Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin Page B

stupid.
    We work on our own songs and practice covers from any band we can think of. On our break, we drink the beers Roy scored from his dad. Glenn goes back to trying to spray paint tits. He’s on his third pair when Roy interrupts him.
    “Gimme that,” Roy says, pointing to the can of spray paint.
    “Just wait, I’m almost done,” Glenn said. Roy snatches it anyway.
    “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
    “Watch.” Roy pulls a rag out of his pocket, sprays it and drops the whole thing into a plastic bag. He holds the bag over his mouth and nose, sucks in the fumes, and gets this shit-eating grin on his face.
    “Oh man oh man oh man!” He holds out the bag.
    I don’t let myself even think; if Roy can do it, I can. I grab the spray paint and do exactly what he did. My mouth floods with a chemical taste then, BAM!! My heart jumps right out of my chest and I swear my whole brain slams into the back my skull.
    “SHIT!” I manage.
    “Yeah.” Roy laughs. “Huffing, dude. Huffing. Punks do it all over in England.”
    “I want to,” says Glenn. Roy sprays the shirt again. Glenn huffs. He whoops. We turn to Craig.
    “Nah, that’s okay.”
    “Chicken?” Roy says. Craig stares for a second, then slowly reaches for the bag. We watch as he huffs.
    “Dude, that was bogus,” I tell him. “Do it again.”
    “Nah, that’s all right.”
    “Pussy,” Glenn says. Craig shakes his head no.
    “You can die from that shit, man. I saw it on a TV program.”
    “You can die from life, dude,” I say, and huff again.
    We start getting gigs! They aren’t much, just some other bands that let us play a set at a yard party here and there. People have yard parties all the time now, all over the Inland Empire, down in Orange County, out in Venice. Punk Rock is coming into its own. It’s not the Punk the British have; our Punks aren’t poor. In America, it’s the middle class that’s messed up. Before Punk, we had nothing but greed and hypocrisy. Now we got a way to fight back, say who we are, stand out.
    I start pegging my jeans real tight. I buy a plaid shirt from the Salvation Army and sneak my dad’s engineer boots from the back of his closet. Kids at school try to make fun of me, but I don’t even listen. I don’t listen to anything I don’t want to hear. I don’t care that there’s only one other Punk in my grade. This is not about popularity; I’m just being who I am. I’m tired of faking it. I’m tired of wasting time worrying about somebody else’s bullshit. We’re all gonna die sooner or later—more likely, sooner, so who cares? The world is in chaos . I know this. I don’t need shit from anybody. I do my music. I make my own chances.
    That’s Punk.
    Friday, as usual, I trek over to Roy’s. Time for some R and R.
    “Went up to see his mom,” his dad tells me. “Chowchilla. It’s her birthday.”
    “Oh. Thanks.” I stand there hoping he’ll at least offer me a beer, like usual, but when a woman pokes her head around the corner, he grins and closes the door.
    Great. Here I am, all the way out at the stupid trailer park, needing to relax and no way to do it. My parents are home and Glenn’s not available. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I truck over to the liquor store and wait to see if there might be somebody who’d buy. No luck. The only customers that come in look like they’d just steal my cash. Should I go to the motel? Alone? Stupid idea. But, hey, wouldn’t be my first.
    The Mexican guy waves me in. I pay, he lays out the NEB. I chop it myself, then snort, close my eyes, and sink down into the chair. What seems like seconds later, the guy calls out.
    “Hey. Come rub my legs, mijo .” He pats the couch cushion next to him. “I got bad pain.”
    “Your momma,” I slur, nodding off.
    “I give you free, today.” I open my eyes; he’s standing directly in front of me. He leans down and ruffles my hair. “One little rub, mijo .”
    I try to push myself up and out of the