This Is Where I Leave You

alone. Like when I mess up now, he won’t be there to help me.”
    “I guess we’re officially adults now.”
    “Fuck that,” Phillip says, taking an extra-long pull on the joint. He blows out a perfect ring and then blows a jet of smoke through it. When it comes to worthless frat-boy skills, Phillip is second to none. He can light a match with his thumbnail, open a beer bottle with his teeth, flip a cigarette from the carton to his mouth with a flick of his wrist, play the William Tell overture by flicking his fingers against the soft underside of his jaw, burp the national anthem, fart on cue, and dislocate his shoulder upon request.
    “Do you think maybe that’s why you’re with Tracy?” I say. “Because you want to know there’s someone looking after you?”
    Phillip lazily passes me the joint. “I don’t know, but I like that theory much better than the one that postulates I’m trying to sleep with Mom.”
    The door to the classroom flies open. “What the hell?” Paul says.
    “Oh. Christ.”
    “In or out,” I say.
    “I should have known.” He steps into the room, closing the door behind him.
    “We learned from the master,” Phillip says.
    “Give it here.” Paul takes a drag and sits down in one of the chairs.
    “Damn! That is some strong shit. Where’d you get it?”
    “Dad,” I say, indicating the blazer. “A gift from the beyond.”
    “I wouldn’t have pegged Dad for a fan of the weed.”
    “People can change,” Phillip says.
    “People are who they are,” Paul says, leaning back in his little chair to take another generous drag. “I really miss him,” he says.
    “Me too,” I say.
    “Me three.” Phillip.
    A ray of sunlight comes through the window, passing through the thick cloud of ganja smoke in a way that makes you think of God and heaven, and we sit there getting baked in our skullcaps and prayer shawls, three lost brothers in mourning, the full impact of their loss only now beginning to dawn on them.
    “I love you guys,” Phillip says, just as the smoke alarm goes off and the sprinklers come on.

    10:25 a.m.
    Fortunately, the sprinklers in the sanctuary are in a different zone and must be set off independently, so the worshippers do not get soaked 200as they evacuate the building. In the classroom, though, the water rains down on us as Phillip grabs what’s left of the joint, still lit, and swallows it whole, with the confidence of someone for whom joint swallowing is a routine practice. The sprinklers have also been activated in the hallway, and we run through the indoor storm, stopping at the fi re doors that lead to the lobby area. Peering through the narrow vertical windows of the door, we can see the crowd moving through the lobby and out the glass doors to the synagogue’s front lawn.
    “Just act casual,” Paul says. “Blend in.”
    It seems easy enough, only because we’re too stoned to realize that three men dripping in their suits might stand out. The air-conditioning is cold against my wet clothes. We discard our soaked prayer shawls and join the crowd moving out the doors and soon find ourselves standing in the parking lot, being warmed by the late morning sun.
    “What did you do!” my mother shouts, her heels clattering on the asphalt as she storms over to us. Wendy follows behind her, enjoying every second of it.
    “Nothing,” Phillip says. “It was a false alarm.”
    “Look at the three of you!”
    “You guys smell like a dorm room,” Wendy says, wrinkling up her nose.
    “You got high at temple?” Mom says, outraged.
    “Of course not.” Paul.
    “No.” Me.
    “Who’s hungry?” Phillip.
    In the distance, we can hear the wail of the fi re trucks.
    “Ah, shit,” Paul says.
    Mom leans against a car, exasperated. “I blame myself.”
    “That’s a relief,” I say. “Now can we get out of here?”
    But just then Boner emerges from the crowd and comes striding purposefully over to us, brow furrowed, face flushed with anger. “What the hell, Paul?” he demands.
    Paul shrugs. “False alarm, I guess.”
    “And you three are the only ones who got wet.”
    “It’s been that kind of week,” I say.
    Boner steps right up into Paul’s face. “I smell weed.”
    “You would know.”
    The two childhood friends stare each other down for a moment and then look away. The rules have changed. Boner sighs. “You guys should get out of here before the cops show up.”
    “That’s a great idea,” Wendy says. “Come on, Mom. I’ll