weird friendship was between us, and I lived for our rambling lunchtime conversations, our study sessions at the library, and, most of all, these nights.
“What about Ragweed?” I said. “Because I’m such a bitch, and you . . . well, you know.”
Tig shook his head. He didn’t get it.
“Like, I’m always on the rag and you’re always on the weed.”
Tig laughed so hard he snorted. “You don’t go on the weed.”
“I know,” I said wisely. “You do a weed,” and I thought he might bust something. I loved making him laugh, and the farther we got from my house, the lighter I felt. The joint helped, too, so I had another puff off it.
“Ragweed. You and me,” he said, when he could talk again. “Perfect. Especially since the whole damn school is allergic to us.”
I grinned, because it was so true. We were outliers, defaulted into friends because I was fat and he was poor. No one else was either one of those things. Not at Brighton. There were a couple of chunky girls, one podgy boy, but I was the biggest human in the school. Maybe even bigger than the secretary with the huge, mothery boobs and the wig. She was Nana-aged, so no one cared if she was fat. They didn’t even care if she was breathing. She sometimes passed me Starlight Mints, sad eyes downtilted as if to say she understood that we were the same, and I hated her so much in those moments. I took the fucking mints, though.
Tig was actually, really poor, the only full-scholarship kid in the whole school. Every other scholarship was partial, doled out to a few kids with middle-class parents and 4.0s. Tig’s ex-stepdad owned Vintage Wheels, a garage where a clique of Brighton’s major power dads rebuilt classic cars for fun. The ex-step had brought Tig, who was a certified genius, to their attention. Tig took the scholarship, but he didn’t really embed. He walked the halls alone. He read smart-kid books—Brave New World, Cosmos, The Jungle—but he didn’t sit with the smart kids.
Before Tig I’d sat with them, anchored by the desperate friendship of Peg, the second-fattest girl. She’d liked hiding her body in the wider shade of mine, making me fat camouflage, but she’d never once called me up to see a movie on the weekend. Still, I couldn’t have done what Tig did before he had me, just plop down alone at a small corner table, reading while he methodically ate every scrap of food on his school lunch tray. I envied his metabolism. It didn’t occur to me that the free lunch the school gave him was most of what he got to eat on any given day.
I passed the joint, then braked as we got to the railroad tracks. We were out of my neighborhood now, into undeveloped land. Loblolly pines rose high all around us. I lumped us over the tracks, slow and careful.
Tig said, “Pussy move, Smiff,” but with no rancor. He liked to speed up and try to get a jump off, though most of the time he only jarred us so hard it rattled my teeth. Once or twice, though, it had really felt like he’d gotten his muscly steel monster airborne. I was scared to try it. What if I did it wrong? I’d scrape the muffler clean off.
As I turned onto the dirt road, Tig took another huge drag, then carefully tamped out the half joint and left it in the ashtray. He started digging in the bag, hunting meat. He came up with a sandwich.
“Oh, yeah, Smiffy, you are God.”
“You’re welcome,” I intoned, Godlike, and Tig snorted.
He flipped on his radio. It was set for 101.5, which was alt-rock and old-school. He had every button on his car radio set there, because he said it was the only station worth a preset. A solid three weeks back, I’d changed all the button settings to a fluffy pop station he would hate, but he had never punched one to notice. I was tired of waiting, so I did it for him. Morrissey cut off mid-dirge, and there was MC Hammer, making whoa-whoa noises.
He punched button four, button two; it stayed MC.
“Smiff, you total asshole,” he said, so fondly that I flushed.
He fished the ham out of his sandwich, dandling it over his face like a pink meat rag. He sang the duh-nuh-nuhs along with the music, but at the end he said, “Ham Time!” and snapped at it