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metal stem out of the bong and put his nose to the base. “I think this water’s still good,” he said, then sat it down by his knee while he broke up buds.
    We sat with him on the floor.
    A few bong loads made it around the circle, then Kenny reached under his bed again. This time he pulled out a shoe box. “Our cousin Jeff hooked me up when I was up there,” he said, meaning Maine, presumably. This was the first conversation we’d had since 1995.
    In the shoe box were concert bootlegs—cassette tapes. The Grateful Dead, the Disco Biscuits, the Dave Matthews Band, and worse things. Cousin Jeff, I learned, had taken Kenny to this two-day campout concert thing called Lemon-wheel, thrown by a band called Phish at a decommissioned air force base near the Canadian border and named for a Ferris wheel they’d brought in for the occasion. The experience had apparently made a strong impression on Kenny. “Life-changing stuff, man,” he said, and rummaged, picked out a Phish tape, crossed the room, and popped it in. He hit PLAY , didn’t like what he heard, fast-forwarded to the end of the side, flipped it, and hit PLAY again. A guitar and piano were caterwauling. A cow bell went off like a dull shot. Something sounded like a vacuum cleaner.
    After a while, Angela got up and left. It was impossible to tell how long, since the songs on the tape seemed to have no beginnings or ends, but rather melted into and out of each other. She said something I didn’t quite catch that amounted, I think, to “Good to see you, Brad,” and then she was closing Kenny’s door behind her. A few seconds later I heard her bedroom door shut, followed by the twice-muffled rumble of Skinny Puppy or Jack Off Jill or NIN or more Manson—whatever it was she was into. And now we were alone with each other. Kenny had his eyes closed and was bopping his head, rhythmically, though not exactly in rhythm with the music. He was parallel to it, I thought, or maybe the rhythms related in some way I couldn’t follow. I stared at him. Christ this was strong stuff, not like the dirt weed I’d been buyingfrom a junior named Omar, stuff that made you giggly for a half hour then left you with nothing but a headache. The busy, winding music fragmented my thoughts, alienated my mind from itself. Things felt murky and televised. I couldn’t help looking at Kenny—really drinking him in. He was stunning and I was seized with awe at the change he’d made, everything he’d sloughed off and become. I was still awkward, peripheral—the same as ever, save for the recent development of a downy mustache you could only see when the light was right. Jealousy washed over me, a sensation so powerful it was indistinct from either hatred or lust. The feeling lasted a deep stoned moment, which is to say I have no idea for how long. I felt choked, throat tight with need, mouth dry as if it had been swabbed out with a cloth. I wanted nothing but to cross that room and go to him.
    I forced my gaze to the window. A dumb little grapefruit tree, the neighbor’s hedge, a blue recycling bin. Cars in driveways. Yes, anything normal. His bedroom walls were the same, sponge-painted pale blue over an eggshell base, but the old outer space–themed border was gone. There were music posters now: Bob Marley with his head thrown back, laughing; a garish Steal Your Face on black light felt; a full-page photo of the guys from Phish had been torn from a recent issue of Rolling Stone and taped to the wall by his desk. But wherever I looked, my eyes invariably wound up on him again: quickly away, long circle back. His eyes were closed. He was in deep space. I was fidgeting, making adjustments to hide a formidable erection.
    “Totally bitchin’, isn’t it?” Kenny said, thankfully without opening his eyes. He meant about the stupid music, or maybe the quality of the drugs.
    “Yeah dude,” I said. “For real.”
     
    Angela would tear out of the school parking lot, wheels squealing