Page 55 of Fade into You

“I waswondering,” I repeat, “if I could try.”

She coughs, choking on the smoke or her laugh, I don’t know which. “You’re serious? You wanna trythis?” she asks, holding the joint out toward me.

I nod.

She passes it to me, our fingers touching for the briefest moment.

I keep my eyes on her, watching me, while I bring it to my lips. I inhale and pass it back to her, wishing I was brave enough to press my mouth to hers. But I’m not that brave. I exhale the smoke out the open window instead.

She takes a couple of tokes and passes it back to me, saying, “It’s better if you hold it in your lungs longer.”

“Okay,” I whisper. This time I hold it longer, but then I cough. A lot.

She giggles for only a second, but tells me, “That happens to everyone.” She lets her hand dangle out the window and smiles at me as she leans her head against her arm. I inhale again and holdit, not as long as before, and I don’t cough this time. When I pass it back to her, she sits up and shakes her head. “I’m good.”

I take one more and tell her, “I’m good too.”

She pinches off the glowing cherry and blows it out the window, then gently places the remaining half of the joint inside an old Altoids tin like she’s tucking it into bed.

I laugh at the thought.

“Oh good,” she says, standing up to close the window.

“What?”

“You’re giggly. I was hoping you’d be giggly-high.”

“I am?” I ask, laughing again. “I don’t really feel that different.” Except I am noticing how long it feels like it’s taking for me to speak, to stand, to follow her to the bed.

“You are.”

“You’renotgiggly-high,” I point out, as we sit down across from each other.

“No, but I’m happy.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder for just a moment, smiling. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“You don’t mind if I sleep over?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Your parents won’t mind?”

“My parents won’t notice.”

“They should,” I say, even though I don’t quite know what I mean by that. “They should notice you.”

She does giggle a little at that. “Yeah, maybe.”

I look down at my jeans and platform boots and fringy macrame top that’s even less comfortable than the stiff thrift-store blazer I’m wearing as a jacket. “You don’t have anything I coulduse to sleep in, do you? Wait, did I already ask you that?”

She laughs hard this time, like she’s letting something go. “No, you didn’t, but yes, I do.”

I follow her over to her dresser, where she pulls T-shirts out, one after the other, like she’s pulling tissues from a box. I find myself laughing at that, too, and when she asks, “What?” I can’t even find the words to answer.

“It’s—just funny. I—I can’t explain it.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Here, how ’bout Xena?” She holds out a faded, oversized black tee with Xena the Warrior Princess screen-printed in an equally faded yet fierce battle stance. Couldn’t be less me, but I take it, hoping it fits.

“Thanks. Um, where should I…”