Weeds

Weeds - Chapter Twelve

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I have never found a point to partying. Sure I’ve had a few drinks in my time, I’m not going to say I haven’t done a few shots before because in all honesty what Californian teen hasn’t?

With Bridget moaning on the couch from her massive headache I swore to myself that I would never touch a drink again.

Bridget’s grumbling only got worse as the blender stirred up a mystery solution.

I patted her head getting up from the couch.

I went into the kitchen to witness the contraction Elliott was working on. He had cracked eggshells lying on the kitchen counter along with grapes, apple juice, coca cola, red peppers and French fries.

He was holding the lid to the blender down and waited patiently. When the solution looked watery enough he poured out the brown liquid into a glass.

“Give this to Bridget.” He instructed.

I nodded in realization taking the glass; he had formulated a hang over cure. I walked to the couch handing Bridget the glass, she smelt it and gagged.

“What’s in this? It smells disgusting.” She said handing the glass back to me.

“Then you better drink fast.” Elliott told her walking into the living room a rag in his hands.

Bridget took a swig of the juice, her face contorted into one of pain, and disgust she jolted from the bed and to the kitchen where I heard her throw up.

“How did you come up with that hang over cure?” I asked Elliott.

He smirked evilly, “Its not a hangover cure.”

I felt my lips stretch, this guy was good. I put my hand up for a high five and he complied.

When Bridget had digested half the drink she went to sleep in her room.

I started putting my stuff into my beige colored backpack, getting ready to go pick up Logan from school. Once a year on this date the school hosts the lock in for lower schoolers.

The high school lock down was next weekend, I had contemplated going because it could be fun, but it also had a tendency to get annoying and dramatic fast.

“Where are you going?” Elliott asked.

I told him. He agreed to come with me. After tomorrow we didn’t have to take each other anywhere since the two-week punishment was coming to an end.

We walked out of the house and down the driveway. Elliott was wearing all black as usual; a long sleeved black shirt and black khakis. I didn’t know black khakis were a thing.

His black-rimmed sunglasses were perched loosely on his nose; his hands were shoved into his pants.

“Why do you always do that?” I asked.

He gave me a what-are-you-talking-about look so I elaborated further, “Why do you always put your hands in your pockets?”

He shrugged, “My hands are always cold.”

“Let me see.”

I stuck out my hand waiting for him to let me touch his.

He sighed taking out his awkwardly pale hand, I could clearly blue and purple bruises lining his knuckles and I was surprised that his nails were so neatly groomed.