WHEN MILLIE SMOKED POT, she acted nothing like those kids in the video I watched in health class. In fact, when she was stoned she was more fun.

Millie was prone to bouts of sadness. It scared me sometimes how dark she could go. How cold and reserved she could become. She’d practically fold in on herself, like a turtle hiding in its shell. When she got like that, there was no room for anyone else. But when she was drunk or stoned, she turned into this giggly, fun person. Mellow, yes. But it was a happy, contented mellow. I much preferred it to the sad, introspective side of Millie.

That was why the next time Millie offered me a joint, I took her up on it. It was only a couple of weeks after the first time she’d offered. I was over at Millie’s, and her mom was out. Working, I think. Or maybe on a date. I’m not really sure.

I inhaled correctly this time, having learned from my failed cigarette attempt. By the time I exhaled, I could already feel a warm, fuzzy feeling take over. It was way better than drinking. My body softened, my limbs melting like an ice cream cone on a hot day. I felt light and airy, my head fuzzy, but not spinning. We passed the joint between the two of us until it was gone.

When we finished, Millie put on some music. Giggling for no apparent reason at all, we danced around her room. I felt like we were moving in slow motion as we swayed back and forth. Millie’s smile was radiant, her fingers soft as they brushed against mine. When she threw her hands up in the air and twirled around, the sparkly rings on her fingers created a strobe effect bouncing light around the walls. It made me smile broader, laugh harder. Which in turn made Millie do the same.

The thing I had been so scared of ended up not being scary at all.

Every time we hung out after that, it revolved around drinking and getting stoned. Millie would sneak cups of her mom’s tequila or vodka into her bedroom after we knew her mom had fallen asleep or gone out for the night. Then we’d sit cross-legged on the ground, plug our noses and down it. Even with my nose plugged, I frequently gagged. But, hey, at least I got it down. Then we’d turn on Millie’s ceiling fan and smoke a joint, holding it out of her bedroom window.

Afterward, we’d lie in her bed eating snacks and talking for hours. I shared more with her during those nights than I’d ever shared with anyone. It was like my mellow extended to my mouth, my lips as loose as my joints. Those nights I revealed my deepest scars. Let her in on my private pain. Confessed my dreams for the future.