Page 36 of Privilege
“World peace,” I answer.
That’s what I told Evelyn when she asked me, the last time I was here. At least I’m consistent.
“Rich,” Cara says, her voice low.
I know that tone. Thatwe have talked about this before and agreed on how to handle ittone that girlfriends pull on their men. Clearly they’ve been talking about me.
They stare at each other for a few moments, before he runs his hands through his hair and blows out a long breath.
“Fine,” he says. Then he angles his head towards the doors. “We’re going to smoke a joint.”
“Care to join?” Cara asks. She stands up and takes his hand, her rumpled tank top and cotton sleep shorts are riding up her thighs.
I smirk. “Join what, exactly?”
Nobody says anything, and the words hover in the air amongst the three of us. Rich shifts his weight from foot to foot, Cara claps and unclasps her hands tightly together, and none of us make eye contact.
This wasn’t supposed to be a trick question.
“It’s California weed,” she says, an answer to nobody’s question. “New York State may have many qualities, but quality weed ain’t it.”
“Where did you get California weed?” I ask her.
“Lyle,” she and Rich say at the same time.
“Lyle is still alive? Figure he’d have tied his shoes together and tripped on the streetcar tracks by now.”
Rich snorts, but covers it up by clearing his throat.
“What’s his major?” I ask, morbidly curious.
Cara shrugs. “STI’s, I think.”
Rich pulls her into his bare chest, which is shaking from laughter, and kisses the top of her head, eyes on me.
“Want to join us?” he says. He doesn’t sound thrilled aboutthe prospect.
I bow with a flourish, for them to lead the way, and follow them out the door, down the porch steps, and over to the gaudy fountain I’ve always loathed. Rich pulls out a dimebag and some papers from his pocket—do not stare at his crotch, do not stare at his crotch—and to my surprise, hands them to Cara.
She sprinkles some green along the middle of the paper, rolls and licks the joint all in one swift, well-practiced motion, and perches it between her teeth.
"Either of you have a lighter?” she asks.
Rich feels his pockets but his brow furrows. I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out my zippo. She nods so I spark it, and she leans forward into the flame, the orange glow casting her beautiful freckled face in light for a split second. She inhales deeply, and blows it out against the dark sky, before passing it to Rich.
I blink a little, suddenly reminded that we’re not alone. Rich pulls on the joint while staring at me, his face half in shadow and wholly unreadable.
“This takes me back,” I mutter, when he holds it out for me.
He pauses, and for a split second I think he’s going to throw it in my face, but he just shakes it once, likehurry up.
Our fingers brush when I take it from him. I’m still thinking about the buzzing in my hand when I bring it to my lips, pull on it way too hard, and start to cough.
“What, you’re a lightweight now?” Rich asks, not unkindly.
I keep coughing, my eyes watering, but the tears aren’t quite enough to blur out Cara’s face. She’s taking it all in, gaze tracking my hand to my mouth to Rich, watching him watch me, and me watch her.
Her expression changes. It’s slow, and subtle, but she may as well have a neon sign over her head that says,is what I think is happening actually happening?
