Read Littlejohn for Free Online Page B

parking lot, here come Tony Linhart and Kyle Waters in Tony’s new red Sunbird his dad bought for him; bastard’s so rich there ought to be a law. And they’ve both passed out of exams, so they have the day off.
    “Goin’ up to Washpon,” Kyle says. “Want to come along?”
    I guess I’m easily led. Washpon is this lake at the bottom of the Blue Ridge, where everybody from Montclair goes to party. I got in, and English was history.
    I forged the grade to a D and got Mom to sign the report card just before she left, and I swear I had every intention of signing up for summer school and having the whole thing straightened out by the time Mom got back.
    But then Marcia and I went over to the university two days after Mom left to find this guy we hoped would sell us an ounce. He works in the campus bookstore, and I wanted to find out when he’d be home, so I could come around. While I was waiting for him to take care of a couple of customers, I saw this pair of shades on the rack about halfway down the aisle that I really needed. We’d been doing a little lifting here and there, and it had gotten so it almost seemed like they must know we were doing it, we were so obvious. So, I slipped these shades off their little holder and into the big pocket of my Army surplus jacket. Marcia was standing next to me. She’s a fox, blond page-boy cut, bedroom eyes, body that won’t quit, real tough for fourteen. All of a sudden, there’s this old guy I’ve never seen before, short hair and a white shirt with sweat stains under both arms, clip-on tie, a real dork, and he’s saying, like, come with me, please, except he doesn’t say please the way somebody does whenthey’re asking. The way he says it, “please” translates as “or I’ll break your arm.”
    He also hustles Marcia along, and she’s cussing the guy, telling him to get his goddamn hands off her. He takes us into a room at the back of the store, and there’s this closed-circuit TV where he can see the whole store. He just sits there all day, I guess. Like maybe he gets a bounty for every desperado he brings in.
    I’ve got to tell you, I kind of lose it. I beg him not to arrest me, tell him my mom is at Sloan-Kettering in New York being treated for cancer. Marcia cuts me a look, like, what the hell is Sloan-Kettering and where did you dig that one up? He makes us both sweat, insists that Marcia is in on it, too, for about thirty minutes. Then he tells us he’s going to give us a break, but somehow, looking at this guy, I don’t think this is going to be quite as good as winning the lottery. He won’t have us arrested, he says, but he insists that we both bring our parents in so he can talk with them about our little crime spree. I tell him, again, that my mom isn’t home, and that my dad is out of the state. Who am I staying with? he asks. When I tell him, he tells me I’ll have to bring the Carlsons in. He has our names and addresses by this time, and he’s checked the phone book to make sure we’re not shucking him, so we’re caught.
    I really feel bad for Marcia, because she’s got to face both parents and deal with this right now, and her folks are so tight they squeak. They will ground her until she graduates and forbid her to see me until she’s like fifty. I also feel bad because I’ve begged and whimpered in front of my girl, in addition to getting her into more trouble than she thinks she can handle right now. I also am not looking forward to tellingthe Carlsons that their house guest for the next six weeks is an apprehended if not convicted shoplifter. Christ, at that point they didn’t even know they had to help me register for summer school because I didn’t really pass English.
    So, faced with a future of being straightened out at Fork Union after being ostracized by polite society and, much worse, Marcia and all her living relatives, I split. I went home that same Thursday afternoon, packed everything I thought I could carry in my