Feeling good in the car. Terrific sensation behind the wheel. The Lexus Dad left for Mom, I’m driving.

Asshole’d have a meltdown, he knew who’s driving.

Mom has the driver’s license, I’ve got a learner’s permit, it’s cool. Nothing illegal. Good I remembered to grab Mom’s purse on the way out. Wallet, driver’s license. Credit cards. Cash.

(Loose bills in Mom’s wallet. Last time I looked, twenties, two fifties. Tens, fives. Helped myself to one twenty and one fifty, and guess what?—on painkillers Mom never had a clue.)

Start off on a high. Wild!

Brain buzzing, hive of bees. All good.

Okay, Mom. You can open your eyes, we’re here.

When the high wears off, feeling like shit. Air leaking out of a balloon.

My size balloon: five feet eight, one hundred twenty-three pounds, shoulder muscles, arm muscles okay. Swim team, track team, JV football, but like the other guys vaping, kind of short of breath these days.

Like, fucking panting.

Coach stares at us, disgusted. Steve, Carlie, Leonard, Jacey. Coach hears us panting. Maybe Coach can smell us. (But you can’t smell e-cigs like you smell fucking cigarettes—right?) Like, Coach isn’t going to accuse anybody of anything. Even if he guesses what we’re doing behind his back. Knows he could get his ass sued by irate parents.

Defamation laws. Slander, libel. Lawyers for the school district.

So fuck Coach, who gives a fuck. Mom is in no condition to come to our meets anymore, Dad stopped coming years ago. And when Dad came and I set a county record for the four-hundred-meter sprint, he was on his fucking cell phone most of the time.

Hey kid. I’m proud of you.

Yeh okay, Dad.

I am! I goddamn am.

Okay, Dad. Cool.

Like I gave a shit. Like I’m panting and wagging my tail like some sorry-ass little mutt for Dad to pet.

That sprint was my best time. Still the county record.

Why vaping feels so good. Turns them all mute.

Why e-cigs are the greatest invention. Nothing like fucking tobacco cigarettes that stink and stain your teeth and you can see the damn smoke.

Only (old) assholes smoke. Dad boasts how he’d quit, but he’s such a fucking liar, who can believe him.

Have to laugh seeing teachers’ mouths move so seriously, but you can’t follow what the fuck they are saying. Fun-ny!

Jacey, what’s so funny? Would you like to tell us?

Trying to keep a straight face. Sputtering, hot. Friends in the class turning to grin at me behind their hands.

Nah. I’m okay.

You’re—“okay”? Are you?

Let adults get the last word, that sarcastic tone, that’s cool. Like anybody gives a fuck what they think.

Joke’s on them—teachers. Don’t know shit.