Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Hecasuallyputsonefootdownonthepack,stompinglightly,alast-ditcheffort.IanxiouslywaitforhimtogetupandleavesoIcangetonwithmylifeandforgetthiswholenightmare.

           Buthisfootstopsonsomething.“Whatisthis?”heasks,tappingwithhisfoot.

           “Whatiswhat?”Isay.

           “There’sstillsomethinginhere.”Hepicksupthebagandstartsfeelingaroundthebottomofit.Formetheroomgetsfuzzy;everythinggoeswobbly.

           WhenIwasyoung,Iwassmart.Iwasfriendly.ButIwasalsoashithead.Imeanthatinthemostlovingwaypossible.Iwasarebellious,lyinglittleshithead.Angryandfullofresentment.WhenIwastwelve,Ihackedmyhouse’ssecuritysystemwithrefrigeratormagnetssoIcouldsneakoutundetectedinthemiddleofthenight.MyfriendandIwouldputhismom’scarinneutralandpushitintothestreetsowecoulddrivearoundwithoutwakingherup.IwouldwritepapersaboutabortionbecauseIknewmyEnglishteacherwasahardcoreconservativeChristian.AnotherfriendandIstolecigarettesfromhismomandsoldthemtokidsoutbehindtheschool.

           AndIalsocutasecretcompartmentintothebottomofmybackpacktohidemymarijuana.

           ThatwasthesamehiddencompartmentMr.PricefoundaftersteppingonthedrugsIwashiding.Ihadbeenlying.And,aspromised,Mr.Pricedidn’tgoeasyonme.Afewhourslater,likemostthirteen-year-oldshandcuffedinthebackofapolicecar,Ithoughtmylifewasover.

           AndIwaskindofright,inaway.