Puffy eyes, cigarette smoke, dusty kitchens, ice. Oh ice. Oh baby. Being 13 and watching Ricky get tossed into a dumpster. That was when his friends were still his friends, before they watched him get pummeled. Before they let him get a swift kick to the left eye. They tried helping though, but no one got it as bad as Ricky.
“You’re good,” he told me later that week, black eye bulging. “Too good to be friends with us.” He was living with his girlfriend and she was cheating on him with his friends, their brothers, her neighbors. He got kicked out of his house for smoking too much weed, for drinking too much. I was reading Salinger.
Fuck, we were 13.
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