Page 21 of The Last Special Thing

Balancing on the back two legs of his chair, he folded his arms across his chest. “Fuck no to needles. There has to be a line somewhere, right?”

“Yeah, there should be a line somewhere,” she laughed.

“So, where does your experience land?”

“This.” She gestured to the cups between them.

“Just drinking?”

“I’ve smoked pot, but I don’t like it,” she admitted to him. It was the first time she vocalized the opinion.

“So where’s your line?”

Amelia took a bite of her pizza, buying her time to think.

“I guess I wouldn’t want to snort anything,” she shuddered.

“No cocaine?”

“Nothing up my nose.”

“Hmm. Cocaine’s an upper. You seem like the type that would like that.”

“Please don’t give me any cocaine today.”

He laughed. “Damn. Left it at home. You’d try hallucinogens?”

“I think so.”

“Well, we won’t do anything without you agreeing to it.”

She put a hand over her mouth and laughed until tears fell. Art glanced around at other customers of the pizza shop who were taking notice of her outburst.

“What’s so funny?” His voice dropped, and he leaned closer.

“Oh, I don’t know. How, you basically had to tell me that you’re not going to force me into anything.”

He laughed toward the ceiling, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes.

“No, no. Scout's honor, I’ll only do what you're comfortable with.” He held up his three middle fingers with his thumb over his pinky nail.

After a few more belly laughs, Amelia regained her composure. She never laughed this hard with anyone aside from Madisson. Her eyes flicked up to him again. Things were so easy.

“Let’s get out of here.” He shoveled in the last bite of his second slice.

She had eaten half of hers and threw the rest away. Over the years, she had habitually failed to finish a full meal. While her school plays never commented about her weight, she had booked a few commercials, and Lauren made clear what their expectations were. She told Amelia not to give anyone the slightest reason not to hire her. The line between motherly concern and vanity had always been hard to distinguish.

As they reached the boardwalk, Art heeled off his shoes and extended his hand for Amelia’s.

They resumed their game.

“Those two.” Art pointed to an older woman and a teenage girl, both wearing matching sun hats.

“Russian spies, scheming to take over the world,” Amelia answered.

She pointed to a group of guys with rolled-up jeans, gingerly side-stepping clumps of seaweed.

“Poodle trainers. Just won a local competition,” Art decided.