Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,84
parents’ bedroom. Atlanta’s never done any of that and she figures it’s high time to start.
She envisions one of those parties where it’s wall-to-wall people, where the bass is booming and some cheerleader slut is doing body shots out on the back porch, where somehow the couch ends up on the lawn and by midnight the dang thing is on fire—burning bright, bringing the cops, woop-woop.
Thing is, Atlanta is Atlanta, which is to say she doesn’t have a helluva lot of friends, and so the “party” ends up being six people and her sitting around a small campfire, drinking peach schnapps and Yuengling beer. Oh, and one dog—Whitey snoozes at her feet. Sometimes on his back, showing his balls to the moon.
(Not exactly in fighting shape, this one.)
She invited Jenny. But no go. Jenny said she “doesn’t really like people anymore.” Which is a shame, though in the dark of her mind, Atlanta’s not so sure she’s wrong.
Well, whatever. Party’s on.
Guillermo holds up a baggie. By the orange firelight it almost looks like a bag of little candies, and at first she thinks that’s what it is because he announces, “Yo, I brought trail mix if anybody wants any.” Everyone gives him a look because that seems awfully pedestrian but it’s then he adds: “Not sure what’s in here. Got Vikes. Oxy. Perks. Ehhh.” He shakes the bag, peers into it. “Maybe some Vitamin R?”
Eddie Peters makes a “hmm” sound, and he hops off the folding chair and sets his beer down, then goes and lets Guy pour a pile of pills into his palm. With a finger he starts poking through. He holds up a little blue pill that looks like home plate at a baseball game. “Is this Viagra?”
Guy squints at it. “Think so, yo.”
“I so do not need a three-hour erection.” Eddie puts that one back, then fishes out what looks like a little lemon-flavored Pez block and pops it in his mouth. He dry-swallows and giggles. “The definition of irony: perks do not make you feel perky.”
Then he sits back, plucks his beer as if he’s plucking a flower from the earth, then takes a swig.
Shane leans over, whispers in Atlanta’s ear. “Should I try drugs?”
“What?” she asks, loud, maybe too loud. She lowers her voice. “Uh, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” The thought of Shane ramped up on Ritalin or gone goofy on Percocet is not an image she cares to parse. He’s already on a drug called Vitamin Shane. She snaps her fingers at Chomp-Chomp, who passes her the schnapps bottle, which she in turn passes to Shane. “Here, just drink this instead.”
He takes a drink, and when his mouth pulls away, the bottle makes a hollow ploomp sound. “Oh. That’s good.”
Suddenly, Kyle Clemons thrusts his head into the conversation. Literally. He pushes his head out like a turtle and inserts it into their tete-a-tete. “Hey. You guys watching Sherlock?”
Shane’s whole face lights up like an arcade machine struck by lightning. “Oh my god. Dude! The end of season two where you think Sherlock is—“
Atlanta clamps her hand over Shane’s mouth. “Kyle. Can I have a word with Shane for one hot minute?”
“Yeah. Sure. Okay.”
She forcibly turns Shane’s head back so he meets her nose-to-nose. “You don’t need to be doing drugs and you don’t need to be talking to Kyle right now.”
“But I like Kyle.”
“Do you think Kyle’s pretty?” she asks.
Shane makes a face like he just ate a spider. “What? No.”
“And do you think Damita over there is pretty?” she asks, pointing to Damita Martinez, who sits over there, talking to Eddie. She’s got a pretty face, if maybe a little too much makeup, and she’s got hips that go on for miles in those jeans of hers. “Well?”
“I… do.”
“Then you should go over and talk to her.”
Shane suddenly narrows his eyes. “Is this because we’re both Venezuelan?”
“No, it’s because she’s the only other girl here besides me and you need to get laid.” His eyes go wide. “Dang, fine, if not laid then third base. Or second. Or at least batting practice outside the dugout.”
Before Shane can say anything else Atlanta calls over to Damita. “Hey, Damita. C’mere.”
Eddie shoots her a look and says, “Rude,” but then he starts laughing and she figures it’s okay. Damita hops up and shakes that big booty over.
“Hey, girl,” Damita says.
“Damita, you ever meet my friend, Shane?”
Damita extends a hand with nails painted pink like bubble-gum, each rimmed with a ridge of crusty silver glitter. Shane