.”