“The old-Austrian-boys’ network,” Milton quips. “My parents had Judge Wagner over for linzer torte and a chat. Everything’s been ironed out. The understanding is, I pay for the damage, and the charges get knocked down to malicious mischief. And because I’m seventeen, I qualify for youthful offender status. Two or three years’ probation, and as long as I don’t mess up, the record gets expunged.”

“And no more guns and Molotov cocktails, right?”

Milton’s eyes shift left and right, then he leans closer and whispers, “We blow up the Great Neck draft board and call it a day, okay?”

What! He can’t be —

Milton leans back and grins. “Wish you could see your face.”

Arno returns to the table. “What’re you homos whispering about now?”

“What’ll happen next week when you get busted with all that acid,” I reply. I’ve finally figured out what’s bothering me about Arno and his bulging sock of LSD. It’s not only that he doesn’t need the money. It’s not just that his real motive for being a dealer — so people will admire him and think he’s badass — is flawed. It’s that, after my recent run-ins with border agents, and with all the other hassles in my life, the last thing I feel like doing next weekend is being in Arno’s car or at the festival feeling paranoid about getting busted. It’s another one of those reality-check moments. Back in high school, I’m not sure I actually ever believed we could get busted. Well, guess what, Toto? We’re not in high school anymore.

“You’re still coming, right?” Arno asks Milton.

Milton lowers his eyes. It dawns on me that a three-day drug-infused art and music festival might not be the best choice for someone who’s been warned to stay out of trouble. “I can’t.”

“Aw, man.” I’m completely bummed. “You sure?”

“I can’t risk it,” Milton says. “Especially with Mr. Drug Kingpin over here.”

So much for our last big hurrah of the summer. Arno crosses his arms and grouses, “That’s right — blame it on me.”

“He has a point,” I argue.

“So you’re saying that if I didn’t bring the acid, you’d go?” Arno asks Milton.

Milton hesitates, then shakes his head.

“I rest my case,” Arno says to me. Then to Milton: “So we can have your tickets?”

“I’d like to sell them,” Milton says.

Arno gives me a look and mouths, Tinsley.

I’m about to break the news to him that she’s been grounded by her mother and that I haven’t spoken to her since Milton’s birthday. But then, from close by, comes “Mom, is that a boy or a girl?”

Jesus Christ, not this again.