Why Teenagers Shouldn't Have Drugs

Once, when we were young, my cousin forced me to scribble black on my hands, stuck a sharpie in my fist, and told me to sit and stay on the couch or else he would eat the rest of my cereal. Now, me being an ignorant seven-year-old--who didn't yet understand how to prioritize cereal and being framed for vandalizing the walls of my aunt's living room--decided to stay like a good little girl, clutching the marker and observing my dear brother's artwork until Aunt Lucille walked in and dropped to her knees in agony. I took the blame like a champ, looking up at her with my big, grieving-for-the-overpriced-wall-paint, apologetic eyes, and said, "I'm really, really sorry Aunty Lucy, I didn't mean to, I won't ever ever do it again..." Meanwhile, Cousin Grayson--the true delinquent--was crouched smugly on the top stair, peering through the handrail, gleeful with my cooperation.

I've been taking the blame for things like that ever since Grayson decided to become an artist. So, now, why was I having such trouble deciphering whether that little story has any comparison to the fact that I said, "it was me!" when my boyfriend was almost arrested for having crack cocaine at a busted end-of-summer party two weeks ago?

"It's all mine! I got the drugs and I had them in that pocket! The pocket of that jacket, which is also mine. The jacket and the drugs are mine. He just borrowed the jacket from me. The drugs aren't his, they're mine. And I let him have the jacket for the night..." Those were my exact words. Much different from, "sorry for drawing on the wall aunty." I definitely sounded like a desperate addict. But I'm not, I swear. And I never was.

Right now, I am urinating in a cup. It's for my probation officer, you see; so she can test for any substances other than water and whatever else normal, female, teenage pee is made out of.

I finish and screw the cap onto the little bottle.

The inside of the Anderson Juvenile Corrections Office is bland and emotionless, probably because they don't want any of the kids coming in here to feel anything more than that. Feelings must lead to a future life of crime. And as I amble down the hallway, the unhappy secretary looks over her fake glasses and squints her eyes as if I'm being suspicious. My mother and probation officer are flirtatiously laughing at something hilarious when I turn the corner and enter his office. Right, because that's really what needs to happen; my divorced mom and good ol' Mr. Jettison should fall madly in love while sipping their expensive urine--I mean, champagne. If it weren't for her daughter getting into drugs, our dear Jean and Lawrence would have never met... Awww, what a cute idea for the Maid Of Honor's speech.

I plop into the uncomfortable, worn polyester office chair. It smells of vinegar and burnt hair and B.O. here. I just want to leave, but instead I stare at a fly murdered by Mr. Jettison's neon yellow fly-swatter on the wall, drowning out the sound of the adults' conversation with my own meaningless, repeating thoughts.

-

Getting squinted at by a secretary is different than getting side-eyed by a hundred teenagers while trying to open your locker. Everyone feels differently about kids on probation. For example, the burnouts might be wondering what would happen if they started hanging out with me. Or, the prissy Christian granola girls might be clutching their crosses as I walk past and praying for me but nevertheless, judging me all the same. Last week, a grungy skateboarder named Arlo bumped up against me when I was in a hurry to get to Geometry and asked if I had any more.

"Any more what?" I asked, veering around him and keeping my pace quickened all the way to the stairwell.

"Blow..." He said under his breath, which was still too loud for me. I stopped and turned toward him, rage pouring from my eyeballs, and brought my heel down onto his foot. Granted, I was only wearing sneakers, but he still howled in pain.

I cannot describe to you how it feels to know the truth while everyone else is consumed by their own wrong assumptions. I can, however, describe the circumstances leading up to my greatest moment as a scapegoat of all. When we arrived at the party, it was pretty lame, to be honest. People were meandering like it was some sort of office gathering where you promise you won't talk about work but three minutes later Janice-or-whatever asks you to help her sort through her files to find the September 3rd log. The music was quiet, the punch wasn't dosed yet, and everyone's clothes were still on. Until someone started blasting Jump Around and then everyone went crazy. I think, when I'm middle-aged the best advice I'll get is to "channel my inner partying teenager." Anyway, at about two in the morning somebody jumped onto the coffee table and screamed that the cops were coming. Ten minutes later we heard the sirens, and that's when everybody actually started leaving. When everyone was hustling around pouring beer down the sink and throwing cigarettes into random hiding spots and searching for car keys and putting clothes back on, Jeremy found his way to me with my coat in his arms. I told him to put it on, and at that exact moment three police cars swerved around the corner of 27th and Willow and skidded to a stop in front of the house, sirens blaring and everything. It was right outta the movies. And it was also too late. Jeremy and I hustled outside, surrendering, but one of those German Shepherd K9 dogs practically attacked Jeremy, and that was when the cops found two little baggies of crack in his--my pocket. It only took me four minutes to shriek, "It's all mine!" Yeah, you know the rest...

Now, Jeremy bounces up to me and throws his arm around my shoulder, matching my stride. He starts chattering away gleefully, as if I'm not stiff as a board against his touch and trying to melt my head and arms into my torso. He looks down at me with a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I smile back, and I know it doesn't reach mine either. I don't hear a word he says.

