He and Junior hadn’t exactly gotten along, but he knew Junior was hurting in his own way. Whether it was blue balls from Odie or worrying over revenge for his friend or maybe a combination of both, it was clear that neither of them were having a good night.
“Fuck it.” Junior waved Noah over. “Yous say anythin’ about this, I’m gonna punch you in the balls, you got me?”
“Damn, that was weak.” Noah grinned. “You feeling okay, Junior?”
“Fuckin’ shut it.” Junior’s responding smile was almost fond. “How about I’ll reach down your little throat, pull your balls up into ya mouth, and snap your teeth down on ‘em? Happy?”
“Better.”
“Whatever.” Junior grabbed the bottle, but he didn’t drink any. He was staring at the label.
“You gonna drink it or make googly eyes at it, huh?” Noah was aiming for teasing, but he wasn’t sure how Junior was going to take it. He couldn’t read his face.
“The last time I drank this spiced rum shit was with Jason Carbone,” Junior said at last.
“You guys were good friends, right?” Noah asked carefully.
“Best fuckin’ friends,” Junior corrected. “After my parents split when I was just a little fuckin’ squirt, my mom brought us here to Moultrie. Jason lived in the place next door.” He grinned. “Got popped by the cops stealin’ candy from the corner store the first fuckin’ day we met.”
“Ha! Really?”
“Yeah.” Junior laughed. He actually didn’t look too horrible when he smiled like that. “Carbone saw the cops outside, but he didn’t give a fuck. He grabbed the shit, looks at me, and just runs. Stupid ass me, I bolt too. Wasn’t even thinkin’. I was just followin’ him.”
“What happened? Did the cops have to chase you down?”
“Ah, fuck, man.” Junior laughed again, a deep and happy sound. “We didn’t even make it off the fuckin’ sidewalk before they snatched us.”
Noah snickered. “Seriously?”
“Fuckin’ seriously.” Junior shook his head. “Two punk kids with their arms full of Pixie Stix—”
“Pixie Stix? Those tubes with the powdered candy stuff inside?”
“Yeah! Fuck yeah! But these were the fuckin’ big ones! The big ol’ fuckin’ plastic tubes long as my fuckin’ dick.” Junior was cackling now. “We’s looked like fuckin’ fools, arms full of those fuckin’ things, just a’runnin’ as hard as we could! And bam! Right around our damn collars, the cops grabbed both our little asses! I swears, my legs were still kickin’ in midair and shit like a damn cartoon!”
Despite the funny mental image Junior’s exciting vocabulary provided, Noah was somber. He’d never had a friend like that, no childhood friendship to look back on so fondly. His few memories of family weren’t that great, and those included the ones with his uncle who might be getting murdered very shortly.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Junior asked shortly.
Noah decided not to mention Patrick, choosing to reply, “Sorry. You know, sad rich boy shit.”
“Never had a friend like that, huh?”
“No. I guess I just didn’t know how.” Noah shrugged. “I always got caught up in who was popular, who was talkin’ smack about who, all this stupid middle school and high school bullshit. It seemed so important at the time, you know? Like, it was the literal end of the world if one of my friends wasn’t cool.”
“Changed ’em out like dirty socks, didn’t ya?”
“Yeah. Shit. I guess I did.”
“I kept my fuckin’ socks close and crunchy. That’s the secret. Yous just don’t let the fuck go.”
“Yeah?” Noah scoffed, smiling wryly. “So. Steal Pixie Stix, get caught by the cops, acquire crunchy socks. That’s the secret to a lifelong friendship, huh?”
“Yous got it, Crisco.” Junior still hadn’t drunk any of the rum.
“So, what happened the last time you drank that with Carbone?”
Junior’s smile turned down. “Even crunchy socks get into fuckin’ fights, you know.”
