It was 1:00 pm, and the gang was gathered in Dazzy’s bedroom around his big-screen TV, entranced by the movie Spirited Away. Nobody had much idea what was going on with the plot, but it didn’t matter. They were on a ride, letting the elaborate visuals and beautiful animation take their minds completely away from their troubles.

As he sat back in Dazzy’s recliner watching three dark green faces transform into a giant baby, Dexter’s mind was going blank in the best way possible. He wasn’t thinking about not hitting well enough, about not doing enough in his classes, about girls not liking him back, or about Trevor Green. He was living completely in the moment with his friends, letting his self-consciousness drift away. When he did think again, he thought of the movie The Truman Show, and he realized this was his time to break through the wall into the real world and find himself. His boat was about to hit the wall. This is how it feels to stop giving a fuck, he thought.

Bobby laid back on Dazzy’s weed leaf-decorated couch, completely comfortable and not thinking about his sore back for the first time in weeks. He thought about The Karate Kid and standing up to bullies. Jimmy was nothing but a giant bag of hot air who happened to hit dingers and have a well-connected father. Everyone knew it. Bobby suspected the wrestling move had been a plot to take him out, and he wasn’t going to accept it. Back pain and all, he realized right then and there that he had to stand up for himself. He was about to have his Daniel LaRusso moment. Bring it on, Fender, he thought. 

Lewis was at peace as he laid back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He thought about Scarlett and for once, he didn’t feel like he had to bow to her every will. He was going to be ok no matter what happened with this relationship, and he didn’t have to keep putting up with all this manipulative bullshit. The temporary high of the acid was helping him realize that the temporary highs of the relationship were not worth it. A breakup wouldn’t be easy, but he had to look out for himself, his own mental health, and his personal goals. He thought about Wiz Khalifa’s character from Mac and Devin Go to High School dumping his toxic girlfriend. I’m young, wild, and free, he thought.

Dazzy sat on his bed and stared at the screen, his wide eyes reveling in the psychedelic imagery. He loved his parents and he loved Kat, even if they got into it from time to time. He appreciated that they were looking out for him, but he knew he had to follow his passion. Not many artists had truly combined rap and emo music, especially not as solo performers. Dazzy had found a niche, and his creative mind was blossoming. Obviously, he loved baseball and his friends, and he was going to keep working hard on the field and in the classroom. But he had every right to do his own thing too, and he knew he had a real shot to make it happen. It’s about to pop off, he thought. They’ll see.

Kat laid on the bed next to Dazzy, their arms around each other. The only sober person in the room, she felt more together with him in this moment than she had in a long time. It was frustrating to see him not focus on the things he needed to, but she admired his faith in his music career and his motivation to make his dreams a reality. She decided to be more patient with him and trust his judgment. At the same time, she realized she was tired of being the voice of reason, the woman there just to keep all the men in check. She wanted to be as wild as the rest of them, and to pursue her own dreams outside of the relationship with Dazzy. He can’t be my entire identity, she thought.

As the members of the gang were losing themselves in their thoughts, they suddenly heard a knock on the door. It was so loud and startling, they almost jumped out of their skin.

“Oh god!” Lewis screamed.

“What the FUCK!” Bobby shrieked.

“I wish I could be as high as y’all,” Kat mused.

“It’s all good, guys, it’s not World War IV,” Dazzy deadpanned as he got up to answer the door. As he pulled it open, the room fell into stunned silence. Standing outside the door, breathing heavily, eyes bloodshot, all 300 pounds of him, was Jimmy Fender.