“You know, it’s not really your kitchen, technically speaking—”
“Secondly, if you don’t spit out whatever you need to say to me, I’m going to kick you out of my kitchen because I’m quickly becoming bored with this conversation. Or lack thereof. And bored of you in general. The speaking novelty is wearing off fast into annoying territory.”
“The guy I yelled at—his name is Lowell—we kind of used to be friends, before…well, everything, and he’s on the basketball team, so he was pissed about me narcing on Warren and Joey. He’s been messing with me for the past month. And he destroyed the art project Sam and I were working on. I can’t prove it, but I know he did,” I say. “And I really, really want to get back at him. I just don’t know how.”
“And you think I can help with this…why, exactly?”
“I don’t know. You seem more diabolical than anyone else here.”
Andy puts his hand over his heart and smiles at me like I’ve just granted him a wonderful compliment. “That’s sweet of you,” he says. He hums low in his throat, thoughtful, as he dumps the sugar into the bowl along with two teaspoons of vanilla extract, beginning to mix it together with everything else already in there. “We could make pot brownies, you somehow smuggle them into his locker along with a few ounces, he eats the brownies and gets high as a kite, teachers notice him staring at his hand for an hour during class and conduct a locker search on suspicion of drug possession, and boom. Instant payback.”
“Um,” I say, “that’s a great plan and all, but I was thinking something a little more…I don’t know, morally sound? And less illegal? Besides, he’s such a pothead anyway that I hardly need to go out of my way to plant anything on him.”
“Well, that’s no fun,” he sighs. He keeps mixing, his face scrunched in thought. “Wait, he’s a stoner and he’s on the basketball team? Noah had to do mandatory drug tests during soccer season last year. Don’t they do the same for basketball?”