Being Bad
Ben Leach


I started being bad at Mickey’s ma’s house because she would let me sleep over and ask Mickey’s older brother to watch us when she went down the street to get drunk. Mickey’s older brother was an idiot, just would stay in his bedroom with the door closed and never leave, just would sit in the dark playing video games or jerking off.
 
Mickey suggested we drink his mom’s margarita mix in his fridge. He said it wouldn’t do much but it’d do something. When that got boring we snuck out and broke bottles in the alley and walked around. When that got boring we stole stuff from the gas station.
 
Mickey showed me this sandwich baggie with stuff in it that he said he got from this older kid who had his face painted like a clown, but like a scary clown, like a demented clown with hatchets. We smoked it out of a pop can in Mickey’s alley and we both immediately liked being high. People say you don’t get high the first few times, but me and Mickey got stoned as shit and were both like, “we like this stuff, this stuff’s for us.”
 
So we kept going back to the clown guy until Mickey said he knew a guy that had better stuff, which was good because the clown’s stuff was shitty and stopped working after the first few times. And the new guy had great stuff. Me and Mickey would cut class pretty much everyday and smoke at the park and hang out.
 
Pretty soon other kids started asking where we got our stuff from and we didn’t want to tell them because we liked having the best stuff around and we liked having everyone else on the hook. Then Mickey thought of the idea that we could get some money together and buy a lot of stuff all at once and sell it to our friends and he said that we could make crazy moulah not to mention smoke all the stuff we wanted for free.
 
So Mickey stole some money from his ma and I sold my weight bench to my neighbor and Mickey set it up with the guy. He picked us up in his car and we drove around a little. It was a small car and it was really dirty on the inside. The guy looked pretty normal, like a pizza guy. Mickey gave him the money and, at a red light, the guy turned and handed me a ziplock bag with a lot of stuff in it, more stuff than I had ever seen in my life, and said that I better not fuck this shit up. He said that if I did I would be fucked for good, for life, and then he pulled over and we got out.
 
Mickey said we should split up and took off before I was even out of the car. I put the stuff in my backpack. It was about the size of a rolled up pair of soccer socks, and I don’t know what kind it was or even if it was good or not because I didn’t take it back to my house and keep it in the crawlspace like me and Mickey had planned to do. I ditched it in a dumpster in some alley, I don’t remember where, on the walk home. I didn’t want to smoke stuff or do bad stuff anymore, and I started going to school again. It’s not as fun but it’s alright. Mickey was really pissed off though, still is. He has new friends now and they all want to kick my ass.