Page 93 of The Last Special Thing

Amelia took in the scene. Art wasn’t happy to see her, but she wasn’t sure why.

Madisson walked to Amelia, then rubbed her hands along her arms. “How are you?”

“Good. It’s a pretty strange day, though,” she admitted.

Madisson’s hands remained on Amelia, her smile fixed, but her tone didn’t match her face as she glared at Art. “Why is she still like this?”

Art hesitated, licking his lips before he spoke. “She took the mushrooms on an empty stomach. She’s been taking my Adderall pretty regularly.”

Amelia hadn’t realized that he had known. He had taught her that food could affect the absorption of the drugs, which is why she didn’t eat the day of the rave. The same must have been true with the mushrooms. But there was something else.

“You also gave me an extra mushroom when Madisson was in the bathroom,” Amelia reminded.

Art whipped his head toward her. His eyes bore into hers.

“What?” Amelia asked.

She had never made Art angry before. First, Weston cried, and now Art was mad. What would be next? She was the one on shrooms, yet everyone else was acting strange.

Art shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, I gave her more. I wanted her to have a good time.”

“You wanted her to have a good time? How about taking care of her like you said you would!”

“Your over-enunciation is going to get you in the back of the cop car like your boyfriend,” Art snarled.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Madisson asked, her chest rising. Her black hair was messy, and her eyes were bloodshot from crying. She looked half rabid and entirely pissed off.

“Let her chill,” Weston interrupted. He picked up the remote and turned on Netflix. He chose one of Amelia's favorite rom-coms and guided her to sit on the couch, taking the spot next to her.

“Can I have water?” Amelia asked Weston. There was a scratch in her throat, and her stomach was still unsettled.

Weston stared at Art to fulfill the request. His eyes shifted to Amelia, then he ducked into the kitchen. Weston shook his head in repulsion, and Madisson returned the sentiment.

Amelia held her hands in her lap. She couldn’t tell who was right or wrong.

Art returned and handed Amelia a water with a lemon wedge. “I’m going on a walk.”

It was probably a good idea—it was too tense. Amelia didn’t say anything as he left.

When the door closed, Weston put his arm around her, and she leaned into him. Madisson went into Max’s room and returned with his pipe and weed. As she lit the marijuana, Amelia noticed her hands trembling. She wanted to hold Madisson’s hand, but she was at peace against Weston’s chest. She didn’t want to risk losing another good feeling. The good feelings had been fleeting.

After Madisson blew out the smoke, she offered it to Weston. He moved around Amelia and took a hit.

“Want any?” he asked her.

She shook her head and admitted, “I don’t like marijuana.”

“Since when?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I ever did.”

A dull silence spread across them as she returned her attention to the film. Madisson curled up like a cat in the reclining chair and was softly snoring after a few minutes.

When the movie was almost over, and the colors on the screen were the correct shade, Art returned. There were no more rainbows. The ashtray on the living room table did not sparkle.

“Can we talk?” Art asked her, looking disapprovingly at Weston’s arm around her.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Weston ventured.