The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine (3 page)

What my dad means is that I don’t deserve to be motherless, but as usual he dances around the subject. The funny thing is we’ve never actually spoken about
why
my mother left. I guess the whole Philippe deal is too painful and humiliating for my dad. But I know he misses her. I
know
he does. “But Dad,” I say, “neither do you.”

He holds up a hand to stop me, shaking his head like he knows better. “Believe me, Dylan, I’ve made plenty of mistakes. Plenty.” I wonder if he means working 24/7, not spending any time with my mom when she
was
home, not taking an interest in her art or her artist friends, which is what they used to fight about all the time. At least I don’t have to listen to them yelling anymore.

From the basement I hear Randy break out into an amazing lead on Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower.” He’s even got the feedback going, which is no easy thing. “Listen,” my dad says, “you know I don’t like to draw comparisons between you and Randy, but please, do me one favor, all right? Be true to yourself. Don’t…” He hesitates and finally decides not to finish the sentence. But I know what he was going to say.
Don’t wind up like your brother.

He pats my shoulder a few times, and as he gets up and walks out the door, Randy wails on his guitar. I smile sadly.
Don’t worry, Dad, even if I tried I’d never be like Randy.

Three

O
UR FIRST GAME
of the AAU summer basketball finals is scheduled for nine o’clock the following morning, and when my alarm goes off at seven, I open my eyes and see Chloe. She’s sitting on the floor about three feet from my bed with a new stack of my prized vintage LPs on her lap. “Hey,” she says, as if girls appear in my bedroom in the wee hours on a routine basis, “hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t sleep.”

Sleep? She slept here?
I sit up, dazed, hugging the sheets to my chest. I’ve been lifting weights all summer, but I’m still pretty skinny and a little self-conscious about my body. Especially around girls.

Chloe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about my lack of clothing. Or hers. As my eyes begin to focus I see she’s got on a pair of Randy’s old boxers along with this silky sleeveless top; no bra. I’m not an expert, but I do glance at my mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalog every now and then, and I believe what Chloe’s wearing is called a camisole. Her hair, I notice, has been unleashed from that messy knot and it pours over her shoulders in golden waves. Smiling, she holds up my 1977
Saturday Night Fever
LP. “This is
so
cool! Can I play it?”

“Um…” The truth is, I rarely play my LPs, since they’re collector’s items and scratches lower their value. Also, it’s seven o’clock in the morning and if my dad had a delivery last night, he might be in bed right now trying to catch a few winks. But seeing that I’ll probably never sell my LPs, and since Chloe is very eager to hear some old disco tunes, I shrug and say, “Well, all right.” I’m wearing boxers, but the problem now is how to put on a shirt without her seeing my scrawny chest. I point across the room. “The, uh, turntable is right over there.”

“Oh, okay, great.” She gets up and starts fiddling with the dials while I open my dresser drawer and grab the first thing I get my hands on. Thankfully, it’s my CBGB T-shirt—the one Angie bought me last Christmas when we went tooling around the Village like tourists. They closed down the music venue a couple of years ago, but there’s still a gift shop where you can purchase memorabilia. I figure this article of clothing will impress Chloe more than my SpongeBob SquarePants shirt.

“Here, I’ll help you with that,” I say. Unlike my upper body, my legs are fairly developed, so in an effort to appear cool with this whole girl-in-the-bedroom scene, I forgo the jeans.

“Nice shirt,” she says as I place the needle in the groove of “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees—which is what I’m trying to do as her bare arm brushes against mine.

“Oh, thanks.” I turn the volume low, hoping no one in the house will wake up, come into my room, and spoil the moment.

Meanwhile, she tosses the
Saturday Night Fever
jacket back onto the pile and grabs the Rolling Stones’
Sticky Fingers.
I keep this LP separate from the others because on the cover is an old Andy Warhol photo of a guy’s rather large jean-clad crotch. It’s got a real brass zipper attached, and it won’t lie flat. Chloe plops onto my bed and very carefully slides down the zipper. “You know, I always forget what
CBGB
stands for.”

