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for so long. 
    Clay looks over at me, and stares hard into my eyes at a red light.  “It’s not funny, man.” He punches me in the shoulder.   “Just kidding,   brah.  The cast’s ready to come off.  My arm’s good as new under here.  Hey, where do you live?”
    “Haiku Village.”  Fuck.
                    “You got a saw there?”
                    “I think so… why?  You   gonna   hack me up?”
                    He holds up his cast as he takes a corner really fast.  “Where’s that joint?”
                    I hand him the joint.  It’s pathetic, sort of like a skinny worm.
                    Clay looks at it and laughs, then lights it up.  He takes a big hit and exhales.  It fills the cabin with yellowish haze, lit by the sunlight, and streaming out his open window.  He drives like a fucking maniac, passing cars on the wrong side, double the speed limit.  It’s sexy.
                    He hands me the joint, half-gone.
    “I’m dying to surf.  I’ve been tying plastic bags around this thing with rubber bands, but it gets soggy and sick-ass rank.”
                    “Turn left here.” 
    Please don’t be home, Mom and Dad.  Do me this one favor, if you ever do me one again.   I secretly hold my hands together and pray to   Kamehameha’s   spirit or whatever to make them leave if they’re home or stay gone for hours if they aren’t.  I hope there’s nothing embarrassing lying around my house.    Oh, fuck.   My bedroom floor’s covered with stuffed animals and the phone book’s lying open to 808 Skate.  He’ll think I’m a stalker out to invade his life with baby food and stuffed giraffes. 
    We pull into Haiku Village.  The iron letters are inset into two stone walls that mark the entrance to my neighborhood. “Turn here.”
                    He turns hard, almost making a screech, and speeds up to 45, which seems really fast in my boring neighborhood.  There’s not much room for rebellion in the confines of rows of houses, only built in about 10 different models from the late ‘70s.  We approach my house. 
    My heart rate speeds up and my hands start to sweat.  “That’s my house right there.”  I point to it.  My voice cracked like when I had to give a speech at school.  Fuck. I’ve done it.  I’ve made myself real.
                    He’s going to see it all:  my boring fucking life, my lame room, my stupid house, the meaninglessness of my existence.  I have to get out of this.  I could say my parents beat me and he’s not allowed inside.  I could say I have severe dyslexia or amnesia and I can’t remember where I live.
                    “What’s wrong?”
                    “Oh, it’s just... my parents suck.  We should hurry before they get home.”
                    He pulls in the driveway, which I know will piss Mom off if she comes home and doesn’t have her parking space, but I don’t want to tell him not to. 
    I get out, holding my backpack, and Clay follows me up to the house.  I try the front door knob and check my pocket.  “Oh, fuck.  I don’t have my key.  Hold on.”  I run around to my window.  “Please.  Please be unlocked.”  I reach up and slide it open.  “Yes!”  I climb in and jump from my bed to the floor.  I throw my sheets over the bed and try to hide the dumb stuffed animals.  I look at myself in the mirror and   unstrap   my pack and throw it on my bed.  I frantically take my shirt off and dry my armpits with it.  I throw it down and grab another one, shake it out, and pull it on, then I stack up my haikus, which are scattered all over the floor, and throw them on my little boy desk.  I run down the hall and fling the front door open.  I feel stupid, like I should say “welcome” or something.  Clay’s standing there all