Brandon. Yes, THAT Brandon.

Mo Money, Mo Problems... a Lotta Problems

***

I'd managed to calm my nerves down enough to drive back to the school to drop Marshall off by his car, but by the time I reach out toward the door handle, I feel my breathing quicken. My brain can't help but imagine and re-imagine a scene of me in handcuffs, being dragged out of my house or even school.

We couldn't get to the pills before the house across the street from the pharmacy decided to have guests over. Lots of them.

Marshall says he'll ditch school tomorrow morning and get to the drug store right when it opens. Then again, who can be sure he won't pin it all on me? If high school students are caught with drugs or alcohol, we're suspended for 45 days from all sports and activities, plus the cops scare the living crap out of us so we never do it again. Not that I do much anyway, but there's no way I can be valedictorian or salutatorian with something like "possession of ecstasy" on my record.

Valedictorian? Salutatorian? What am I even thinking right now?

Stepping foot into the house already tells me I walked into a tirade. Mom has Dad literally backed into a corner; as soon as the door slams shut, her anger shifts over to me like a tidal wave.

Seeing my mom angry, really angry, strikes more fear in me than any worst case scenario of me getting arrested, suspended-

"Where. The hell. Have you been."

"I-I was hanging out with Ma... Matt." Wrong decision. What a lie. My god she'll sniff the lie right out of the air and hurricane toward me faster than I can even consider changing my answer.

"Matt. Who?" As long as my mother keeps chopping her sentences and flaring her nostrils the size of grapes, I can tell I'm not getting out of this easy.

"M-Matt Evans. Principal's son," I reply, voice cracking and just handing my ass over. I'm not sure this is the right time to fix my mistake, however. "W-would you like me to call him? I c-can- "

"Julie, calm down," Dad mutters. "I'm sure- "

"Not another lie out of your mouth, Stefan. Go upstairs Brandon. Aiden? Get your skinny behind upstairs." Like magic, Aiden emerges from the small kitchen pasta cabinet- good thing it's always empty- and hops up the stairs gazelle style to her room with me close behind.

"You know? You guys aren't as country as some people out here. They're all: 'Imma deep Southern Tennesseer womern 'nd these my chilluns 'nd I loves 'em all 'nd my husband works with the cows and tractors-"

"What's going on?" I interrupt. Aiden stops flailing her arms in some sort of cowboy-hick-square dance and drops her shoulders.

"I was talking about your country accents. It's funny when your parents argue because you barely notice until then. In other news, your dad bought a lottery ticket." Aiden slips off the Jesus sandals and flings them toward her dresser. So far, she's hung up a picture of Bob Marley and covered whatever she could in either camouflage or colors of the Jamaican flag.

"We're not 'country folk'. And so?"

"He won? Duh. Where do you think that mysterious $240,500 check from a while ago?" Aiden shrugs as if this situation makes any sense. "Alright so I guess Uncle Stefan was pressured by a few of his buddies to get a ticket. Then-"

My hand flies up to cut her off. "I don't really need details." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aiden nod and dump her camouflage pack onto her bed, homework spilling all over. "I ditched school today."

"I know."

My expression shifts into a frown before I realize it. "You know?"

"Talk of the day! 'Athlete-scholar-hottie Brandon Owens ditches his fifth hour class! Riots ensue! Anarchy drives the school into shambles and mere dust-'"