Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part One
Page 15

“Because, Doc, questions lead to answers, and in this case, answers lead to bodies.” She gasped.
“Shit.” Her face paled.
“There’s that realization I was waiting for. I was wondering when that would happen. Took you long enough. But I’ll chalk up your slow reaction time to just waking up from a semi-coma. Remind me not to challenge you to a game of sudoku anytime soon.”
“Bodies?” she asked slowly, standing from the chair. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her back down.
“Well, body,” I corrected, “Just one, though. But you know, bodies sound better for dramatic effect and all that.” I took another gulp of juice. “So let’s just say that one of them is no longer available for shooting up in a dark alley, beating you to a pulp, stealing my plants, or long walks on the beach.” I set down the glass. “In the words of the oh-so-wise Taylor Swift,” I leaned across the table. “‘Never ever. Like ever.’”
“Eric? You killed Eric?” she asked, and I knew she was confirming that it wasn’t Conner, whatever false sense of loyalty she had toward the motherfucker was really pissing me off. Until I realized that was exactly who I’d killed.
Oops.
“Yep, it was totally Eric,” I agreed, shoving more pancakes into my mouth and trying not to gag.
“So he’s…”
“Dead? Oh yeah. Very dead.”
There was nothing readable about Dre’s expression, which was disappointing. I was looking forward to seeing her afraid. After all, I’d just admitted that I’d made good on my threat and had killed someone she knew, albeit not the person she’d wanted me to kill, but she didn’t know that.
To-ma-to, to-mah-to.
She was more out of it than I’d originally thought. “You killed him,” she said, slowly. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
I held up my index finger and my thumb, slowly closing the gap between them, peering over at Dre through the tiny slit that remained. “Little bit.”
“I don’t think you can kill someone a little bit.”
“Oh, well then, a lot a bit. I killed him a lot of bit.”
CHAPTER NINE
DRE

“So are you going to tell me now why you insisted on giving the Conner guy a pass?” Preppy asked, as I followed him into the back room of the house, where it looked like he was halfway done resetting up his operation. The other half of the room was still in shambles. Without being asked, I grabbed one end of the plastic tube he’d picked up and climbed the ladder on the other end of the room, setting it on the hooks. My robe fell open in the process and I quickly tied it back together, hoping Preppy hadn’t noticed. No such luck.
“What, it’s not like I haven’t seen you in your birthday suit already,” he said. “I did witness your solo nudist party when we met, remember?”
“Guess it doesn’t really matter,” I admitted. “I look like shit anyway.” I wasn’t saying that I was ugly. I was never a girl who lacked confidence. I was just stating the truth. Heroin isn’t exactly the drug of choice of models and pageant queens, and for good reason.
“Yep, you do look like shit,” Preppy agreed, smirking like he was keeping a secret only he knew.
“Then why do you keep looking?” I blurted, remembering his hardness against me on the water tower.
“Cause, maybe that’s what I’m into,” Preppy said, like it was nothing.
“Girls who look like shit?” I asked, not believing him in the least.
“Hey, some people like chicks with dicks, some people like to fuck dressed like Smurfs and painted blue. I look because you intrigue me, but I don’t have a fucking clue why. I’ll keep you posted, though.”
“Are you always this brutally honest?” I asked. Finding his statements both offensive and oddly refreshing.
“Yes and no. There are times when a lie can’t be helped. Honesty is a fickle bitch like that. I don’t believe in filtering, though. When you start walking on egg shells around people, that’s when you know that those are people you don’t need to be around. Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else. I’m just me. I say what I want to fucking say. I do what I want to do and I don’t fucking apologize for it.”
“I think I need to adapt that kind of honesty,” I admitted. “But I have a lot of apologizing to do.”
“You can start your trip down honesty lane by answering my original question and telling me why you gave that guy a pass.”
I sighed. “For now let’s just say that Conner is someone I hurt.” Oscar came running into the room, rubbing his head on Preppy’s leg. “The kind of hurt that can’t be fixed. That can’t be brushed over with an apology or flowers.”
“Must have been something real bad,” he pointed out, leaning down to pat Oscar on the head.
I looked to the floor then back up at Preppy. “It was,” I admitted, and like every time I thought about the event that lead up to me making bad decision, after bad decision, it was like I was bringing it back to life so it could stab me in the gut over and over again.
My thoughts quickly turned to using. The immediate euphoria. The relief from the guilt. Preppy cleared his throat.
I opened my eyes, although I didn’t remember closing them, to find that Preppy was now standing next to the open window, lighting a joint and leaning against the ledge. “Where’d you go there, Doc?” He took a long drag. “You thinking about hooking up with your lover? I’ll let you know that it’s probably not a good idea. That bitch heroin gets around and in the end, the break up is brutal, but she’ll never leave you, so you either dump her on the side of the road like a hitchhiking hooker, or you stay and she’ll kill you.”
“I know,” I said, needing to desperately change the subject. The thought of using too fresh on my mind. “This said by the man smoking weed.”
He held up the joint. “This shit won’t kill me. You don’t see anyone smoking weed and going on a murdering spree, or hitting a bong and going out to start a fight at a bar. Besides, weed’s not a drug. It’s a plant.” He picked up one of the glass bowls and shook the leaves.
“Is that what you tell yourself so you can tell people you don’t do drugs and actually believe it?”