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His eyes narrow.
“It’s bullshit for you to pretend not to be dealing drugs out the back door, like you’re going to protect me from knowing the truth about you. It’s not fair that I’m supposed to come in here and bare my soul to you, and you don’t even want me to touch your stupid cell phone. ”
West crosses his arms. His jaw has gone hard.
“You’re a drug dealer. ” It’s the first time I’ve ever said it out loud. The first time I’ve ever even mentally put it in those words. “So what? You have some dried-up plants in a plastic bag in your pocket, and you give them to people for money. Whoop-de-do. ”
He stares at me. Not for just a moment, which would be normal.
He stares at me for ages.
For the entire span of my life, he looks right in my eyes, and I suck in shallow breaths through my mouth, my chest full of pressure, my ears ringing as the mixer grinds and grinds and grinds around.
Then the corner of his mouth tips up a fraction. “Whoop-de-do?”
“Shut up. ” I’m not in the mood to be teased.
“You could’ve at least thrown a fuck in there. Whoop-de-fucking-do. ”
“I don’t need your advice on how to swear. ”
“You sure? I’m a fuck of a lot better at it than you. ”
I turn away and pick up my bag and my Latin book off the floor. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be around him if he’s going to hurt me, bullshit me, and tease me. That’s not what I come here for, and I hate how the pressure from the way he stared at me has built up in my face, prickling behind the bridge of my nose, sticking in my throat.
“Caro,” he says.
“Leave me alone. ”
“Caro, I made forty bucks. Okay? That’s what you want me to say?”
I stop packing my bag and just stand there, looking at it.
He made forty bucks.
“How much did you charge?”
“Sixty-five. ”
“For how much?”
“An eighth of an ounce. ”
I turn around. “Is that a lot?”
“A lot of money, or a lot of weed?”
“Um, either. ”
He smiles for real now and shakes his head. “It’s a little more than anybody else is charging, but the weed is better. It’s the smallest amount I’ll bother to sell. Why are we talking about this?”
And that’s when I lose my nerve. I shrug. I look past his left ear.
I don’t want to ask him.
Before this year, I never gave money a lot of thought. My dad is pretty well off. I grew up in a nice house in a safe neighborhood in Ankeny, outside Des Moines, and even though Putnam isn’t cheap, I didn’t have to worry about tuition. I always knew my dad would pay it, whatever it was.
But that was before the pictures, and it was before I figured out that, no matter what I do, I can’t make them go away. Not by myself.
