"My dad won't get home until after midnight," I told Skip on the phone on Saturday afternoon when he called to tell me he'd scored the weed. I sat at the kitchen table twirling the phone cord. Skip was cagey on the phone; he didn't say "grass" or "pipe" or mention anything illegal. Instead he spoke in a secret code like the one he'd overheard his brothers using with their friends. "I have that thing," he said. "And we'll need another thing to do it with. If you guys have any tinfoil or something?"
"You mean tinfoil to make a pipe to smoke the weed in?" I asked.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Skip said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Not over the phone, ass-wipe. You want to get me busted?"
"Skip, do you actually think your phone is tapped because you swiped a nickel bag of grass from your brother?"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Okay, sorry," I said. "Come over at seven. We can order a pizza and, um, do that thing—and yes, I have some of that stuff we can make a thing with, so that we can you-know-what the other thing in the first thing." ...
At first nothing happened. But after about ten tokes each, it was as if a switch had been thrown. I was looking at the world through an amber-colored filter, like on stage at a talent show. The light in my room crackled silently; the air was charged. I felt the blood coursing in my veins, and my heart beating, and my lungs expanding and contracting.
"I'm high," I said.
"Me too," said Skip, looking around my bedroom like he'd discovered a new continent. "This is … fucking…"
"Am I talking too loud?" I asked. "Man, I want cantaloupe."
"That doesn't go together," said Skip.
I grinned. "Does too. Cantaloupe goes with everything. Ever hear anyone say, 'Hold the cantaloupe'?"
Suddenly we were laughing hysterically, crumpled on the floor. "You're too loud," Skip giggled. "Have some cantaloupe." ...
"This is amazing," I said, still unsure about my volume. Skip lay on his back on the bedroom floor, his eyes closed. "I mean, this is me," I said. "I am me. I am the inner me of me."