Ferocity Summer Read Free

hands through his hair.
    â€œI just keep thinking that if I could get my hands on enough money, I could buy myself a new life and just make all the bad shit go away.”
    â€œThat’s easy for you to say,” I said. “You were born rich.”
    â€œNot rich enough. Oh, fuck you, Scilla. Upper middle class is something short of wealthy.”
    â€œIs Tigue rich enough?” I was still facing the window and my voice had grown very quiet. Randy didn’t say anything at first. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me.
    â€œMaybe,” Randy said. “Maybe. So, what do you guys think about August?”
    I turned back toward Randy. “Willow and I have an unspoken agreement not to talk about the matter.”
    â€œWell, that’s very fucking mature.”
    â€œFuck you , Randy.”
    â€œI’ll take you home.”
    As we sped toward home in silence, it occurred to me that I should ask Randy more about that girl at his school, the one who died, but I never did. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had. Maybe life just plays itself out however it wants to. I’ve kind of got this obsession with analyzing my past mistakes to see what I could have done
differently to change things, but sometimes I feel like fate is just too powerful a force, that it would make everything the way it wanted it anyway, no matter what I did. Then again, maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better so that I don’t have to take any responsibility.

Later in May
    W illow and I lived on Cherry Blossom Lake, in a town filled with lakes in a part of New Jersey filled with lakes and trees and cows and not much else. There’d been a time when Cherry Blossom Lake was a swank resort area, but that time was long gone. On one end of the lake were folks like me, poor slobs who lived in tiny, castoff vacation homes. On the other end of the lake lived the Jenkinses and their ilk, in their newer mini-mansions with their wall-to-wall carpeting and garage-door openers.
    â€œYou’re not even dressed,” I said. I walked through the back door of Willow’s house only to find my ride looking like she’d just stumbled out of bed.
    â€œThis is high school,” she said. “What the hell do you need to get dressed for? I think a dirty T-shirt and old cut-offs are perfect attire.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you washed your hair?”
    â€œWeeks ago. Months. Who cares?”
    That, perhaps in a nutshell, was Willow. Or not a
nutshell, because who could imagine Willow cooped up in a little nutshell? She would never last a second in a nutshell. She would break out immediately.
    â€œYou have breakfast?” she asked.
    â€œWe’ll be late.”
    â€œLike I said, it’s high school.”
    Willow began to rummage through the refrigerator, a fancy stainless steel model with the side-by-side doors. She grabbed a carton of Tropicana Pure Premium. I thought of my own fridge, seventies harvest-gold. The few items on its bare shelves were all of the caca-brand persuasion. “It all tastes the same,” my mother insisted.
    Willow opened several different cabinets before coming up with a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. “Screwdrivers?”
    â€œWhy not? Like you said, it’s high school.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit.”
    She took out two tall glasses and filled them nearly half full with vodka.
    â€œWe’ll be drunk before we even get there,” I said.
    â€œThat’s the point.”
    Willow dumped in some orange juice for good measure. She handed one glass to me and picked up one herself.
    â€œTo summer,” Willow proposed. “Which is less than a month away.”
    â€œTo summer,” I agreed.
    We drank. I coughed, momentarily stunned by the high percentage of alcohol, then drank down the rest of the drink much too quickly. I remembered reading somewhere that screwdrivers got their name because it was mechanics