Body Surfing

the bar, duh). Byway of greeting, Q. wrapped Jasper in a headlock and pulled him through the sliding glass doors into the backyard. They stumbled past the steaming pool and the vibrating Playhouse toward a neglected-looking swing set. Before Jasper could say anything, his friend pulled out a bottle of—Scotch? yeah, Scotch—and held it out to Jasper. Q.’s hand quivered, though Jasper didn’t think it was from drunkenness. Preternaturally calm Mohammed Qusay Jr., insulated from the banal troubles of adolescence by a bottomless reservoir of wealth, good looks, and charm, actually seemed nervous—worried even—though it didn’t make up for the fact that he’d been acting like a complete asshole lately.
    “You know,” Jasper said, waving the bottle away, “you’ve been kind of a jerk the last couple-a days.”
    “Jesus Christ, honey, I’m not asking for sex. I’m just offering you a drink.”
    For the past week, Q. had shown up drunk to school, picked fights with jocks, grabbed random girls’ asses, and graffitied just about every locker and stall door he passed—in Farsi no less, although fuck if he’d tell anyone what he’d written. On Thursday he actually brought a flask to school, pulled out a book of matches in third period and tried to light his burps on fire. Mrs. Rinaldi, the geriatric (and generally oblivious) human sexuality instructor, had been forced to take notice. By rights she should have sent Q. to the principal’s office, but that would have meant certain expulsion. Rather than hang him out to dry, Mrs. Rinaldi merely gave Q. detention. Anybody in his right mind would have counted his blessings, but apparently Q. wasn’t in his right mind. Instead he stole a Bunsen burner from chem lab. Hapless Buckwheat Johansen had been the peer monitor that afternoon, and as soon as Mrs. Rinaldi waddled off to her Neon, Q. unscrewed the burner’s lid and poured its contents all over Buckwheat’s shirt, then stood over him smoking one of his dad’s Montecristos. Q. had threatened Buckwheat with an even worse fate if the boy told on him, but the story had made its way through the student body with the speed of a flash fire.
    “Oh come on,” Q. said. “Have a fucking drink. We’re celebrating.”
    “Celebrating what? The fact that Buckwheat got away with nothing more than an alcohol rash?”
    “Sure,” Q. shrugged, “if you think that’s worth celebrating.” He took a drink. “And the conclusion of four years of high school mendacity.” He took another drink. “And” —speaking over Jasper’s opened mouth—“an end to the insanity. For I have seen the light and am about to return to my old, placid, rule-abiding self.”
    “About to? When might that be?”
    “Soon. Very soon. But not in the middle of a party, retard.”
    Jasper glanced at the bottle. It had been a long week, full of finals and devoid of college acceptance letters, not to mention sex.
    “I don’t really like Scotch.”
    “This is not just Scotch. This is an Islay single malt of the rarest appellation, filched directly from Mohammed Qusay Sr.’s panic room.”
    “Aren’t Muslims supposed to eschew alcohol?”
    Q. waved the notion away. “The vagaries of religion are beyond me, but I’m pretty sure the Quran provides dispensation for quality beverages. And this, my friend, is quality with a capital Q. If I do say so myself.” Q.’s teeth flashed in the light glinting off the pool. “It cost the Sheik six hundred bucks.”
    “I’m a redneck, remember? I’m sure I couldn’t tell it from Wild Turkey.”
    “Well, in that case.” Q. reached into his bag and pulled out two plastic soda bottles. “Wanna Fanta? Or do you prefer a more healthful Gatorade?”
    “My friend, you are profane.”
    The cocktail tasted sort of like cough syrup—or syrup that made you cough. It was sweet and sharp at once, so fiery as it burned its way down Jasper’s throat that he could feel it moving into him like a demonic possession.
    “Well, I think that deserves a ‘shit.’” He took one more sip. “Shit.” He picked up the bottle, squinted at the label. “It’s pronounced ‘I-la’? I always thought it was ‘I-slay.’”
    “I slay, you slay, we all slay. Who the fuck cares how you say it, aslong as it does the trick?” As Q. drained his cup and tossed it into the rhododendrons, Jasper noticed a flash on his friend’s wrist.
    “Yo, what’s with the bling?”
    Q. held out his arm to Jasper. “A