Twelve

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White Mike and his father

moved after his mother died of breast cancer.

It ate her up- and most of their money.

They can't control the old radiators,

and it's very hot in springtime.

In White Mike's room,

old unpacked boxes stick out of the closet...

so he can see them.

Maybe you know how it is. Maybe you don't.

But sometimes, if you can't see

what you're finished with, it's better.

White Mike stripped to his shorts

and lay down on the floor...

so he felt a little cooler.

That's how it was

the first night in his new room.

And that's how it still is.

White Mike is thin and pale, like smoke.

White Mike has never

smoked a cigarette in his life.

Never had a drink.

Never sucked down a doobie.

He once went three days without sleep

as a kind of experiment.

That's as close as he's ever gotten

to f***ed up.

White Mike has become

a very good drug dealer.

Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Beginning of spring break.

All the kids home from boarding school.

And everyone has money to blow.

- - White Mike is busy with pickups in Harlem.

The other New York City.

The one that the kids White Mike sells to

only know from rap songs.

It's dangerous.

But Lionel has the best bud.

Ounces and fifties and dimes.

- And loud music and packed houses and more rounds.

And kids from Hotchkiss and Andover

and St. Paul's and Deerfield-

all looking to get high.

They tell stories about how it is

to kids from Dalton and Collegiate...

and Chapin and Riverdale...

who have stories of their own.

All the same stories really.

White Mike has different stories.

You've

reached Mike. Do your thing at the beep.

Look, sh*t is happening, Coz-

monstrous, bewildering sh*t-

and I need to see you.

You know, so call me back fast, all right?

White Mike is avoiding

his cousin Charlie's phone calls tonight...

because Charlie is strung out

on a new drug called Twelve.

I saw the popgun man...

in the park today.

Charlie and their friend Hunter

stayed with White Mike...

the night of his mother's funeral.

They had their own ceremony.

It was like they were saying...

"It's just us, like it always was."

But that was last year.

So, to my mom.

To your mom.

Now everything's different.

White Mike thought,

"Business first. I'll deal with Charlie later."

Jessica Brayson barely noticed him.

All she could think was,

"That b*tch, Miss Lemky, gave me a 'B."'

Miss Lemky has had it out for me ever since she

overheard me telling Vanessa she's a lesbian.

Seriously, you hire your girlfriend

as your assistant? How obvious is that?

No! This isn't just one "B."

This is huge. This can affect everything-

getting into Wesleyan, Which law school

I attend, the firm I become partner at...

maybe even Who I marry-

assuming I don't marry Johnny Depp.

They should send Miss Lemky back to Reade

Where they found her eating p*ssy and granola.

I see you.

Sara Ludlow is the hottest girl in her school.

And it's not even close.

When that kid Chris, whose house

she's going to, made up the chart...

about where the girls stood-

like the stock market quotes-

Sara was always on top.

Where are we going? Who's gonna be there?

Mostly seniors, I hope. It's that kid Chris's

house with the crazy-ass brother Claude.

Oh, my God.

His parents sent him to some Outward Bound

boot camp so he wouldn't go to jail.

- Jail!

- Okay. But he is so superthug six-pack hard.

- We have to go.

- Ew.

- Whatever. Your nose job looks good.

- Thank you.

I got you, White boy. Come on.

Hunter McCullough plays ball

at the Harlem rec...

'cause he doesn't like being the rich white kid

from the Upper East Side.

Yo, Watch it, man!

- They don't like it either.

- Whoo!

Yo, What the f***?

Get f***in' off!

Hey, man. Get off me!

Hell yeah! F*** him up, man.

What the f*** is wrong with you?

Stay down, punk! Down! Stay down.

Get off of me!

- It's over, man! Chill!

- Get the f*** off me.

- F*** is wrong with you?

- What the f***?

It's f***ing done. Get the f*** out. It's over.

- Shut the f*** up.

- Yeah, shut the f*** up.

- You shut the f*** up, man.

- Get the f*** out.

You don't f***ing belong here!

- What's up?

- Yo, f*** your boy, Mike.

Nana.

What the f***?

- Consigliere.

- What the hell happened, man?

Can you believe this sh*t?

Nana f***ing Went crazy.

- Geez.

- How's school going, man?

Yo, my dad told me if I didn't get into Harvard,

I had to go to Dartmouth.

He Went there, right?

My grandfather gave them a science building.

- Yeah.

I guess if you got into Harvard, you'd get

to be with Warren. That's good, right?

Yeah, dude. That's What I'm saying, man.

If Warren got in, We could rip that place up.

- Ah.

- Come on. The three of us together.

Old times. Look. You'd be my year.

No, I know, man. I just-

That's exactly What I want, right?

Old times. Come on.

- Look. Could you just let one go?

Hey. Spring break, Hunter-gatherer.

Hey. What do you need?

"Yeah. Old times, Mike,"Hunter thought.

"When you weren't a drug dealer

and Charlie wasn't a junkie with a gun.

What's wrong with that?"

On the corner of 149th Street

and Malcolm X Boulevard...

is the fried chicken joint.

Nana hates the place.

For him, it's always a lot better going down

to the rec than it is coming back uptown-

coming home.

Nanq's mother just finished her shift.

She's a subway agent at 68th and Lexington.

Nana introduced White Mike to her once.

- What the f*** is the matter with you, Charles?

- I'm gonna need some more.

Think I got time

to be out here bullshitting with you?

- Man, What?

- I'll get it to you tomorrow.

Come here with that bullshit.

Where my money, Charlie?

No, I'm sorry. You're right. No, I f***ed up.

Get the f*** over here.

Give me the f***ing money,

you White junkie-ass b*tch.

I got your money.

Give me the f***ing money.

- Oh, sh*t.

- Get back, all right?

- Chill out, man.

- Just give me the sh*t, Lionel. Just give me the sh*t.

Relax, man. You got What you want.

Here's the TWelve, man. Take it.

Relax, man.

- Yo, it's Charlie. Not here.

Yo, Charlie. It's your cousin.

Call me back, man.

Hey.

Chris Kenten throws parties for people...

he doesn't really know

and doesn't really like...

and pretends to enjoy them

because he thinks he should.

Hey, you want to come in?

Uh- No. I'm good.

You guys have fun. Call me.

Oh, sh*t.

That's White Mike.

No sh*t.

- Oh, Ludlow, I love you so much!

- Ladies.

Yo, White Mike. Hold up, man. Hold up.

- What's up, buddy?

- Yo, We gotta smoke some bowls tonight.

- Rothko. Cool it.

- And then We can find some hos.

You thuglings gotta quit smoking Weed.

Mark Rothko is called Mark Rothko...

- because on a school trip to the Met-

- Hey!

He careened into

the real Mark Rothko's Untitled #12.

Oh, sh*t!

The painting had to be restored.

He has no ideq

who the real Mark Rothko was...

but he likes the name.

- ##

- You're Sara Ludlow.

- You know me?

- Everyone knows Who you are.

It's not too packed.

It's early. Where's your boyfriend?

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