“Mr. Mitchell,” Ms. DelGracio called as Blake zoned out in English class. “Earth to Mr. Mitchell.”
“Oh, sorry,” Blake said, straightening up in his seat.
“Look around at your classmates,” she continued, pointing in all directions as if Blake was unaware of where they were sitting. “What do they all have in common?”
“They’re white?” Blake offered much to his teacher’s chagrin.
“They all have their iPads out for editing,” she stated. “I suggest you begin your assignment or you will have a good bit of homework to deal with tonight.”
Leaning over to grab his iPad out the backpack he’d shoved under the chair, Blake sighed, realizing it wasn’t there.
“Ms. DelGracio,” he said, raising his hand. “I think it’s in my locker. Can I have a pass to go get it?”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. It’s a privilege to have this technology and your irresponsibility won’t be tolerated. Get out your silent reading book. You’ll read for the remainder of the period and complete today’s assignment tonight.”
Thinking better than talking back, Blake bit his tongue and pulled Brave New World from his bag. He didn’t mind having some extra work to do if it meant he could dive into the novel for a while. Blake was surprised by how much he enjoyed the dystopian classic, intrigued by Aldous Huxley’s views on Fordism, economic balance, and societal values. It was the presence of the pill, soma, however, that stood out the most to him. At the sign of any unhappiness, all the characters had to do was pop a pill and it would dissipate. It was what he’d hoped Adderall would do for him, but he’d been plagued by the opposite effect.
Blake was lost in The World State when he heard Ms. DelGracio call his name again.
“Mr. Mitchell. I’ve received word that Mr. Greiner would like to speak with you in his office.”
Perplexed as to why the principal would want to see him, Blake crinkled his nose and dog-eared his page in the book. “Should I bring my stuff, or will I be back in time to pick it up?”
“Bring your things,” she answered, curtly.
As he exited the classroom, he could feel his peers’ eyes on him. They were curious of what he had done, and Blake was wondering the same. Racking his brain while he walked to Mr. Greiner’s office, Blake couldn’t figure out what he could have done to warrant a meeting with the principal. He’d been on time for school and all his classes, he’d kept his head down and hadn’t had any issues with his classmates, and he’d been respectful to his teachers. Everything was on the up and up.
“Take a seat, Blake,” Mr. Greiner’s administrative assistant directed as soon as Blake entered the office.
He did as he was told, his legs bouncing while he continued to theorize what he could have done. Peeking over his shoulder, he tried to get a view of what was going on in the principal’s office through the small window beside his door. When he couldn’t see anything but a pair of shiny black boots, he turned around and focused his attention on his fidgeting hands. Mr. Greiner wouldn’t wear boots. Who was in there wearing boots? He glanced over his shoulder again, noticing that the black boots had a pair of perfectly hemmed navy-blue trousers resting on them. Fuck. It couldn’t be, could it? Why the hell was he getting called to principal’s office and why was the school resource officer seemingly awaiting his arrival? Regardless of what was going on, Blake wasn’t feeling good about it.
“Blake,” Mr. Greiner said from the doorway of his office. He waved Blake in, and dutifully Blake got up, ready to find out what the fuck was going on. “Take a seat,” the principal ordered as Blake walked in.
Blake did as he was told, painfully aware of the fact that the SRO was standing in the corner of the room and that it wasn’t a good sign of things to come.
“Do you recognize this bag?” Mr. Greiner asked, holding Blake’s drawstring knapsack up as if it was on display.
Blake opened his mouth, not sure if he should admit that it was his bag or deny that he’d ever seen it.
“Before you say anything,” Mr. Greiner interjected, “we know that this is your bag. Among other things,” he grimaced, “we found your school issued iPad. It was returned to us and when the barcode was scanned it was yours.”
Blake nodded, as he did mental gymnastics in an attempt to come up with a story that would explain what his iPad was doing among the illegal substances in the bag. He usually had the ability to think quickly on his feet, but the company was making him understandably flustered.
“So Blake, I’ll ask you to confirm what we already know, and you’ll get one chance before things get markedly worse for you,” Mr. Greiner warned. “Is this your bag?”
“Yeah,” Blake admitted, knowing the implications of the confession.
“And this is yours as well?” Mr. Greiner clarified, holding up a pipe and baggie of weed.
Peeking nervously at the SRO, Blake nodded. “Yeah.”
While he was aware that the amount of weed wouldn’t get him an intent charge, Blake could feel waves of anxious heat crashing over his body. A drug charge was the last thing he needed. Not only was his mother going to kill him, but he was an adult and could now be sentenced as one.
“Suffice to say you will be expelled from Woodland County High School. I’ll receive confirmation from the board after their meeting on Thursday, and after that you’ll no longer be permitted to attend this school,” Mr. Greiner explained, “and aside from that, I’m unsure of your fate. That will be up to Officer Porter and the state of Kentucky.”