“Country, bluegrass, blues,” I say, pointing to the first string of letters on my chest, trying not to think about the fact that a girl in a camisole is sitting on my bed playing with a guy’s zipper. “And Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers,” I add, sliding one finger beneath the letters
OMFUG
.

She purses her lips. “And…what exactly
is
a gormandizer?”

“A voracious eater,” I say. “In this case, of music.” Chloe nods, obviously impressed with my vocabulary, and I’m feeling pretty good about my level of cool. “So, you, uh, slept here last night?”

Slowly she pulls the zipper up and down, smiling the whole time. I’m pretty sure she knows what she’s doing, and as far as I can tell she’s enjoying it. “Remember?” she says. “I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh, right.”

“But I did stay here, in case you’re wondering. We all did. Our band is practicing today. Next week, when school starts, we won’t have much time.”

At the mention of school I suddenly realize why I woke up at this god-awful hour. Our first game of the finals is at McKinley High. Also, I have to stop by my buddy Jake’s house first for a pair of tighty whities. “Yeah, I heard you singing yesterday. It sounded really good.”

“Thanks.”

“But, uh, listen, I kind of need to get ready now.”

Chloe shrugs. “Okay.” At this point I expect her to leave and give me a little privacy, but she just sits there tapping her toes to “Disco Inferno.” I sigh, grab my uniform from the closet, and trek out to the bathroom. On the way, I notice that the guest room door is slightly ajar, so I peek inside. As a blast of noxious air hits me, I see Moser curled up in bed, making an oil slick on my grandmother’s favorite goose-down pillow. On the floor beside him is Headbone, sprawled out on the futon my parents brought home from Japan last year. He’s drooling on the cherry blossom design and snoring like a bear.

Suddenly Nick appears in the hallway, shirtless, a pair of faded jeans hanging low on his hips. Unlike mine, his recent interest in weightlifting has paid off. He yawns and stretches. “Hey, Dyl, you see Chloe anywhere?”

“Yeah,” I say, “she’s in my bedroom.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and I walk past him grinning like an idiot. In the bathroom I get changed, and after brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face, I tiptoe out into the hallway and take a quick look in Randy’s room. He’s sound asleep, no traces of a girl having spent the night. Next I turn the corner and scope out the game room. On the pull-out sofa bed, among a tangle of sheets, I see Nick’s Florida State T-shirt lying next to a black lace bra.

I hear giggles coming from my room now, but I don’t go back, even though I’ve forgotten my wristbands—a very important part of your basketball uniform if you sweat a lot, which I do. Instead, I go downstairs to the kitchen, take out the blender, and whip up a soy protein shake, turning the dial to “liquefy.” Since Nick and Chloe are having such a grand old time in my room, I don’t care if the whole house wakes up.

A few minutes later, Chloe strolls into the kitchen with Nick tagging behind. I stand at the counter downing my shake while Chloe takes a seat at the table and Nick opens the pantry. I haven’t gone food shopping in a while, so there’s not much to choose from. He shuffles around for a few minutes and finally says, “Hey, Dyl, have you bought any of those Pop-Tarts lately?”

I feel like saying to him,
Do I look like your houseboy?
But I don’t. Instead I say, “No, dude, too much trans fat.” I’m not really sure if this is true, since I haven’t checked any Pop-Tart labels, but I figure there has to be some kind of carcinogen in the neon-pink and blue frosting.

“What?” He sticks his head farther in, shoving a bunch of cereal boxes to one side.

“Trans fat,” Chloe calls. “Dylan’s right, Nick. You shouldn’t eat that crap.”

He pokes his head out. “Oh, really? Says who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Says everyone.”

With a grin on his face, Nick abandons his search, bolts to the table, and wraps both arms around Chloe. “Well, you know what, Clo? I happen to like Pop-Tarts, and I don’t plan on living long enough to be some old geezer worrying about trans fat.” He bends over and nuzzles her neck, and I swear I want to punch the living daylights out of him.

“Cut it out!” she says. “Get off me!” But even with her protests, she seems to be enjoying it. Which reinforces my belief that I will never understand girls.

