BANGERZ (2014)

23. Sticks & Stones & Weed & Bombs

Riding in the backseat is good for two things: legroom and sightseeing.

I've never been to the pier, but I know it's like the Coney Island of the Pacific; carnival stands, amusement park rides, and cheesy restaurants. It's closed for the night, but so huge that it's still easily seen from the highway. The Ferris wheel rises starkly against the sky and landmarks the end of the pier.

There's sparse traffic on the interstate - and also in the streets, I realize, once Jason takes the exit. However, we're in beach territory, which means wide spaces, hideaways and duck-ins, and the lurking unknown. It's too late for regular business to operate and too dark for anything to look suspicious, even if it is.

"Didn't that nigga say he was at Santa Monica Pier? Ain't that sketchy?" Za asks quizzically, echoing my thoughts. He rode with us on the way here, acting as Jason's GPS, and Khalil and Miley followed us in his car.

"No, he said he was at the docks," Jason restates, surveying the road critically as he drives. He narrowly misses red lights and lingers in the middle lane as if he's avoiding the street lamps on either side of the road. "Typical drug ring spot. And it isn't sailing season, so they're shut down."

"This whole place looks shut down," I point out, unfastening my seatbelt and leaning forward. I rest my elbows on the console between the boys and glance around also. The beachfront is quiet. "I know it's too cold to get in the water, but where is everyone? Don't they hang around on the boardwalk or something?"

"Santa Monica is a youngin beach," Za answers, "so there's a citywide curfew. At eleven." He points to the clock on the dashboard, which reads one-forty a.m.

"That sucks," I note.

"Yeah. Whenever a lot of us get together in one place the cops get all scary and shit." Za rolls his eyes. "Now I think about it, that's been happening in a lot of places lately. Started in the OC last month. I even heard they might start doing lockdowns. Now all of us gotta suffer 'cause of one slip up. I wouldn't be surprised if North Shore was next." He glares out the windshield.

I nod sympathetically. But then something occurs to me, and I press my lips together to stifle my laughter. "Jason, you remember that cop that stopped us in the O.C.? When he saw us he told his partner they should implement a curfew. He said it would cut down on the 'complaints and activities'," I mimic in a deep, uppity voice, holding up air quotes around the words.

"What?" Za demands, whirling in his seat to look at me. He's so hysterical that his voice hikes up a few octaves, and I laugh. "You trying to tell me y'all the reason for these damn restrictions!"

Jason snickers. "It ain't our fault. That cop was on his way to shut down José's party. He was just mad 'cause TK and me were canoodling," he explains, mocking him in the same voice I used. He chuckles at the memory, and I giggle, pressing my forehead to his shoulder.

Za stares at us. "Canoodling," he repeats, shaking his head and feigning disapproval. "Mm, mm, mm. Y'all a couple of hoodlums."

"I believe the correct term is hooligans," I say.

"Or delinquents," Jason offers, countering.

"Punks," I supply.

"Thugs," Jason adds.

"Ruffians," I declare importantly, crossing my arms over my chest. "Top that."

They laugh and shake their heads, and then Za crosses his arms over his chest like he's just now remembering something important. He glances in the rearview mirror with narrowed eyes as Jason turns down a vacant street. It leads straight to the docks - and darkness. As we drive along it the buildings dilapidate into weathered brick and faded wood, and the avenues widen into fields and lanes like an industrial property. It looks like we're in a completely different place than Santa Monica, but after a few moments I realize that we're going down a road of boat storehouses.