We’re at the school cafeteria having lunch when Luther walks over to us, removes his dark glasses and hands us money.
Luther handing us money? Something’s wrong here. We look at the money as if it’s a pipe-bomb.
“Like, sorry about the misunderstanding and all,” he says in a humble voice, minus the usual Sean Kingston accent. “Here’s your money for the fakies and stuff.”
I quickly get over my shock at his unusual behavior, at the fact that he has eyes, snatch the money out of his hands and count it.
“There’s … double the amount here?” I say, clutching the money tight in case he snatches it back.
He nods. “Extra for the delay and shit, man. Know what I mean?”
“Really?” My friends and I look at him, then exchange suspicious looks.
“This is counterfeit, right?” I hold up a note to the light and peer at it. As if I know what the fuck to look for when it comes to play money.
“Nah, nah, nah,” he says. “All good, man. It’s all good.”
Since I know jack about bank notes and feeling under pressure to say something, I choose my words carefully. “You think I was born yesterday?” Notice, after my inspection, I did not say that it was counterfeit. I asked a broad question about the date of my birth.
He shifts about in his Nikes and scratches the back of his head. “Nah, nah, it’s all good, it’s all good, man. Trust me.”
“Mmm, trust you …” I shake my head.
“We’re being Punked, right?” Laura asks.
“Give it here!” Tina snatches the note out of my hand. She holds it up to the light, squints at it and says, “You’ve got a nerve.” Also carefully chosen words.
“Yeah, it’s so obvious it’s fake.” Sultana stabs at the note with her index finger with disdain. “Doesn’t look one bit like our president.”
Luther frowns. “Our president? What you talking about, man?”
Sultana’s sigh is weary. “Every hundred dollar bill is supposed to have our president’s picture on it,” she says.
“Benjamin Franklin,” Laura pipes. “And he wasn’t a president. He was just iconic and ...”
All eyes narrow at Laura the Brainiac for ruining our threats by talking sense and trying to enlighten all of us at a time like this.
“Eh …” Brainiac clams up.
“Anyway, we’re going to have to report this to the CIA,” Sultana threatens.
“CIA?” Stress lines appear on Luther’s face, aging him, making him look old – at least twenty. ”Why man?”
“FBI,” Laura mutters.
“What?!” Luther pales into a matt cement grey. Man, these hos are gon get me into big shit.
So, Luther looks stressed and the money appears genuine. Question is – why?
“Just as a matter of interest, why can’t we get fake IDs instead of our money back?”
“Cause Trojan, he then gave me strict instructions not to give you the fakies ’cause he don’t want you getting up to shit and …”
“Trojan?” I cock my head and look at him. “Trojan Catrell?”
“Yeah.”
I slam back into my seat. Trojan is responsible for us getting our money back -- how cool is that?
“Hey, like, can you tell him that I gave ya the money and extra too?” Luther asks, his eyes almost pleading.
None of us answer him. We’re too busy exchanging surprised looks at Trojan’s long arm.
“Well, see ya,” Luther says and scurries off like the rat he is.
“Wow! Trojan is cool,” Tina says.
“Yeah. But … he stopped us getting our fakies,” I point out. “That’s not cool.”
“Yeah, he wants to control Burn,” Sultana chuckles. “Keep her on a leash and stuff. A really tight leash.”
Tina chuckles. “Good luck to him. Nobody can control Burn.”
“Damn right,” I say.
“Let’s hit the Liquor Mart and get wasted,” Laura says. “We got extra money.”
“Right!” we chorus and race to our favorite liquor store.
Comb-over is behind the counter picking his teeth with a paper-clip. He pauses with his tooth-picking to snarl at me. What the fuck do you want now?
“Hey, how you doing?” I say and nod to Tina who darts into the vodka section. “I like … just wanna apologize for… you know … the …”
“What?!”
“… shit I did the last time and …”
From the corner of my eye I notice Tina walk out the store her bag bulging and looking bigger than her.
“…yeah, that’s it.” I smile and back away as the security alarm goes off. “Bye!” I shout over the screaming alarm and run to join the rest of my friends.
We sit down behind our school block and take stock. “A bottle of vodka, orange juice and six chocolate bars.”
“Wow, cool! And we saved our money too!” We high-five each other and drink up. After a few drinks we discuss teenager’s topics. Ramble on about stuff we know jack about. Today it’s the Morning After pill.
“You take it the morning after …you know, after you did the dirty.”
“Really? I thought it was for hangovers?”
“No, no, no. That’s the hair of the … the … the … dog’s …”
“…bread, eh, breaf, er, bed …”
“Breath!” Laura says. “The hair of the dog’s breath.”
“That can’t be right. A dog’s breath?” Tina looks really confused.
“Dogs don’t have ‘breath’.” Guess who said that?
“Yes, they do, Sultana. They fucking breathe.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Hey, maybe it’s ‘air’ of the dog’s breath.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. But what the fuck has that got to do with a hangover?”
“Or birth-control.”
After two drinks, I start to leave.
“Why you leaving so soon?” they demand. “You always have to go.”
“She’s going home to watch Real Housewives of New Jersey, right?”
“Nah, she’s going home to watch reruns of The Notebook.”
“Hey, like, I got responsibilities, you know. I gotta clean the fucking house in case Social Services arrive. Don’t want them to take away Angel now.”
“Mff.”
“Then I gotta make dinner for Angel, then I gotta wash her school uniform …”
“Man, I’m glad I’m not you,” Laura says. “So much responsibility. It ages a person, man.”
I nod grimly. “It does. I’m getting lines on my face.” I point to one. “See?”
“You’re right. You look like shit, Burn.”
I frown.
As I walk home, I think about Laura’s words. It’s true, I wish I was a regular teen sometimes. It must be nice to have a life free of responsibility.
But then I picture Angel’s smiling face and the way she burrows into me at night, and I hurry home to my little sister. Wouldn’t trade her for anything in the whole world.