Tags:
Fiction,
Romance,
YA),
Young Adult,
ya fiction,
Miami,
Relationships,
secrets,
drugs,
jail,
drug abuse,
narc,
narcotics,
drug deal
That must’ve been the kid I saw.
The sink was overflowing with Corona bottles. Beside it was a digital scale, a few crumpled twenties, and a coffee grinder flooded with the chewed-up remains of green leaves. Kryptonite. High-quality stuff. I knew all too well.
“Superman’s downfall,” said Morgan.
“Looks like we missed out,” I said. Obviously, someone was selling it. Not enough to warrant a bust, though, and I didn’t have a name. I needed to find who was supplying. In other words, who was the shot caller? The million-dollar question.
I glanced around the kitchen. “Where do they get it?”
“In the garage. Up in the ceiling,” she said. Not exactly the answer I wanted. “There’s more where that came from. Just like MTV Cribs,” she said, helping herself to another beer. “Breakfast of champions. Do you have something to open this with?”
“Sorry.”
“No worries.” She angled the bottle against the marble countertop and smacked it. The cap skittered across the floor and beer sloshed everywhere. “What can I get you? A hotdog bun? Some mayonnaise?”
“I guess Skully’s parents eat out a lot.”
“Her mom and dad? They don’t even live here,” she told me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They live next door.”
I must’ve looked confused because she burst out laughing. “There’s a little guest house thing where the nanny used to live—back when they had a nanny. Now they stay there. I mean, when they’re in town, which is almost never. And Skully and her brother have this huge place to herself. Except for her abuela. ”
“Her what?”
“Her grandma. She lives in the actual guest house. Takes out her hearing aid whenever Skully throws a party.”
Morgan grabbed a lime and crammed it into her bottle, stuffing it down with her thumb. “Once Skully’s older brothers moved out, the house got too big. At least, that’s what her parents said.”
“They must be doctors or lawyers or something.”
“Who knows?” she said. “I have no clue what they do. Oh, wait. I lied. On weekends they rent this place.”
“Like a hotel?”
“No. Like a location. All these fashion people take pictures for magazines here. You’ll see trailers parked out front and all these skinny-ass models prancing around like it’s the Playboy mansion or something. I helped out on a shoot once. Got to stand in the boiling sun for hours, holding a bounce card to reflect the light. My arms almost fell off.”
I couldn’t really imagine it. I mean, my mom could be a major pain in the ass. But who’d want to live all alone this big house?
“Sounds like fun,” I said, looking out the window. From there, the driveway almost seemed to glow.
“I’m going to major in art next year. Got my portfolio and everything,” she said.
“You’re going to do fashion photos and stuff?”
“Hell no. I’m not that superficial.”
“What kind of camera do you use?”
“I’m more into drawing than taking pictures. I know. When someone says ‘art’ these days, you automatically think ‘photography.’”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it. Get this. I don’t even own a camera. I just borrow my ex-boyfriend’s,” she said. “Have you picked a major yet?”
“What are you? My mom?”
Morgan flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get up in your business.”
“It’s okay.” Jeez. No wonder I was a social retard. I couldn’t even have a conversation with a girl without pissing her off. Only one thing to do now.
“Hey. Do you have any change?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look. “I’m not a vending machine.”
“You sure?” I said, pulling a nickel from her ear.
“Oh, my god. My perverted uncle used to get drunk and do shit like that,” she said. “Can you make it disappear?”
I put the nickel on the counter. Pressing down with my palm, I hid the coin between my knuckles, faking surprise when I flipped my hand over.
She giggled. “Are you going to pull it
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