Stroke of Luck

03

Sylvia wasn't home very often. I wasn't entirely sure where it was that she went, but in the week that I had been here, I noticed how rare her presence was. Each day it felt like I saw her less and less, and I was more than okay with it. If I had it my way, I would live alone. Being self sufficient was one of the few perks of having a substance abusing mother. One of the cons was that when you didn't have to take care of her, you had no idea how to spend your time. I had a lot of opportunities to fall back into bad habits, and I was using them.

If I was back home, I could have called Griffin, but this wasn't home - it was the farthest thing from it - so I grabbed a brown bag from the bottom of my bag and headed to the porch.

I hadn't smoked in a while. I couldn't because I was in charge around the house, and then I didn't want to because I saw what drugs did to my mother. Weed was a lot less drastic from what she did, but I still couldn't help comparing myself to her. I didn't want to think about her right now, though. I didn't want to think about anything, so I began packing the bowl.

Lighting the weed, I relished in the way it burned down my throat as I inhaled. I missed being reckless, so much so that I smoked carelessly, not even attempting to hide the bowl when cars drove by. I was so caught up in this sense of freedom that I didn't even hear Bash approaching until he spoke.

"My father is a cop," He called out, and I laughed. My reaction surprised me, and I could tell it surprised Bash too because he was grinning like he won the lottery. "I'm not kidding."

"That's a stressful job," I commented as Bash walked up the driveway. I didn't even object when he sat beside me on the porch step. "Maybe I should invite him to join me. I'm sure he could use something to calm him down."

Bash raised a brow. "How much have you smoked?"

"Is this a general question, or do you want specific information to report to your father?" I inquired.

"If I report you," He said, reaching into his large denim jacket and pulling out a flask. "Then you'll have to report me, too."

"Deal," I agreed, holding out the bowl to silently ask if he wanted a hit. "We can be cellmates."

It was weird to be joking about this. When my mom was served her sentence, I couldn't even admit that it happened for three days. I felt responsible for it. Now I didn't feel responsible. I felt like I was floating. I could definitely see the appeal that my mother saw in drugs, which I'm sure would terrify me if I weren't so high.

Bash inhaled, and I watched as he held the smoke for a while before exhaling. Clapping, I complimented his endurance.

"It's one of my many talents," He replied, bowing. I wrinkled up my nose but laughed nonetheless.

For the first time in a while, I felt good. I wasn't worrying. I wasn't doing anything except for enjoying the moment. I couldn't remember the last time I did that.

"You know what?" I blurted, jumping to my feet. "I think I'll take you up on that walk."

Bash grinned, standing and holding out his hand in a chivalrous mannor. "After you."

• • •

"You went through an emo phase?" Bash coughed. I couldn't tell if it was from the smoke he had just inhaled or from laughter. Either way, I held up my middle finger in response.

"Every seventh grader did," I whined, and it took me aback. Since when did I whine? Shaking it off, I blamed the drugs.

"I wasn't emo in seventh grade," He declared proudly, and I nudged him.