Narc Read Online Free PDF Page B

should’ve come with a decoder ring.
WTF? Bummmmer. Wots up w/ ur wheelz?
    I smiled, even though she couldn’t see me. Why bother typing a z instead of an s ? Does it really take that much longer to move your finger over to the s key?
Mom needs it for work tonight.
    Which was the truth. I couldn’t expect Morgan to offer me a lift on her dilapidated bike, but she offered something better:
Let me pick u up. Where do u live?
    Crap. No way could let her see our place. I needed to lie my way out of this. If I asked her to pick me up at school, she’d wonder how I got there. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be attending Palm Hammock anymore, but Mom lied about our address. I guess being a good liar is in my genes.
Metroid: I’m taking the Metrorail. Thanx!
LadyM: Kewl. See u at the Library?
Metroid: ???
LadyM: It’s across from Dadeland Station.
Metroid: Library=the bookstore?
LadyM: Basically, yes.
Metroid: I see your logic.
LadyM: BTW … wot r u wearing? ;)
Metroid: Don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.
LadyM: Naked=good. Haha. Peace out. ((((((((((()))))))))))
    Morgan signed off. I couldn’t get over her offering me a ride, and the naked comment. This never would’ve happened last year. The only party invites I got were spam: “Greetings. I looking for honest relations with loyal man … ”
    To Morgan, I was still a mystery.
    How long could it last?
    I opened my closet and jangled the hangers. Back in junior high, I used to dress so sickeningly preppy. It was laughable, once you thought about it. People made fun of me because my shirts matched my socks. Everything matched. Even my underwear matched, just in case I got hit by a car or something and ended up in the hospital. That sure changed when we moved to Miami.
    I settled on my old-school kicks, oversized hoodie, and ripped jeans. I’d worn these faded Levis so often, there was a hole in the left pocket. No matter how many times I told myself not to slip quarters in there, I did anyway. But these jeans molded to me in a loose kind of way, blending in so I forgot they were there. They fit me perfectly, and they were great as long as you didn’t look too close.

5 : Palm Leaves
    The Metrorail rattled above US-1, carrying me south. A trampled McDonald’s bag slid back and forth under my feet. The little girl in the next seat was pressed against the window, watching the traffic slide by. She combed her toy pony with such determination, she almost ripped out its mane. I smiled and she smiled back.
    My styrofoam cup of café con leche had gone cold. I chewed on the cup, chiseling half-moons in the rim, glanced out the bleary window and watched the strip malls whiz past. They were already decked out for Halloween: black cats and smiling ghosts, witches and scarecrows.
    In elementary school, I learned the alphabet and multiplication tables. I learned about legends and mythology. I learned that motion is measured in distance and time.
    I did not learn how to make friends. At least, none who stuck around long.
    There was Mark Wienman, who taught me dirty words in Latin. Dave Brieske, who believed that the moon landing was fake. The kid down the street, Danny-what’s-his-name. We played Quake at his house a couple times before I moved. Danny had a bearded dragon for a pet. He fed it live crickets that he carried in a bag puffed with air. The crickets always escaped. You could hear them chirping in the downstairs den.
    My teachers blabbed on and on about building the perfect track record: urging me to take A.P. Spanish, play the trumpet, try out for soccer, whatever looked good on my transcript. Except that I didn’t give a shit about college. That’s all I needed: more school, stuck in a dorm filled with wall-to-wall idiots, trapped in a place I couldn’t leave.
    Dad used to march down the hall, storm into my bedroom, and launch into speech after speech about time wasted on the computer.
    “It’s a nice day. Why are you spending it holed up in here?” he would say,