But going from badass drug pusher to a glorified sitter of a sulky teenager with drug issues wasn’t how I envisioned spending my senior year. Jake was out of control. I ran out of what to do or say to help him. I considered visiting the school social worker. But fear of her snitching on him kept me from seeking help. Caleb was part of a distant past. Or so I told myself, about eighty-six thousand and four hundred times a day (that’s the amount of seconds in a day). I was getting ready to bed, (mind you it was a Friday night), when I heard a rap at the door. “Who is it?” I asked. “Jerry.” “Hey, what’s up?” I kept the door ajar, a clear message I wasn’t in the mood for chatting. “Pat called. She was at a party at the house of a girl from school named Samantha. Apparently, Jake is putting up a show and getting loud. Samantha is afraid the neighbors will call the cops.” He looked at his feet as if embarrassed. “Lace said she wants nothing to do with it.” He was almost apologetic.