There's something I forgot to mention; when I was being handcuffed, I distinctly remember seeing Jeremy quickly stuff one of the crack bags into his pants, which had been irresponsibly left on the ground after I had attracted the officers' attentions. So, yes, my boyfriend is actually a crackhead (or a dealer, whichever works...) That's not the point. They were his drugs. And I didn't know that until I worked it out in the holding cell an hour later, arrested for possession of illegal substances as a minor. So, basically, he let me ruin my entire future for him when, if I had just kept my mouth shut, or if he had stopped me and admitted his crime, justice would've been rightfully served. But it wasn't. And I'm stuck with having to pee in a cup every once in a while. The only problem; I haven't confessed that I know he's a selfish, unfaithful, drug-addicted asshole of a boyfriend. I am playing a game. I am going to catch him. And then, I am going to turn him in. Maybe my charges won't be lifted, and maybe I'll end up working at a laundromat and I won't ever need the advice, "channel your inner partying teenager," because I will be a routine-encrusted failure who has touched too many people's dirty underwear; but at least he'll go down with me.

His floofy hair pokes out of the hole in his backwards baseball cap, and his hands are cold on my skin. I hate his stupid face. That stupid thing his eyebrows do when he tries to act worried for you but he's more concerned with whether you heard what he said or not. He chews his gum obnoxiously. I want to stab him--no, I want him to be sent to a ridiculously terrible juvenile detention and get shanked by a big brawny 12th grader with orange chest hair and a greasy man-bun. I want him to bleed out looking up at that ugly ginger. And when the bell rings and he leans down to give me a peck on the cheek I want nothing more than to bite his face off and spit it back out at him.

I want some god damned revenge.

-

It has been four weeks since the busted end-of-summer party. Tonight a bunch of kids are going to a sketchy nightclub in the city with their fake IDs because some rich guy's dad is working as the bouncer and he'll let everyone in, despite however many underage pizza faces claim they're 19. Jeremy says he's going "just in case his friends get into trouble." I didn't bother asking him why he owns a fake ID in the first place.

I'm not allowed out of the house, of course, and definitely not to any party ever, for the rest of my adolescence. Well, all I have to say about that is that my room is on the first floor, and my mom's not thoughtful nor handy enough to nail the window shut.

So, when I get home from school I cake my face in bright makeup, I put on my most millennial, I-just-came-from-work-and-I'm-meeting-with-my-girlfriends outfit, and wait until 9pm to crawl out of my window. I get on the city bus and I'm forced to pay 50 cents more than I'd usually have to. The bus stop is two blocks away from the nightclub. I walk all the way there, stand in line for a full 30 minutes, hiding my face from the few other high school kids I recognize, and finally I am let in to the club without a second glance from the bouncer--who does not look like a father, by the way.

It is a crazy drug-fest; you can actually see the powder floating in the air. It reeks of tobacco and marijuana. People are twerking on the dance floor with white on their upper lips and staining their sleeves. All sorts of underage drinkers are gathered in groups, some watching the adults snort and puff, and some brave enough to plop down next to them and slice a line on the table in front of them.

Suddenly, as my eyes scan the room, nausea fills my throat. I rush to the bathroom, where three people are having sex in one of the stalls. Their moans only make the buzzing in my stomach and head worse. I peer at myself in the mirror, disgusted with my face. After soaking a paper towel in warm water and smearing the atrocious makeup off my face, I feel much better. My phone is at 20%. Better use it well...

Plunging back into the chaos, flashing lights and horrible music fills my eyes and ears. I hear a voice rise briefly. It's a goofy laugh. It's his laugh. He sounds hysterical. Just hysterical enough, perhaps?

I push through the crowd, trying to hop up and down to look natural. My face probably looks like a corpse; mascara coating my eye bags, lipstick blotched on my cheeks. I have my phone on, finger hovering over the record button in Camera. So close to a satisfaction I will bathe in.

There he is, sprawled out on a sofa in a dark corner. His head is in some slut's lap, who is leaning forward towards the coffee table. As she stretches out her hand, he wiggles his face in her cleavage, which makes her screech with delight. I almost laugh with anger, which probably doesn't make sense to you. His little distraction gives me enough time to lift my hand and click record, just as the girl starts reaching out again. I have a perfect view of his disgusting face. The lighting is chef's kiss. She dips her finger in a tiny mound of what I'd assume is crack cocaine, leans back again, puts her hand under Jeremy's head to lift it up, and helps him snort the stuff. Tears well at the corners of my eyes. I turn off my phone and turn to leave. No point in chewing him out for cheating. It'll all add up once I anonymously send this video to my probation officer. A man of the law, Mr. Jettison is. He will take care of my quest for vengeance.

-

When the police officers show up to the school to arrest Jeremy and the slut he was with and a couple other faces I caught in my video, I am standing outside the bathrooms, watching them haul him away. I consider acting; calling after him and demanding to know why my beloved is being dragged away. But when his pleading eyes make contact with mine, and all he sees is my small smirk breaking through, he knows. And then, he knows I know. I cross my arms. He stares through me the entire time, probably trying to leak an ounce of guilt from me. I don't feel guilty though. I don't feel anything, really. Not one shred of fulfillment.

I...

I don't think it was worth it.

Would I feel the same If I'd just broken up with him and pushed him out of my life?

He'll be back--It's only Sophomore year and he'll be on probation, just like me, soon enough.

The only thing going through my head when I walk back to class with my hall pass is that I might consider being afraid of his return. I don't know if I've dug myself into a deeper hole or not.

Darn it.

What the hell, Cousin Grayson?