As I down the last of my shake, Nick lifts the edges of Chloe’s camisole and tickles her. She swats his hands away, but he continues undaunted. That’s when I see Randy standing in the doorway. He watches for a few seconds as the two of them laugh hysterically, and I can tell he’s pissed. But when it comes to Nick, or any other member of the band, for that matter, Randy is loyal. Once, when Headbone was stoned and spilling his guts, he let it slip that the members of the Dead Musicians Society had taken a vow to never let anything or anyone get between them. No parents, no brothers, and especially no girls.

Before Nick and Chloe have a chance to see Randy, he walks off in the direction of his room. Quickly, I rinse out the blender, jog to the pull-out sofa, grab Nick’s shirt lying beside Chloe’s bra, and toss it into the guest room, where Moser and Headbone are still snoring away in a cloud of stench. No need for Randy to know every last ugly detail of the previous night.

I’ve got to hurry now, so I grab the wristbands from my room, phone Jake to ask him to bring the underwear to the game, and run out the front door. That’s when I smell the sickly-sweet aroma of burning weed. I stop in my tracks and look up to the balcony—the one that leads to my parents’ bedroom and overlooks the Verrazano Bridge. Randy is sitting in a lounge chair, staring across the water. It’s seven-thirty in the morning and he’s already smoking a joint. From this I gather three things: (1) Franz Warner makes late-night deliveries, (2) my father never made it home from the hospital, and (3) Randy is hopelessly in love with Chloe.

Our team, the Shore Road Titans, loses to the Bay Ridge Bulls by two points, and while Jake and the guys are commiserating over our loss, I’m not even thinking about basketball. I say goodbye to the team, hop the bus, and head to Ramone’s—this ratty music store on Third Avenue where I buy some of my old LPs. I go to the
J
section, search for Janis Joplin, and bingo, there she is—
Greatest Hits,
circa 1973. The LP is twenty-five dollars and not in the greatest shape, but I don’t care. I buy it anyway.

When I get home, I hear Randy and his band practicing in the basement. They’re doing Moser’s favorite—Kurt Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Usually the guys joke around and call the song “Smells Like Moser’s Armpit,” but when I go downstairs I take a deep breath and realize Moser has bathed. Washed his hair and everything.

Chloe, who is singing backup and playing a wicked keyboard, sees my surprised expression. When they finish she says, “Yes, Dylan, it’s true, a miracle has happened today, and you can thank
me
for it.”

The rest of the guys, minus Moser, begin to cheer. In mock tribute, Headbone falls on his knees and bows before Chloe. She laughs and says, “We dragged Moser into the shower this morning. It took twenty minutes before the water ran clear.”

“Yeah, and my eczema is already starting to flare up,” Moser says, plucking his bass and giving his neck a good scratch.

“Oh, poor baby,” Nick says. “Maybe we should sprinkle some talcum powder on you.”

Headbone pops up. “Dude, want me to pin him down?”

I smile at Chloe. Not only is she beautiful and multitalented, but she has also greatly improved the air quality of our home. “Oh, this is for you,” I say, holding out the LP.

She looks at it and blinks a few times. “Dylan, that’s so sweet. Thank you.”

I drink in the moment, but then I picture Randy’s face in the kitchen doorway this morning, and I remember why I bought the LP. “Actually, it wasn’t my idea,” I say. “Randy asked me to pick it up for you.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a five. “Here’s the change, bro.”

He gives me a long, hard stare before accepting the money.

“Randy!” she says. “God, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” She walks over and plants a kiss on his cheek.

“You can use my turntable,” I say, “you know, in my, uh,
bedroom,
anytime.”

Nick rolls his eyes.

“Thank you, Dylan,” Chloe says, scanning the list of songs on the jacket.

Now Randy is shaking his head and grinning at me. As the band warms up for its next song, I practically float up to the kitchen—until the music stops and Chloe calls my name. “Oh, Dylan, wait!”

I turn around.

“There’s a girl upstairs waiting for you. Said her name’s Angie.”

Four

V
ERY SLOWLY
, I climb the second flight of stairs and enter my room. Angie is sitting on my bed, back against the wall, shuffling through a stack of photos. Right away I see they’re the ones of her and me—a collection I put together over the summer, dating back to when we were in sixth grade. Normally, when I’m not looking at them, they’re in my desk, shoved way in the back, so no one will accidentally discover how hopeless I am. So much for that.

