Mr Harris

Once when I was sixteen I went down to North Avenue Beach to hook up with two West Side Hispanic girls I’d met at a rave. It was summer, I had a car, money from cutting lawns in my neighbourhood and three bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. The plan was to get the girls drunk, hook up with one or both of them. But after we’d finished the bottles and smoked some weed, the skinny girl lay back in the sand and said she was going to be sick. Then the darker, prettier girl started worrying that they should get home, and that was the end of it. The lake wind had been blasting us all evening anyway; the whole thing had been an enormous waste of time.