Wakefield High’s powers that be, having exhausted all other options in their losing war against us stoners (including locker-by-locker searches, drug-sniffing dogs, and Untouchables-style police raids), were now playing hardball. In a random sweep of her classroom, she paused at my desk, sniffed, ordered me to remove my sunglasses, then filled out the forms necessary to land me here. I made the mistake of arriving in her class sporting quartersized pupils and a British Sterling–drenched blue jean jacket. Schmidt, my physics teacher, was less naive than her Laura Ashley wardrobe suggested. Though I tried to clear my head of the effects of the fat, resiny doobie I’d polished off an hour before, things were still fuzzy as I stumbled into senior counselor Jeff DeMouy’s office.
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