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convertible with the door open. I try not to stare at the tattoo on her stomach — a mushroom with a dazed-looking elf on top of it.
    I point at the door. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be helping you.”
    “And you would, too, if I was the spaz.”
    It’s funny how different that sounds when Colleen says it; it’s not so much a name as a fact. Or maybe coming from her, it isn’t like the brickbat people usually hurl at me.
    I turn sideways, fall back into the seat, and haul my gimpy leg in as Colleen walks around to her side. The tiny skeletons hanging from both ears dance.
    She turns the engine over and glances at me. “You okay?”
    I reach for the ratty-looking seat belt. “Yeah.”
    “I was going to suggest we rob a bank, but you’re not exactly up for the quick getaway.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Cool hair, by the way.”
    “My grandma hates it.”
    “Isn’t that the point?”
    We park on San Pasqual Avenue, walk half a block or so, then turn into the campus. The first girl we pass has broccoli-green hair and a T-shirt with Black Uhuru on it.
    “I know her,” Colleen says. “I sold her some dope.” Then she puts her hand on my arm. “Speaking of dope, is anybody around?”
    “Not really. Why?”
    Her right hand dives into her purse and comes up with what is almost for sure the dead end of a joint.
    “You’re not going to smoke that, are you?”
    “I thought I might.”
    “Somebody might see.”
    “That’s why I asked you if there was anybody around!” She leads me to a bench, fires up her yellow Bic, takes a hit, then offers the joint to me.
    “Are you kidding?”
    “Don’t tell me you never wanted to.”
    I glance around warily. “I don’t even know how to smoke a regular cigarette.”
    “Sip at it. And let some air in to, like, water it down.”
    I take the joint from her. “If I cough, don’t laugh at me.”
    “I can’t believe you’re such a lightweight.”
    “I’ve led a sheltered life.”
    I inhale just a little.
    “Hold it in,” Colleen advises. “And don’t talk for a minute.”
    I settle back, or try to settle back. When I saw
Reefer Madness,
half the people in the audience were stoned and except for a big concession stand run on Hershey’s Kisses, they seemed none the worse for it. So I am pretty sure I’m not going to climb the bell tower just to get closer to the planets that are sending me coded messages. Still, this isn’t like me. I study, I go to the movies, I play cards with my grandma.
    When Colleen nods, I exhale.
    “Well?” she says.
    “Wow.”
    “Ed always has really good shit.”
    I lean toward her. “Should we do it again?”
    “If you don’t mind being late to the movie.”
    When she holds out her hand to help me up, I take it. While we walk, she links her arm through mine. My good one.
    “Are we strolling, do you think?”
    She laughs. “What?”
    “I don’t feel so clumsy. And I’ve always wanted to stroll. Man, why didn’t my physical therapist tell me about this stuff?” All of a sudden, I stop. “Listen to that?”
    “What, the air conditioning?”
    “Dad used to say it was the sound of people thinking.” I point. “There’s the library where he worked. Did I tell you I think he killed himself?”
    “I heard he drove off Angeles Crest.”
    “Maybe on purpose. He was really unhappy.”
    “After your mom split.”
    “And before. When they’d argue, I’d hear stuff.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like Mom would say, ‘I can’t live like this. I try. I even want to, but I can’t.’”
    “What couldn’t she live like?”
    That’s a good question.
    “Who knows? Maybe Grandma’s right and Mom was just unstable, because sometimes she was really fun. Other times she would just, like, go to her room. It was always Grandma who drove me to therapy and pretty much took care of me.”
    By this time we’re right beside Kennedy Hall. Marcie’s classroom is on the first floor, but before we go in, I stop Colleen.
    “That