Free The Possibilities: A Novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings Page B

feel so old,” I say. “Look at these kids. None of them are wearing jackets. It’s uncool now,” I say, as if I know. “Warmth is uncool.”
    I think of Cully with his baggy pants and sullen caps. I loved his pants. How slack they were. For some reason they put me at ease. Morgan never felt like a Breckenridge kid. She hated skiing, hated the way goggles made her look. Hated the snow, the layers they demanded. When we all went out together we’d have to walk slowly to restaurants while she teetered on heels.
    Suzanne starts to text someone. The kids are doing the same thing. Boys and girls, some with their arms draped over one another, the majority of them talking or texting or just staring at their phones. Do they ever talk person to person, or just when they’re apart from one another? I should say to Suzanne, Go away so I can talk to you .
    A girl with short brown hair, angled asymmetrically with ends like lightning bolts, walks in the other direction, pulling a backpack on what looks like all-terrain wheels. Suzanne lights a joint.
    “Oh my God,” I say. “Don’t do that now.” I look out the back window and duck a bit in my seat. “What if we got caught?” I imagine Katie reporting it on the news or the incident being written up in the Summit Daily police blotter, next to all the bike thefts.
    Suzanne holds it in front of me. I automatically shake my head, but then think Why not? and take a prissy little drag, then one that’s a bit meatier.
    “That a girl,” she says.
    “Wait,” I say. “Is this what I gave you?”
    “No, it’s my own. This is the good shit.”
    “Where do you get it anyway?” I ask, and hand it back, look around to make sure no one can see us. This is so bizarre.
    “From my yard guy,” she says.
    “Pablo?”
    “No, that’s the yard yard guy. Leaf blowing and whatnot. I get this from Brian. He does more yard design. He’s really into plants and soil. Like, he talks to the plants and shit.”
    She extinguishes the joint on the sole of her boot. “That’s all. Just a refresher. Why, you want to buy some?”
    “No, I don’t want to buy any, I was just wondering how one even goes about buying this at our age and you know, with our lifestyle.”
    “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is,” she says. “It will be legal here real soon. Mark my words.”
    I flip my mirror down to make sure I look the same. My eyes seem smaller.
    “And what do you mean ‘this is the good shit’?” I ask. “What was Cully’s?”
    “I don’t know,” she says. “Kind of shwaggy-looking. Not something I’d buy.”
    “Why not?” I say, feeling absurdly defensive. I crack the window.
    “It’s green,” she says. We look at one another, smiling a little. I feel like a young girl.
    “No shit it’s green,” I say.
    “I typically buy purple,” she says. “At least lately. It’s the strain that’s going around. These things come in trends. Just like anything. Fashion, food, even countries to adopt children from . . . Remember when Romania had its heyday? Can you imagine adopting from Romania? You’d get some angry gymnast with fetal alcohol syndrome.”
    “What are you talking about?” I laugh. “Should we get out, or what?”
    “No,” Suzanne says. “I guess not. I just wanted . . . I don’t know what I wanted. To see him.” She looks out into the crowd. “To see him, maybe talk, I—oh, God. Oh my God. There he is. Do you see him? Right there! Oh. My. God.”
    “Where?” I search the crowd.
    “Far right. By that heating lamp.” She points and gestures, which isn’t helping me.
    “There are tons of heating lamps,” I say.
    “Right below it. Right there. Next to orange guy.”
    I scan the crowd for orange, seeing people dressed absurdly well to be out here, and then I land on him. He’s pretty hard to miss. Dickie’s an impeccably handsome man who exudes wealth and thorough showering. Black-silver hair, hard, square jaw, the lines on his forehead strong