Every few years they vote to strike. But then some shit happens, they don’t strike. Chump change they make for salaries, they deserve.

In the beginning, last year, there were just a few kids vaping. And not in class.

Now it’s right in class, and half the kids doing it. (Including girls.) Teacher turns his back, you take a quick hit.

Inhale. Exhale. Cloud: chill. Laugh. Cough. The surprise of that head rush, so sweet.

Almond nicotine. Good shit!

Whatever it costs, it’s worth it. Clears the sad, sick crap in your head like Power Wash.

Vaping Alert.

Soon as you step into a building. Quick-scope where you can Juul without being detected.

Any medical facility, NO SMOKING signs everywhere.

Like at the Oncology Center.

Nothing about e-cigs. Nothing about Juuls, vaping.

Number one: restroom in the corridor (single occupant).

Number two: men’s restroom, stall.

(Yeah, I brought the Juul with me. Not intending to use but, like, to test my willpower.)

Goddamn: the infusion nurse can’t find a vein in Mom’s arm. Tightening a tough rubber band around her upper arm, palpating her forearm, looking for a vein. A sight I hate to see. Makes me feel queasy. Shivery. Shaky. So fucking sorry for Mom but disgusted with her too. You end up blaming them—victims.

Girls at school that guys have treated like shit. Should feel sorry for them, but fuck it, you do not.

Mom’s trying not to whimper. Trying not to cry. Arms bruised, they’re looking for a vein in the wrong damn place. Try the left arm. Jesus. By the elbow. Young nurse keeps poking her, apologizes, only makes things worse.

In vain, seeking a vein.

They sought a vein, in vain.

Yeh, I should exit the infusion room. Right. Should get out. There’s nothing for me to do but watch. I’m getting upset, telling the nurse to get somebody who knows fucking what she’s doing, which doesn’t help. My voice is loud, everyone is looking at me. Other patients in their chairs having their infusions. Other nurses. If I say fuck you, Goddamn fucking fuck all of you, the security guard will peer in the window, glaring like he did last time. If I don’t calm down, they will eject me from the Oncology Center. Then what will happen to Mom?

Okay, it isn’t Mom’s fault. None of it is Mom’s fault.

Still, I resent her. Leaning so heavy on me. Wanting to protest, I’m only fifteen!

Three fucking years before I can leave home. If I’m lucky. If I can get into college, and if Dad will pay for it. Fucking if.

Then it sweeps over me like dirty water in my mouth—What if Mom gets really sick, what if Mom dies?