Free Texts from Bennett by Mac Lethal

exposing her tightly carved, featherweight body, wrapped in olive skin that was sticky with a layer of perspiration she expunged earlier while working in the yard. She put on highly cut, lime-green soccer sweatshorts with the number 88 on the right front leg and one of the heather-gray tank tops with spaghetti straps that she often wore around the house when relaxing.
    She removed the metal dragonfly hair clip that she had used to position and hold her elegant, sandy-blond hair in a twisted bun. She then began to comb her hair out in the mirror until it was untangled and puffily frizzed, needing to be washed. She sat next to me on the bed.
    “He stole pills from the medicine cabinet.”
    “Yeah. I know.”
    “And obviously, you’re not going to kick them out?”
    “Well, I mean. I don’t know.”
    “Yep. That’s what I thought.”
    “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? They’ve lived here for an hour.”
    “He stole my pills from the medicine cabinet. Within an hour!”
    “Maybe he just assumed anyone could use those pills?”
    “I love you, but you’re not that naive.”
    “I’m not being naive.”
    “Yeah. You are. And let’s be clear, this is the first offense for me.”
    “Ha! Okay . . . ? The first offense?”
    “Yep! They don’t even get three strikes. The next thing that bothers me, and I’m going to ask you to make them leave.”
    “Harper, calm down. How about you try to enjoy them living here? I mean geez, do you think this is easy for them either?”
    “Yes, I do. They get a free place to live.”
    “I promise you, they don’t. Okay? Besides, you knew Bennett was troubled. He might do a couple things wrong, but I’ll talk to him. It sucks to see you have such hunger pains to make them leave.”
    “Hilarious. Okay. Well, we have an agreement. It’s only a matter of time. And, babe, don’t ever say ‘hunger pains’ again. You aren’t stupid. At least, I think you aren’t.”
    “What’s wrong with saying ‘hunger pains’?”
    “I’m not trying to be a bitch. But it’s hunger pangs. Pang. P-A-N-G.”
    “Well, I like ‘hunger pains’ better. It makes more sense.”
    I wasn’t thrilled about Harper’s malicious attitude. It felt alienating. I stood up and left the room without another word.
    Then, after a few minutes of silently boiling in the hallway, I popped my head back into the room and said, “The only reason your ass takes Adderall is to get high. Don’t think I don’t know this.” And left.
    “Adderall doesn’t get you high! They help you read!” she yelled, as I stumbled down the stairs.
    “Then why are you mad that Bennett took them? If he reads, he’ll be smarter, won’t he?”
    I walked downstairs to the basement to talk to Bennett. He didn’t notice me enter the room, which was funny, because he was interviewing himself on imaginary late-night TV. He was talking to himself in the full-length mirror against the opposite wall.
    “Damn, Bennett, what you been rappin’ fo’—jus’ a few months, huh? Damn, negro, you got a hussla’s spirit. What you finely do with all da cheese you make?”
    After asking himself the interview question in the mirror, he adjusted his body and stepped a few feet to the side, to give the pretend interviewer an answer.
    “Damn, Conan O’Brien, you gotta excuse me, I’m a little amped up on pills right now. Anyway, my redheaded negro—I been watchin’ you since I was sellin’ heroin by the boatload, my dude. Here, have twenty thousand, nigga. Go buy a Lamborghini, playa. You welcome, homie. No, for real, don’t thank me. I got you, playa!”
    He began counting imaginary dollar bills out on the table. I hadn’t seen anyone do something like this—interview themselves in the mirror, giving grandiose delusions as answers—since I did it at age seven. It was endearing. I smiled quietly.
    “I’mma get a new Hummer and shit. Get dat bitch bulletproofed like Tony Montana in Scarface and shit. I’m definitely