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Mason took another look at me then, slow and greasy, head to toe, with a slight sneer. “Guess you can come in then. And hey, who knows what’ll happen.”

“Thanks,” I said like I meant it, and followed the two of them in.

Mason led us through his house to a room upstairs. It was clearly his—it smelled like boy, and it was decorated with mementos from his past, much the same as Liam’s had been. He and Darius took the chairs in front of his flat screen TV, while I was forced to sit on the unmade bed.

“Sorry to make you come over during daylight hours,” Mason apologized to Darius, not to me. “But this is the only time that works out before this weekend.”

“You know me, I’m always available,” Darius said, holding out his hand for an intricate handshake-punch.

“K. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I realized then the utility of Darius’s overly complicated jacket. The thing was studded with pockets and from inside of these, he pulled the tools of his trade—a bag full of green wads, rolling papers, and a lighter.

“So what’s this stuff again?”

“California Prime. It’s a Bruce Banner-variant. Smokes smooth, but will fuck your shit up.” Darius created a joint in mere seconds. “I got it from my cousin, out on a special road trip—he brought it out for his Spring Break, and I am honored to share it with you.” He twirled the joint along his fingers like a magician danced a coin, then proffered it out dramatically. Mason took it, clearly pleased with the show. “Should I open some windows?”

“Nah, we’ve got a few hours and a strong fan.” He leaned back in his chair and lit the joint, inhaling slowly, then talking without exhaling at all. “My Mom’s at Grandma’s, and Dad’s pulling an extra shift.”

“Excellent,” Darius said, as Mason handed the joint and lighter over.

I did not have a few hours—or a strong fan—if I got caught walking into my place, smelling like pot—I bit my lips and wrung my hands in Mason’s sheets. I had to be strong for Lacey. Even if in doing so I was never allowed out of my bedroom again, was homeschooled, and likely fed through a straw.

Mason exhaled a cloud of smoke at long last and gave Darius a look. “The usual?”

Darius grinned. “You’re on.”

Mason dug through assorted piles of electronics and emerged with two steering-wheel shaped controllers, one of which he tossed to Darius. “This is gonna be just like last time—carnage.”

“I only let you win so you’ll keep buying from me is all.”

Mason booted a game on. Cheerful music blared and cartoon characters started dancing across the screen. “Dibs on the cloud-carriage.”

“Anything but the fucking desert?—”

“Deal—”

And with a sound between bullets and puttering engines, they were off. It was a racing game. A ludicrously hard one and neither of them seemed to mind, they were more interested in setting each other on fire or flinging banana peels than actually using skill. They were horseplaying on the screen and dicking around in real life and none of this was getting me closer to Mason’s phone.

They paused between courses, to take another drag. Mason looked at the joint afterwards. “This isn’t doing anything special for me.”

“Give it time,” Darius said, glancing back. That was when I realized the discrepancy between the two of them—Mason was three times Darius’s size—it’d take three times as much stuff to get him high, and by then Darius might be on the ground. I came off the bed and crawled to sit between them, daring to be in the smoke’s path.

“I want to see better. Go again?” I asked, and Darius hit the start button.

They made fresh laps around the course, with non-player characters whizzing by. This route had jumps and oceans and star-ships—Mason’s character careened off the route, and I knew what I could do—I tapped into the game and kept it there. It bobbed in midair, fighting against all of its former programming, and I made it zoom this way and that –

Mason leaned forward, jaw dropped. “Shit, D, did you see that?”

“Nah, man—but I told you. Stuff comes on,” Darius said, giving me a subtle nod.

After that I let it fall and from then on took great pleasure in fucking with him.

“This—I don’t even feel that high—this is impossible—how can I be this wasted?” Mason complained as his thick fingers jammed against the controls. I was taking a little too much joy in things and making it nearly impossible. “How come you’re not dying too?”

“I’m being careful. Also, my tolerance is much higher than yours. Hazard of the trade.”

Mason grunted as his character flew off into the ocean again. “Did you see that?” he reached out to trace its path through the air.