February 15th, 1992 –

Under the yellow glow of a riverside streetlamp, Kenneth Wilson III stood waiting. The icy rain slid inside his Armani coat and soaked though his school blazer. His hands were nestled under his armpits for warmth. His jaw was sore for all it’s shivering. His socks were saturated with enough water to fill an aquarium. Ten minutes he’d stood there, and already he was regretting having come.

“Screw this, man,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I don’t need this.”

“Ah, but you do.”

He spun around.  Standing behind him, bone dry underneath a wide umbrella, was Fidel Mecurtio. Fidel was tall and lanky in his leather jacket, with head of slick black hair and a smile that could melt cement. If it was possible to be sixteen and look like a Mafia man, he was doing it.

Kenneth stormed over, wiped his nose and stuck a finger at Fidel. “You’re late. I’ve been here for – ”

“It’s been ten minutes. Grow a pair. Besides…” He reached inside his jacket and half smiled, half sneered, as he withdrew a tiny bottle of clear liquid. “For what I’ve got, you’d wait all night.”

Kenneth’s eyes widened. “Is…that the stuff?”

“You know it is.”

He made a grab for it, but Fidel backed away. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

His eyes darted to the side. “I don’t have the money right now.” He mumbled.

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah, my dad… he found out about the stuff I doing… y’know, with the girls from downtown and he… he cut me off.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

“But it’ll have it later, okay? Promise.” He reached for the bottle again, but Fidel was still too fast for him.

“Don’t be like that, man. I need to get high. I’m hurting. Bad.”

“Wilson, I think you misunderstand how this works.” Slowly, he slid the bottle back into his coat. “You have money. I have drugs. If you give me some of your money, then I give you some of my drugs. If you give me the money. IF. It’s a conditional statement, like you learned in Algebra last semester.”

At that point, Kenneth forsook any resemblance of dignity, dropped to his knees, and grabbed Mecurtio’s coat. “COME ON, man, don’t BE like – ” Without a moment’s hesitation, Fidel swung his foot forward and caught the begging boy under the chin, sending him reeling onto the wet asphalt.

“Money, Wilson. Then we’ll talk.” He turned on his heel and strolled off into the rain. “I’ll see you in Chemistry,” he shouted, followed by a string of low, rumbling laughter.

Under the yellow glow of the riverside streetlamp, Kenneth Wilson III lay crying. His body was detoxing something awful. He had to get that money.