Blake gnawed on the inside of his cheek so intensely that he could taste the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth. He was fucked. Super fucked. Epically fucked. He’d woken up that morning thinking that it would be a normal day, or what had become typical over the last few months, and the day had been anything but. His mother was going to kill him, and if she didn’t kill him, she was going to disown him or do something similarly drastic. Not only would she be pissed about the weed after last March’s car accident, but the expulsion would no doubt push her over the edge. She was tired, mentally and physically. It was obvious from her apparent exhaustion that raising Blake had been a doozy of a task. He wished he would’ve made it easier on her, shit like middle of the night drives into ditches and exposed stash spots hadn’t happened, but that wasn’t how things had shaken down. He tried to imagine what her face would look like when he told her that he’d been expelled. Even the thought of it was too much to deal with when the principal and SRO were in front of him, aggravated by his mere existence.
“Okay,” Blake muttered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the whole scene.
“I assure you none of this is okay,” Officer Porter chimed in, every ounce the intimidating douchebag. “There’s a drug epidemic in Unionville and we’ve adopted a zero-tolerance policy.”
Blake wanted to ask if such a low-population town had enough people to be considered an epidemic. He figured there was some sort of cut-off that Unionville wouldn’t even approach. It also floored him that marijuana could be regarded as a problem at all. Who didn’t smoke weed? It was natural, and awesome, and a lot less problematic than alcohol. Officer Porter probably toked over the weekend with the confiscated weed. He didn’t put it past the squad to do shit like that, while threatening to mess with Blake’s future.
“Would you like to say anything in your defense?” Mr. Greiner asked, pen in hand, ready to take notes.
“Am I under arrest?” Blake questioned, trying to control the fear in his tone.
“Not yet,” Officer Porter answered, “but that doesn’t mean you won’t be.”
“Something to look forward to then,” Blake mumbled, shaking his head.
“I don’t think there’s much of that to be had for you,” Mr. Greiner tsked, closing Blake’s file. “You were doing so well, and now...”
“I’m still doing well,” Blake interrupted. “Scholastically. Will my grades transfer?”
“First quarter grades have already been rep
orted, so they will transfer to another high school if you do,” Mr. Greiner answered. “I have to say, I’m surprised you’re considering continuing. I didn’t take you for the type.”
“Well, you don’t know me,” Blake snarked, reaching for his bag. “Can I go now?”
Mr. Greiner peeked into the bag, as if to ensure there was no other illegal paraphernalia before handing it to Blake.
“I’ll be in touch,” Officer Porter commented, as Blake walked toward the door.
“I’d say I was looking forward to hearing from you, but I’m definitely not.”
“I don’t take that personally.”
Blake nodded, thinking maybe he should.
16
In order to escape possession charges, and his mother’s wrath, Blake found himself in an inpatient rehabilitation center in Lexington. It seemed that, like him, most patients at Brighter Horizons Substance Abuse Treatment Facilities didn’t think they had a drug problem. Blake was convinced that they probably did, and he still didn’t. Though it was illegal, weed was hardly a substance worthy of treatment. As he sat in meeting after meeting surrounded by grown-ass men and women who had ruined their relationships with spouses, children and family due to their addictions, Blake reaffirmed his commitment never to fuck with Adderall or the like again. He was sure he wasn’t in need of rehab, but it was a good reminder of what could happen if he didn’t watch himself in the future.
The length of the program was three weeks, but Blake completed it in two. He’d learned the acceptable answers and participated in every meeting and “good time” opportunity, building trust with the counselors and administration alike. All he wanted to do was go home, back to Unionville, back to his mom, to Greg, to sporadic moments of reconnecting with Claire. For years he’d dreamed of leaving his hometown, but now he yearned to return. Unfortunately, a homecoming wasn’t in the cards.
Blake’s psychologist was able to pull some strings and get him into a halfway house down the street from Brighter Horizons. Though he was eighteen and could make decisions for himself, Grace’s insistence that he stay there rather than coming home had made the choice clear. While Blake didn’t think his mother would throw him out on the street, he knew better than to test her after the shit he’d put her through over the last few years. The plan was that he’d stay in the halfway house and attend high school in Lexington until graduation, and then he was on his own.
The house was nice enough, aside from the fact that Blake had to share a room with a forty-year-old man who complained like he was ninety. Thanks to Ralph’s presence, Blake tried to spend as much time as he could outside. Lucky for him, the weather was temperate for November, and the house had several bikes for the residents to ride as an initiative to promote physical activity and mental balance. Blake took advantage of the program, getting out on the bike as often as possible.
Sitting on a pedway, Blake watched as rush hour traffic crawled beneath him and considered how different his life would have been if Xander hadn’t outed him sophomore year. There was no doubt he would still be on the wrestling team, but would everything else have truly been as disparate as he imagined? Chances are he would have continued to smoke weed, so he could have found himself in exactly the same situation he was now in, regardless of his extracurricular affiliation. Maybe there was a lesson to learn, one that he hadn’t been able to identify yet. It was better to think that there was a reason for everything, than consider that there was no rhyme or reason behind his shitty luck.
Glancing at his phone screen to check the time, Blake was happy to see a text message from Greg.
Greg (6:15pm): How goes it playa?
Blake (6:18pm): Playa?
Greg (6:18pm): Playerrr?
Blake (6:19pm): No
Greg (6:19pm): Maybe?