“Dylan?” she says, setting the pictures aside, not even trying to hide the fact that she’s been snooping around my room. “Why haven’t you called? Didn’t Randy tell you I stopped by yesterday?” Angie looks the same, only better—long, straight copper hair, scrutinizing green eyes, freckles on every part of her body. Well, at least all the parts
I’ve
seen. I can’t speak for her main man, Jonathan.

“Yeah, Randy told me,” I say with a shrug. “But I’ve been kind of busy.” She’s barefoot, wearing a lavender tank top and black Adidas running shorts. I try not to look at her legs, long and toned, stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “Besides,” I add, “I could say the same to you. Unless, of course, they don’t have phones at NYU.”

She sighs. “Look, Dylan, you
know
why I didn’t call this summer.” Before Angie left for her acting course at NYU, she made it clear that I needed to apologize for dissing her stupid boyfriend. But as you can see, I did not cave in.

I widen my eyes in mock bewilderment. “No, really, I have no idea. Please, enlighten me.”

Angie hates when I’m a wiseass. Which I am, a lot of the time, especially around Jonathan when he’s quoting Nietzsche and Kafka. She narrows her eyes and for the next few minutes we have a staring contest. It’s what we used to do when we were younger—see who could hold out the longest. Angie’s good, but I’m better, and now as I expertly flare my nostrils, curl my upper lip, and wiggle both ears, Angie cracks a smile. “You idiot!” she yells. And before I can duck, she flings a pillow, grazing the side of my head. “Jonathan and I broke up. Okay? Are you happy now?”

At first I’m not sure if I’ve heard right, since my ear is still ringing from the blow. I walk a little closer to the bed. “Did you just say…?” I’m afraid to speak the words, afraid saying them aloud might break the spell.

She nods.

It’s a miracle. For the past few months I’ve been dreaming up ways to rid the earth of Jonathan Reed—drive him off a cliff, poison him slowly with antifreeze, serve him shish kebab on a stick of lethal oleander. Now, in one second’s time, I feel like I’m about to fly. “When did this happen?”

She shrugs. “About a week ago.”

“I guess you figured it out then?”

She looks puzzled. “You mean…you knew?”

“That he’s a pretentious, condescending jackass? Of course.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, that’s not what I meant. Did you know he was seeing Hannah Jaworski?”

This comes as quite a shock. Hannah Jaworski is this untouchable senior with a 4.0 GPA and the body of a goddess. “No, I didn’t,” I say, and suddenly I really do feel sorry for Angie. She’s never handled rejection well.

I sit down beside her, resisting the urge to play connect-the-dots with the freckles on her knee. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Really.”

She hangs her head. “Thanks.” We sit there together, not saying anything, and after a while Angie picks up the photos. “I…found these in your desk. I hope you don’t mind.”

I shake my head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

She pulls one from the stack and smiles. “This is my absolute favorite. God, remember that day?”

It’s kind of funny, because the picture she’s chosen is my favorite too—Angie and me standing outside this sleazy West Side flea market in Manhattan. She’s holding our purchase—a small glass fishbowl—and inside the bowl, swimming in a sea of Ozarka water, is our new pet goldfish, Tony. Earlier that afternoon I’d won him at the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy, but his plastic bag had sprung a leak and we’d had to find him a new home, pronto. “How could I forget?” I say. “We had a blast that day.”

“Yeah,” Angie says. “But poor Tony.”

I nod sadly in agreement. We had decided to keep Tony at my house, but after a few days Tripod (mangy killer that he is) got his paws on him. We buried Tony’s chewed-up remains in my backyard and had a small funeral service. Even Randy and his friends attended. Afterward, Headbone suggested an execution for Tripod, death by hanging, which I thought was a pretty good idea, but Angie said no, there’d been enough bloodshed that day.

“So,” I say, hoping Angie will now fall to her knees and declare her undying lust for me, “why…exactly, are you here?”

“Why do you think?”

I bounce a few times and pat the mattress. “I don’t know. Sex?”

She groans, grabs another pillow, and hits me over the head. “I’m here, Dylan Fontaine, because you’re my best friend.”

