Clay's Way Read Free

a strong connection, like something just clicked that’s been missing my whole life. Clay stares at me, then stops moving for a second.  He’s like a rare captive reptile in a glass tank.  I want to free him.
    I want to kiss him.
    “No worries, brah.”  He stands back up and holds out his hand to shake.  “I’m Clay.”
                  I jump up like an over eager dork, practically throwing my hand at him, but our hands sort of fumble against each other because he does some kind of complicated cool-boy surfer handshake.  I have no idea how to do it, even though I’ve seen guys do it all my life. 
                  “I’m Jared.” 
                  Clay and I look over at Jared. 
                  Jared reaches his hand out to Clay and does the whole routine perfectly.  Then he looks at me like he’s cool Asian boy or something, which he’s not.
                  “How much you guys interested in?”
                  I look at Jared, whose face is blanker than I’ve ever seen it.  He doesn’t even know the proper measurements to say.
                  “Not much,” I say. “Like, maybe enough for a couple joints.”
                  Clay laughs.  “I’ll smoke a joint with you guys.”  He pulls out this little  BACK IN  sign that’s a clock with the circled ‘A’ for anarchy drawn in the face. He sets the plastic clock hand to 15 minutes.
                  I was hoping he’d set it to four hours or maybe there’s a switch you can flip to make it say  ETERNITY , and make everyone else freeze so we could be alone together.  I’d be the only human left moving, so he’d have to like me.

Chapter 2

    Monster waves
    Back on his surfboard
    Local boy flies.

                  We follow Clay out the back door through the dark storeroom filled with stacks of skate decks.  He smells like a mixture of saltwater, sweat, and trees. 
                  We go through the back door out into a closed-off alley with a couple dumpsters and a  NO PARKING  sign covered with so many skate stickers you can’t see the yellow.  The gnarly ripped up asphalt is littered with cigarette butts. An old couch with a couple issues of  Surfer  magazine on it props open the back door.
                  Clay tries to reach into his pocket with his casted arm.  It’s hard for him to twist his shoulder in the right direction to wedge his hand in.  He finally brings out a film canister of weed and some rolling papers.  I zone out watching him as he rolls a joint like an expert.
                  He holds the joint up to my mouth.
I can’t breathe.
Don’t panic. You have to calm down.
    I take it between my lips.
                  He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and lights me up.
                  I take a big hit and start coughing.  I feel really stupid, but I can’t help it.  It’s stronger pot than I’ve ever smoked.  I pass the joint back to Clay.  Our hands rub up against each other as I let go of it. 
                  He takes a big hit.  His chest puffs out as he holds it in.  He leans back and his T-shirt rides up on his stomach.
                  My eyes are pulled to his bare skin.  It’s smooth and tan, and there’s a thin trail of hair from his bellybutton to the waistband of his boxers. 
                  Clay looks down to his stomach where I’m staring, then up to me, like he felt my eyes on his skin.
                  Jared reaches for the joint. Clay gives it to him.  He takes a huge hit and winds up coughing worse than I did.
                  Clay looks stoned.  His face softens and his eyes turn slightly pink.  An alligator smirk curls his lips up a little.  He looks back at me, then down my torso. 
                  I focus my