Body Surfing

pregraduation present from the Sheik. Patek Philippe. Sweet, huh?”
    The wide gold band hung casually on Q.’s wrist, yet had an air of importance about it. Gravitas. Money . Jasper looked at Q.’s face.
    “How much?”
    “You don’t wanna know.”
    “How much?”
    “Twenty-nine.”
    Jasper’s eyes bulged. “Hundred?”
    “Thousand.”
    Jasper tried to whistle but couldn’t. “Jesus Christ. Is it a watch or a religious icon? I feel like I should pray to it.”
    “Time is expensive, my friend. Time. Is. Expensive.” Q. tapped the Patek’s thick face. “Speaking of time. Tell me something, Jazz-man. What would you do if you knew you were out of it? If, say, you only had twenty-four hours to live?”
    I’d tell you never to call me Jazz-man again, Jasper thought. I’d pawn your watch and fly to Vegas. But something about the earnest tone in his friend’s voice kept him from joking. For whatever reason, a memory of his most recent fight with his dad flashed in his mind, and, somewhat sheepishly, he said, “I dunno. I guess I’d tell my dad I love him.”
    Q. blinked. Let his eyes stay closed. Pretended to fall off the swing. Really did fall off the swing. His lanky form lay stretched in the grassless furrow that Caitlin Reese’s Mary Janes had worn over the course of countless afternoons. Without bothering to open his eyes, he said, “Oh—my— God .”
    “Fuck you. What would you do?”
    Q. smirked, opened one eye. “I’d steal my old man’s Porsche and get Sila to blow me in the front seat, then drive it into a cliff at a hundred miles an hour.”
    Jasper forced a laugh. “You’d let Sila out first, though, right?”
    Q. shrugged. “Yeah, sure. And you? Come on, my man. Twenty-four hours. With whom would you spend your last day on earth?”
    Jasper didn’t answer immediately, but his thoughts weren’t hard to read.
    “Michaela, huh?”
    “Maybe she’ll finally take pity on me. When she finds out I’m dying.”
    “Uh uh. No pity fucks. You can’t tell her you’re gonna die.”
    “Whatever. Our one-year anniversary’s in a couple of weeks—”
    “You don’t have a couple of weeks!” Q.’s hand on Jasper’s ankle almost made him jump out of the swing. “You have to act now .” Q.’s skin was hot, his grip tight as a bear trap. But just as suddenly as he’d grabbed Jasper he let go. He stood up and hurled the half-empty bottle at the stockade fence. Three hundred dollars’ worth of Scotch made a sickle-shaped shadow on the slats. “Twenty-four hours. No more, and—” Q. actually looked at his $29,000 watch “—no less.”
    Q.’s face seemed feral, his teeth shiny, sharp, hungry . Jasper could imagine what he must have looked like when he stood over Buckwheat Johansen with that cigar. And the way he’d looked at his watch? As if Jasper really had twenty-four hours to live? How creepy was that?
    “Q., what the fuck? Tell me you aren’t about to go Columbine on me.”
    “Don’t make this about me. Answer the goddamn question.”
    Jasper stared at him blankly, then chugged the rest of his drink. “Whatever, dude. I see the asshole days aren’t over yet.”
    He started to walk inside, then stopped. Michaela stood in the doorway, staring at the boys with an uneasy expression. There was a clock over her head: 8:47. Its little pendulum swayed back and forth with hypnotic rhythm, and it was a moment before Jasper could look away. He started to walk toward the house, when Q. blocked his way.
    “What the fuck, Q.?” Jasper drew himself up to his full height. He and Q. had had plenty of scuffles during the course of their ten-year friendship, but they’d never actually thrown down. Q. was taller but Jasper was thicker, more of a weightlifter than his track-runningfriend. He stepped so close to Q. that their chests were nearly touching. Jasper could feel the heat coming off Q.’s body, smell the cloying mixture of Fanta and Scotch on his breath. “This is getting old. Now get out of my way.”
    Q. looked at Jasper sizing him up. “Gonna kick some A-rab ass, Jazz-man? Gonna finally give the ol’ towelhead what he’s got coming?”
    Jasper glanced at the door, saw Michaela still staring at him. Maybe it was the light behind her, outlining her body: her delicate neck, the thinness of her waist above the swell of hips, the hollow between her thighs. God, Jasper thought, she’s so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. He suddenly asked himself why in the hell he needed