Alas, the friend thing again. My lot in life, it seems.

“
And
I have a favor to ask,” she adds.

“Hmm, I should have known there was a catch. What is it this time?”

“Hold on,” she says, “I’ll show you.” She hops off the bed and retrieves a black canvas bag from behind the door. Gingerly, she pulls out a very expensive-looking video camera and smiles. “It’s digital,” she says. “A Sony HC3. I’m going to shoot a movie.”

“A movie?”

“Yes, a short, which, in case you don’t know, means a short film.” She plops down on the bed again and hands me the camera. It’s got a lot of gizmos. Like mine, Angie’s parents are loaded, so price tags are never an issue.

I’m about to ask what the favor is, but she goes on about the camera. “Isn’t it cool? And when I get enough footage, I can edit on my iMac. I’ve got the software to add sound, background music, subtitles, anything I want.”

I study the camera without a clue as to which button does what. “Pretty fancy,” I say, “but—”

“And there’s going to be a screening for the summer students at NYU right before Thanksgiving. They’re planning to give awards to the top three films.”

I look at her, puzzled. “Wait a minute. I thought you took an
acting
class at NYU.”

“I did,” she says with a shrug, “but I also sat in on this awesome filmmaking class and discovered that’s what I
really
want to do. Create my own movie, start to finish. The professor said I could participate in the screening.”

“Hmm, interesting. Okay, so what’s the favor?”

She grins sheepishly. “I need a partner, someone to give me advice, bounce ideas off of. I can’t really do it alone.”

“I see.” Slowly I hand her back the camera.

She bites her lip. I’ll admit, in the past Angie has had me wrapped around her finger, but I’ve learned a few things about girls since then—like how coy and fickle they can be—and now I like being in control. “So…Dylan,” she says, somewhat nervously, “what do you think?”

What I think is that I’m not her first choice. The odds are, before Angie found out about Jonathan dating Hannah Jaworski, she was planning to ask
him
for help, since Jonathan is no doubt an expert screenwriter and cinematographer or whatever you call those guys. “I’m not sure,” I say, stringing her along. “What’s the movie about?”

She fiddles with the controls. “I don’t
exactly
know yet.”

“Wow, sounds like you’ve got quite the plan.”

Playfully she sticks out her tongue, turns on the flash, and takes a close-up shot of my face. Big orange splotches dance before my eyes. “Gee, thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Actually, Dylan, I do know
one
thing about the movie. I’ll be shooting it in Washington Square Park. I spent a lot of time there this summer, since my dorm was just a few blocks away. It’s the perfect spot.”

It figures. Of all the places in New York City, Angie picks the one with the most crazies per capita. Also, if I remember correctly, the park is not too far from Philippe LeBlanc’s fancy Greenwich Village apartment, which makes me a little uneasy. Angie doesn’t know yet about my mother moving in with Philippe or their recent trip to Paris—she left for NYU before it all happened. “Washington Square Park?” I say. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. And I think the film is going to be a documentary, or maybe something a little more avant-garde. I’ll need to experiment, but I thought we’d begin interviewing some of the locals and go from there. Ideas will flow. At least, that’s what our professor says.”

I give Angie a skeptical look. Even though Washington Square Park is near some pretty high-priced real estate, on any given day you’ll find your quota of chess hustlers, weirdos, and guys you wouldn’t like to meet in a back alley. “Oh, and you expect these people at the park to cooperate? To bare their souls to some nosy redheaded girl wielding a very expensive camera?”

She shrugs. “Well, yeah. Why not? And besides, you’ll be there. I mean, who’s going to mess with me when I’ve got a six-foot-three bodyguard?”

I can’t help it; I crack a smile. “I have been lifting weights this summer,” I say, rolling up my sleeve and flexing my bicep. “Did you notice?”

“Hmm.” She reaches out like she’s going to pluck a miniature chocolate from a box and gives my muscle a squeeze. “Not bad, Hercules,” she says. “Now, what do you say, will you do it? Will you help me?”

And just like that, we’re back at square one. I’m Angie’s slave again. “All right, fine, whatever,” I say. “I’ll help you with the film.”

