Ferocity Summer by Alissa Grosso Page A

away with pulling this attitude shit on me. Don’t deny it. I know how your teenage mind works.”
    â€œIt’s not an attitude,” I said looking up from my plate. I put down my fork. “I’m just not hungry. I don’t feel so great!”
    The last part came out as a shout, and I stood and left the room with haste, retreating to the seclusion of my bedroom where I could still hear my mother shouting at me.
    â€œYou think I don’t know what it’s like to be seventeen? You think you’re the first teenager who ever lived? If you think you’re gonna throw this teenage angst shit at me, then I got news for you!”
    I flipped on the window fan and leaned in close, so that the breeze hit me in the face and the whirring noise blocked out my mother’s shouting.

June
    H ey,” Willow said, “you think you could loan me like fifty bucks?”
    â€œLike I have fifty bucks,” I said. We were sitting outside on her back deck absorbing vitamin D and UV rays, trying to imagine we were just carefree high school girls working on our tans.
    â€œWhat, they don’t pay you at that place?”
    â€œI have to give it to my mom,” I explained. “She’s got this savings-account-type deal so I can go to school or buy a car or something.”
    â€œYou don’t even get your own paycheck? What the hell is wrong with her?”
    I shrugged. I was pissed at Willow and I didn’t know why. Okay, maybe it had something to do with the fact that I spent my summer at some shit job and Willow goofed off while collecting a nice fat weekly allowance, yet she still had the nerve to beg money off of me.
    â€œLet’s go to the beach or something,” I said. I was tired of moping around her backyard.
    â€œWhy?” Willow asked.
    â€œWe can go swimming.”
    â€œI need money.”
    â€œYou could get a job,” I said.
    â€œYou sound like my fucking father. Let’s go whip up some lunch.”
    A few minutes later, I lugged out the blender while Willow lined up a variety of alcoholic beverages on the counter. She pulled an entire six-pack of wine coolers from the fridge.
    â€œMidge told me I could have one anytime I wanted,” Willow said. “Do you think she’ll be pissed if we use them all?”
    â€œWe don’t need them all.” I looked at the counter with the vodkas, the rum, the gin, and the daiquiri mix. “What about the solid-food portion of our lunch?”
    â€œYou have absolutely no sense of adventure.” Willow began randomly pouring bottles into the blender. She tossed in some ice. “Let’s give it a whirl,” she said, reaching for the button.
    â€œYou’ve got to put the lid on,” I said, but it was too late. A tsunami of pinkish drink spewed forth and sprayed over me and half the kitchen. Willow stayed clean except for a few drops. She poured the remaining blender contents into plastic cups, and we drank while we cleaned. The cabinets, the countertops, and the floor needed to be scrubbed. My shirt and the kitchen curtains got thrown in the washing machine.
    â€œYou can borrow one of Randy’s shirts,” Willow generously offered.
    I waded through the mess of his bedroom, feeling slightly guilty at the idea of violating his personal space. The top drawer of his dresser held socks and underwear. I shut it and yanked open the second drawer. I froze. Jesus.
    The second drawer of Randy’s dresser was filled—completely stuffed—with marijuana. I actually touched it, to confirm it wasn’t some sort of bizarre hallucination brought on by my liquid lunch. I stared at it, expecting to realize the ridiculous mistake I’d made. But the marijuana didn’t metamorphosize into a pile of T-shirts. It was one hundred percent real.
    What the hell was Randy doing with this much marijuana? Was he planning the mother of all parties, a party that he hadn’t yet bothered to