FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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OUT IN ELLIOT'S DAD'S SHED, the pungent scent of weed mixes with the motorcycle oil and damp wood in the air. Elliot presses his lips to the convenience store bong and inhales a giant toke.
Don't ask me why I agreed to hang out with him; I haven't figured it out myself. But when Elliot said this wasn't about sex, I honestly believed him. If anything, he seems lonely, like he's looking for a friend.
But it makes me wonder: why am I here, and not someone else?
I don't mean it in an insecure way, I'm not like that. I just don't understand why a guy like Elliot smokes pot in his dad's shed instead of hanging out with people. A guy like him should have friends, or a girlfriend, or a life outside of this.
"Slow down," I say as he takes another hit. "You smoke like an addict."
"It's just pot." His wet red eyes are hidden by the clouds he coughs out. "Besides, I normally only smoke on weekends. It's not a big deal."
"I guess." Maybe every suburban rich boy gets high behind his daddy's back.
Once Elliot is satisfied with whatever, we return to the house, where he opens the backdoor for me. When I pass under his arm, he shuts the door and peels off his blue hoodie. It's obvious he's an athlete; his crisp black T-shirt clings to the lean muscles on his back, and he has definition on his arms, but not so much that he looks like one of those douchey gym guys. I press my knuckle to my bottom lip.
Okay, he's hot.
"What's up?" Elliot takes a step closer to me.
I take one back. "Nothing."
"You're acting weird."
"I am not—you're weird!"
"Is that really a bad thing?"
My proximity to him is making me overheated and annoyed, so I move away.
"Hey, so, wanna play a board game or something?" he asks.
A board game. Glazed eyes or not, Elliot is sort of adorable.
We head down the hall. Unlike last time I was here, a red and green glow emanates from the archway into the living room. As soon as we turn the corner, my breath catches.
Holy, now this is a Christmas tree. It stretches to the ceiling and towers over me, and colorful lights decorate each branch. Some ornaments are round and sparkly, while others are oblong and scribbled on, probably made by kids. I bet Elliot crafted the hockey sticks, or maybe the ones shaped like cookies. It feels like one of those overdone movies; something I saw on TV once, back when I had a home. Except my parents didn't celebrate Christmas. We didn't celebrate anything.