A big smile spreads across her face. “Thanks, Dylan.” She leans over and tugs the corner of my basketball jersey. “Now, come on, hit the showers, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

When I emerge from the steamy bathroom, towel around my waist, I hear the Dead Musicians Society doing “Piece of My Heart,” and Chloe’s husky voice floating up the stairs. Angie’s no longer in my room, so I figure she’s in the basement listening to the band play. I get dressed, but just as I’m about to join them I notice that the door of my mother’s studio is ajar. I peek inside and see Angie standing at the far end near the picture window. “Hey,” I say, “whatcha doing?”

“Oh, just…wandering.”

I walk in and stand beside her. She’s gazing at a collection of sketches taped to the wall. Most of them are my mom’s and Randy’s creations, but a few are mine. As soon as Randy and I were old enough to hold a stick of charcoal, my mother had us drawing, and just like with our musical abilities, Randy’s artistic talents have always surpassed mine. Angie knows this too, but she doesn’t compare. “So,” I say, “which one’s your favorite?”

She points to a graphite sketch I did last year—a still life featuring a half-empty wine bottle, an avocado, and a wedge of Swiss cheese. Boring, I know, but it did win an honorable mention in the Kings County high school art show. “Of yours,” she says, “I’ve always liked this one.”

“Hmm.” I study the drawing. The shadows are good, and technically it’s sound, but next to Randy’s portraits and gesture studies it lacks something—life, emotion, originality, all of the above.

“Have you been drawing this summer?” Angie asks.

I think about the summer art project I’ve been working on, due the first day of school—an old master sketch of a da Vinci drapery—but decide not to mention it. The sketch is full of detail, which is what I’m best at, but Angie tells me if I am going to be an artist I need to branch out, take chances, put myself on the line. I guess that’s what she admired so much about Jonathan—not that he’s an artist, but according to Angie he’s a freethinker, willing to take on new ideas. New girls, too, it seems. “Yeah, I’ve been sketching some,” I say.

Angie runs her fingers along the edges of my drawing, then takes a seat beside the easel where my dad and I had our recent father-son bonding moment. While she gazes at my mother’s half-finished pastel, Chloe belts out,
“Take it! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!”

“She’s good,” Angie says.

“Yeah, Chloe is their new Janis Joplin. She plays keyboards, too. Oh, and she got Moser to shower. Can you believe it? He even washed his hair.”

Angie laughs. “No, that’s not what I meant. Sure, Chloe sounds great, and thank
God
about Moser, but I was talking about your mother. This pastel she’s working on, it’s…well, beautiful.”

“Oh…yeah, I guess it is.” I swallow and a strange silence fills the room.

“Dylan?” Angie says. “Where
is
your mom?”

The million-dollar question. I take a deep breath, pull up a chair, and sit beside Angie. As I struggle for words, Tripod jumps into my lap. I want to swat his mangy behind, but instead I pet him a few times. “My mother is…well…she’s gone.”

“
Gone?
What do you mean?”

“She left,” I say. “Moved in with that guy, her old art professor, Philippe LeBlanc.”

“But…,” Angie says. “I don’t understand. Why?”

I give her a look like
Must I really spell it out?

“Dylan, you can’t mean she’s having an affair? I thought you said…”

It’s kind of ironic, because Randy and I used to joke around and call Philippe LeBlanc Philippe the Fag, since he fit the whole clog-wearing, purse-toting gay artiste stereotype. At the time it was kind of funny. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess we all thought Philippe was gay. But apparently not. Anyway, he and my mom are in Paris right now. They have a show together.”

“Oh, God.” Angie reaches for my hand, and I let her take it; in fact, it suddenly feels like I’m holding on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I had no idea. What about your dad? How’s he taking it?”

“I don’t know, really. We don’t talk much, since he basically camps out at the hospital.” I look into Angie’s eyes, and before I know it I’m spilling my guts. I tell her about getting arrested with underwear shoved up my shirt, about the Franz Warner drug deal gone awry and the piss test performed by Officer Greenwood.

“Unbelievable,” she says. “Man, you sure got the bum rap.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got to go to court next week too, and there’ll be some hours of community service. But at least the drug thing isn’t on my record.”