was thinking the same thing. You found my address in the honors directory. Pretty sure my home phone number is there, too.
—I didn’t want to call in case you were …
He trails off but I can fill in the dots.
—What happened to you Wednesday night? Did the cops question you?
—Yeah.
—What did you tell them?
—Nothing.
—Oh thank Christ. They just let you go, then?
—Sort of.
D. squints.
—What do you mean sort of?
I say nothing.
—Fuck. They flipped you, didn’t they.
I can’t even look at him. Busted, so quickly. Is this a record? Do I just ooze
eau de snitch
now?
—How did you know?
—You’re free. And obviously your dad doesn’t know. I’m sure as hell they didn’t just let you go, not with what I had in the car.
D. gets in my face, the way you do when you want to lock eyes with a puppy you’re training. We’re close enough to kiss. Or for him to tell me to roll over.
—Tell me what happened.
I take a breath, then look down at the frozen grass.
—I’m confidential informant number one three seven.
—Fuck.
—Yeah.
Silence for a while.
—If it makes you feel any better, I’m fucked double hard. Triple, quadruple hard.
—You’re not the one wearing a snitch jacket. The police don’t even know you exist.
—Do you know how much stuff was in my jacket, Sarie? Do you know how much money I owe?
—Looked like a lot of pills, that’s for sure. You supplying the whole town of Wilkes-Barre, PA, or what?
—Do you have any idea what Chuckie’s going to do to me if I don’t bring back a pile of cash for it?
—Do you know how many years in fucking prison I’m facing? Because of
your
drug run? Five! Minimum! Either I give you up or I’m going away.
—They’re not gonna do that.
—They seemed pretty serious about it.
—Sarie, they are not gonna do that.
We say nothing. Then he rewinds. Chuckie. The whole Friends of Chuckie park-for-free thing. So at least that part wasn’t made up.
—Chuckie’s the name of your drug dealer?
—Yeah. It’s not his real name, nobody knows his real name, but he calls himself Chuckie Morphine.
Pretty sure my jaw falls open right about here.
—You work for a drug dealer who calls himself Chuckie Morphine?
D. explains:
Nobody knows his real name, as drug dealers tend to keep those secret. D. tells me he met Mr. Morphine through a friend (wouldn’t say who), heard that he specialized in selling to college kids—especially ones who were too afraid to venture to ghetto hoods for their drugs. D. went from scoring from Mr. Morphine to taking some extra for his friends, then selling to friends, then selling for real. D. opened up shop over the summer break, taking trips down to campus—under the guise of an independent project—to re-up his supply to sell to friends back home. Apparently upstate PA doesn’t have someone like Chuckie Morphine or anything close to the quality of his product. Especially when it comes to pharmaceuticals.
This past Thanksgiving weekend was supposed to be a major sales event. Five grand worth of three different kinds of pills:
Mollies = MDMA, commonly known as ecstasy
Oxy = OxyContin, painkillers
Suboxones = meant to get you off Oxys; people like it for the smooth, controlled high; called “stop signs” because of the shape
Presumably great for partying and then dealing with the hangover the next day. I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this shit, except for a fake half-hit from a bong. And even that’s new—thanks to D.
As we sit in the woods I process all of this. It’s hard to reconcile the sloppy-cute boy next to me with all of this drug intrigue.
—Why do you do this? Is it the lifestyle? A discount on the product?
—Yeah, the lifestyle. Look at me, living large.
—Seriously, why go through all of this shit, taking so much risk? You’re an honors student! You’re supposed to be studying hard so you can get a good job when you graduate and—
—For fuck’s sake, Sarie … what year are you living in? Do you
—I didn’t want to call in case you were …
He trails off but I can fill in the dots.
—What happened to you Wednesday night? Did the cops question you?
—Yeah.
—What did you tell them?
—Nothing.
—Oh thank Christ. They just let you go, then?
—Sort of.
D. squints.
—What do you mean sort of?
I say nothing.
—Fuck. They flipped you, didn’t they.
I can’t even look at him. Busted, so quickly. Is this a record? Do I just ooze
eau de snitch
now?
—How did you know?
—You’re free. And obviously your dad doesn’t know. I’m sure as hell they didn’t just let you go, not with what I had in the car.
D. gets in my face, the way you do when you want to lock eyes with a puppy you’re training. We’re close enough to kiss. Or for him to tell me to roll over.
—Tell me what happened.
I take a breath, then look down at the frozen grass.
—I’m confidential informant number one three seven.
—Fuck.
—Yeah.
Silence for a while.
—If it makes you feel any better, I’m fucked double hard. Triple, quadruple hard.
—You’re not the one wearing a snitch jacket. The police don’t even know you exist.
—Do you know how much stuff was in my jacket, Sarie? Do you know how much money I owe?
—Looked like a lot of pills, that’s for sure. You supplying the whole town of Wilkes-Barre, PA, or what?
—Do you have any idea what Chuckie’s going to do to me if I don’t bring back a pile of cash for it?
—Do you know how many years in fucking prison I’m facing? Because of
your
drug run? Five! Minimum! Either I give you up or I’m going away.
—They’re not gonna do that.
—They seemed pretty serious about it.
—Sarie, they are not gonna do that.
We say nothing. Then he rewinds. Chuckie. The whole Friends of Chuckie park-for-free thing. So at least that part wasn’t made up.
—Chuckie’s the name of your drug dealer?
—Yeah. It’s not his real name, nobody knows his real name, but he calls himself Chuckie Morphine.
Pretty sure my jaw falls open right about here.
—You work for a drug dealer who calls himself Chuckie Morphine?
D. explains:
Nobody knows his real name, as drug dealers tend to keep those secret. D. tells me he met Mr. Morphine through a friend (wouldn’t say who), heard that he specialized in selling to college kids—especially ones who were too afraid to venture to ghetto hoods for their drugs. D. went from scoring from Mr. Morphine to taking some extra for his friends, then selling to friends, then selling for real. D. opened up shop over the summer break, taking trips down to campus—under the guise of an independent project—to re-up his supply to sell to friends back home. Apparently upstate PA doesn’t have someone like Chuckie Morphine or anything close to the quality of his product. Especially when it comes to pharmaceuticals.
This past Thanksgiving weekend was supposed to be a major sales event. Five grand worth of three different kinds of pills:
Mollies = MDMA, commonly known as ecstasy
Oxy = OxyContin, painkillers
Suboxones = meant to get you off Oxys; people like it for the smooth, controlled high; called “stop signs” because of the shape
Presumably great for partying and then dealing with the hangover the next day. I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this shit, except for a fake half-hit from a bong. And even that’s new—thanks to D.
As we sit in the woods I process all of this. It’s hard to reconcile the sloppy-cute boy next to me with all of this drug intrigue.
—Why do you do this? Is it the lifestyle? A discount on the product?
—Yeah, the lifestyle. Look at me, living large.
—Seriously, why go through all of this shit, taking so much risk? You’re an honors student! You’re supposed to be studying hard so you can get a good job when you graduate and—
—For fuck’s sake, Sarie … what year are you living in? Do you
Similar Books