Blake (6:19pm): No
Greg (6:20pm): How goes it Mitchell?
Blake (6:20pm): It goes. I’m watching traffic.
Greg (6:21pm): Badass. I’m watching paint dry. Tonight is lit.
Greg (6:22pm): When are you coming home?
Blake (6:23pm): May or June probably.
Greg (6:23pm): But you’ll visit before then won’t you?
Blake (6:24pm): Probably not.
Greg (6:24pm): Can I come up there or is it like prison?
Blake (6:25pm): It’s not like prison. I can ask the house director and see what the rules are.
Greg (6:25pm): Cool. Let me know.
Blake (6:26pm): Will do.
Standing up and climbing onto the bike, Blake began to pedal in the general direction of the house, though he was becoming increasingly unfamiliar with his surroundings after taking what he thought was a correct turn.
“Shit,” he grumbled as he continued further off-course. Racking his brain to remember the address, Blake tried typing a few options into his GPS, disappointed when none worked. He was about to plug in Brighter Horizons when his screen went black. Dead battery.
As he rode, getting more lost by the moment, the sky continued to grow darker. It was becoming evident that he wasn’t going to make it home before curfew. During his orientation, the director, Mr. Trasker, had made it clear that there was no tolerance for breaking curfew, and that doing so would lead to removal from the program. The last thing Blake needed was to get kicked out of the halfway house. There would be no going home after that.
The sight of a police station in the distance had Blake riding faster, knowing that he would be able to ask for help. Jumping off his bike, he pounded on the door, hoping an officer could get him to the house in time.
“How can I help you?” a cop asked gruffly as he looked Blake up and down.
“Um, I’m lost. I’m staying at a halfway house on Lafayette and I can’t seem to find my way back there,” Blake explained, adjusting his glasses as he remained under the police officer’s skeptical appraisal.
“How long have you lived there?”
“A couple weeks.”
“A couple weeks,” he repeated with a sniff. “You’ve been there a couple weeks and you’re lost?”
“Yeah,” Blake replied, knowing the cop was suspicious that there was more at play than he was admitting.
“And why are you in a halfway house, son? Were you incarcerated prior or were you in a treatment facility?”
“I was in a treatment facility,” Blake confessed. “For drugs.”
“Hmm, and are you under the influence right now?”
Blake shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”
“But you’re lost, after being here a ‘couple weeks...’” the police officer reminded him, as if he’d forgotten the pickle he’d gotten himself into.
“Correct,” Blake answered. “Because I got turned around, not because I’m messed up.”
“We’ll see about that,” the cop nodded, gesturing for Blake to follow him to a patrol vehicle in the parking lot. He helped Blake secure the bike to the rack on the rear of the car and told him, “Get in.”
One look at the clock on the dash had Blake feeling sick. Seven-forty-five. By the time they got back it would be nearly eight, and he would be an hour past curfew. He hoped his sober state and the fact that he’d gone to the police for help would earn him some leniency or an exception.
The cop was quiet as he drove, which made Blake even more anxious. Though he’d gotten into a fair amount of trouble in the past, he’d never been in a police car. It was unnerving to think that instead of riding in the front, some of his actions could have landed him in the back.
The police station wasn’t far from the house, which had Blake even more confused because he was positive he’d been further away.
“Thank you,” he said, opening the car door before retrieving his bike. He was disappointed to see the officer getting out as well. He knew a police escort to the door would have his housemates and Mr. Trasker thinking the worst. He’d hoped that he could have simply informed the director about what had happened, but it seemed the cop had other ideas.
“We’ll do it the formal way.”
Blake shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for inevitable.
A twitchy woman named Barbara answered the door, immediately screaming, “Trasker!” when she caught sight of Blake and his company.
A second later, the big man appeared, glaring at Blake while shaking hands with the cop. “Good to see you, Ted. What do you have here?”
“He says he’s one of yours. The story is that he got lost and came to us to get him home.”
“Lost?” Trasker asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been here for two weeks, Blake.”
“I know. I got confused. All the streets look the same.”
“What were you doing out for so long to begin with?” Mr. Trasker questioned.
“Riding the bike, thinking. I don’t know, regular stuff,” Blake replied.
“Well, first thing’s first,” the director said, waving both men into the house. “We’ll grab a urine sample to make sure you don’t have any drugs in your system. You’ll hang around for the results, Ted?”
“Absolutely,” the officer nodded, taking a seat on the couch.
Blake sighed when Trasker disappeared into the powder room and came back with a drug test.
“Piss in the cup and leave it in there on the sink. I’ll test it and we’ll figure out if your confusion was chemically induced.”
“It wasn’t,” Blake said firmly.
“No offense, but drug addicts aren’t known to be pillars of truth,” Mr. Trasker retorted.
Drug addict? Blake couldn’t believe that anyone could so casually call him a drug addict. He went into the bathroom to take a leak, trying not to leak tears as he did. He felt exposed in a way he hadn’t experienced before. Doing as he was told, he left the sample in the bathroom, washed his hands, and rejoined the police officer, Trasker, and a few onlookers in the living room.
His Own Way Out Page 9