Pusher

thirty-one.

My sneakers squeaked along the linoleum floor as I made my loop around the school, hoping to run into Maverick in one of the hallways. Maybe I'd find him doodling in a notebook. Maybe Ducky was completely wrong about the strength of Maverick's willpower and I could just make up some thin lie about why I was checking in on him in the first place and we could both go back to our normal routines.

I checked all the obvious places — his locker, the pit, the lunchroom — but it was becoming more apparent that Maverick simply didn't want to be found, and that thought worried me.

So from there I checked all the smokers' corners, little hideaways tucked out of sight of the administration. A few months ago I hardly knew these places existed, but now I was visiting them weekly. They were fairly popular among a great deal of my clientele.

I ducked around the back of the East stairwell, my eyes sweeping across the wall of graffiti that coated its underside. Practically everyone in the school had made their mark on it at some point, stoner or not. Even Ellie and I signed our names, having skipped gym class our sophomore year to hide down here and do it.

But the scribblings of my peers were not my only company. Keith Williams sat cross legged underneath, his back against the wall. He was, like always, drowning in layers of dark clothes. Stringy blonde hair hung around his thin face. He looked up at me just as he was making the final crease on a paper crane.

That was his thing, just like I wrote poetry and Maverick drew doodles and Ellie knitted little hats for preemie babies. He made origami. It was funny the things you learned about people when you actually take the time to talk to them. Or, you know, sell them drugs.

"Do you know where Maverick is? I can't find him anywhere."

Keith waited three long breaths before replying in his usual drowsy tone. "Nope."

I nodded, turning to leave before I stopped short. "Hey Keith, do you know where I could buy some cigarettes? Like here at school."

He met my eyes, boring into me with an uncomfortably intense gaze. Just being around Keith could fool you into thinking that you're the one on a drug trip.

"Smoking kills, Angelica."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I just mean in the hypothetical sense."

He took another long pause, holding a breath. "Steven Teller. He usually hangs out in the autoshop."

"Thanks."

I had vowed never to return to the auto shop classroom ever since I was mistakenly placed in the course my freshman year, but desperate times call for desperate measures. A small group of boys, all with black grease staining their hands, sat on top of the tables, looking up as I entered.

"Have you guys seen Weir?"

A red head jutted his chin towards the door. "You just missed him. He went outside."

"Thanks," I breathed, and hurried in the same direction. I caught sight of a worn-out boot that had been jammed in the door frame to keep it from locking him out. 

I pushed it open, careful not to knock the shoe out of its place before I stepped through.

Maverick was slouched into the brick wall, the heel of his now bootless foot kicked up against it. A pack of cigarettes was held in his fist, but I was relieved to see that they were still unopened.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp and gaze scrutinizing as he looked me over. The tired eyes and irritated scowl only multiplied his heavy presence. I fought my urge to shrink away and forced myself to walk over to him.