Stick Read Online Free PDF Page A

bathroom.”
    â€œThat was you guys?” Paul smiled; had a look of awe on his face. “I heard someone                     almost                       got                              killed in there.”
    â€œI busted him up pretty good for screwing with             Stick.”
    I felt sick.
    â€œYou’re going to get                   suspended,” Paul said, but he was still smiling.
    â€œI know.” Bosten jangled the car keys. “So               let’s go have some fun and mess shit up           before my mom and dad totally destroy Stick’s and my life.”
    So much for Bosten trying to assure me it was going to be all on him.
    I knew better, anyway. No punishments were ever exclusively limited to Bosten in our house.
    Paul beamed. “Wait till you see what I got from Francis.”
    Francis was Paul’s brother. He was in the army, stationed in Texas, and visited the Buckleys every few months. Whenever Francis brought surprises for his younger brother, it usually meant I was either going to have to watch Paul and Bosten attempt to smoke Mexican pot or blow things up.
    That night, it meant both.
    *   *   *
    Bosten drove out to the short stretch of low bank beach at Pilot Point and parked.
    He left the lights on, and I watched how the dashboard glow made him look green.
    â€œYou might need to drive us home,            Stick,” he said.
    I already knew that.
    And I’d seen seventh graders who could roll better joints than Bosten, but I loved to watch how completely inept he and Paul were whenever they got into their “danger mode.”
    Personally, I hated the smell of pot.
    But I did wonder how Mom would hold a joint, if she ever smoked one.
    Paul reached back between the seats and handed his baggie of weed and rolling papers to me. “Will you     put            this in my bag?”
    When I unzipped Paul’s gym bag, a fog of steam and sweat escaped. I almost gagged. It made my hand wet to slip his baggie back inside it. I touched something wet and clothy. I tried not to think about what disgusting article of Paul’s uniform it may have been.
    â€œBuck, the stuff in your bag reeks like armpit,” I said.
    Bosten laughed. Paul shoved the dashboard cigarette lighter in to heat it up. It ticked.
    I tapped on the back of Paul’s seat. “You guys can’t smoke pot in the car.”
    Bosten’s door opened, and Paul told me, “Grab my             bag, Stick.”
    â€œI’m not touching it.”
    They spread Paul’s gym towel out on the bank and sat there passing the joint back and forth while I walked down to the edge of the water.
    The wind blew back. I couldn’t smell their smoke, and I was glad for that. I looked out across the blackness of the Puget Sound and could see, through the fog, the lights of Seattle. I turned back and watched the little orange tip of the joint levitate and cross between two shadows, lying on their backs next to each other and staring up at the stars.
    Bosten got up first.
    Then he fell down.
    Paul started laughing at him.
    They were stoned.
    â€œSo check this out.” Paul pushed himself up and dug a hand down inside his bag. He pulled out two things that looked like big green cans. And he pulled out a sock, too, which he let fall limply onto the ground.
    â€œNumber  one
    and               
    Â Â Â Â number two,” he