Free The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine by April Lurie Page A

he has knocked over some art supplies on my mother’s desk. I go inside, and as I set them back in place I notice that the small antique table has been moved. Instead of being next to my mother’s computer, it’s beside the picture window. For some reason this bothers me, and as I push the table back to its original spot, I trip on a loose floorboard that was directly underneath it.
    I kneel down and remove the board, along with two loose planks on either side of it. Hidden under it I find a metric scale engraved with the words PROPERTY OF MCKINLEY HIGH SCIENCE DEPARTMENT . Next to the scale is a gallon-sized Ziploc bag of Hawaiian purple-bud sinsemilla, which, according to Arthur Wellington III, aka Headbone, is the most potent weed on the planet.
    And then it hits me. Randy is dealing.

Seven
    T ALK ABOUT IRONY AND INJUSTICE . While the Dead Musicians Society is racking up felonies without consequence, yours truly, poster boy for a better America, must stand before a judge in court Monday morning, plead guilty to shoplifting, and accept the terms of my punishment—a whopping two-hundred-dollar fine, along with twenty hours of community service.
    Upon hearing this, my father drives to the bank that very afternoon and withdraws two hundred dollars from Randy’s account—money he’s been saving for a new Stratocaster guitar—and pays the fine. I suppose it’s his way of making Randy feel the pain of his misdeeds, but it doesn’t seem to work. In fact, when Randy finds out, he just shrugs and says, “It figures the Vagina Head’s weapon of choice would be the almighty dollar.” Since I know how much Randy wants that new Strat, his reaction only furthers my belief that he is making a buttload of cash off the purple bud stashed in my mom’s studio.
    “I know what you’re doing,” I say, “and the cops are going to find it, you’ll see.” It’s Tuesday morning, the day after my humiliating experience in court, and Randy and I are sitting at the breakfast table. I’m in a rush, sucking down a soy protein shake like a madman so I can hop the bus to the Staten Island YMCA—my chosen venue for community service—and get there by 10 a.m.
    “What are you talking about?” Randy says, chewing a spoonful of cereal. Normally he wouldn’t be up this early, but the guys and Chloe are coming over to practice for their big gig this weekend. “I already told you, Dyl. Headbone got rid of the golf cart. He and Moser drove it back to the club last night. They even charged up the battery. No one knows who took it. Everything’s cool.”
    I glare at him. “That’s
not
what I’m talking about.”
    “Then what
are
you talking about?”
    “The
weed,
Randy. Upstairs. I’m not an idiot.”
    He shakes his head and eats another spoonful of cereal. “Listen, Dyl, there’s nothing in my room. Chloe took what I had and flushed it. And you don’t have to worry about the police because now I’ve got the perfect hiding spot for my stash in the backyard. And the best part is”—he grins—“it’s not even on our property. If the cops dig it up, old man Pellegrino gets busted.”
    I am tempted to hurl the rest of my shake at him, but I don’t. Instead I drink it down, slam the glass on the table, and stand up. “You’re
pathetic,
you know that, Randy? Both you
and
your stupid friends! I mean,
why
are you even doing this? Is it because you want to be some major badass? Or is it just for the thrill? To see how much you can get away with?” I shove in my chair, and it almost topples over. “And besides, what do you need the money for? Doesn’t Dad give you enough?”
    Randy sits there with his mouth hanging open. He sets down his spoon. “Whoa, Dylan. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you seriously need to get a
grip
. You’re all strung out. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
    I grab my wallet and head for the door. “Yeah, well, get used to it, Randy. ’Cause this is the