This is a finished story.

She walks in the door and takes off her belt from her school uniform pants and throws it on the floor, adding to a large pile of them. She glances at the belts, counting them, and realizes it�s Friday. She smiles, but then throws up in the trash can. She wipes her mouth with the bottom of her uniform shirt. She grabs the joint from my lips and takes a drag.

She�s the girl you see in the back of the classroom, stoned beyond belief. Her black hair is in her white, pale face, her stoned eyes surrounded in thick black liner. She�s the one who takes a drag from her joint when the teacher�s not looking, then blows the smoke in the face of the unfortunate brainiac who happened to sit next to her. Hell, she�s even the one who takes a drag from her joint when the teacher�s looking.

So far she�d managed getting through three years of Catholic high school like this, the one who was the outcast from everyone else. The one that everyone talks about, the one that�s the enigma on how she kept that A average in an honors class when she does nothing but smoke weed and sleep during those classes.

She sniffs and rubs her nose. She was out snorting. That�s why she�s late. She sheds her disgusting shirt and throws it at the pile of dirty laundry on the other side of the room. She throws her pants over there too, then walks to the bedroom to change into clothes of her liking. I watch. She�d been doing this every day since I met her, and now I can do it for her without thinking.

She�s ghastly thin. But when I glance at myself in the mirror, I realize that I am too. It�s the three years of drugs, which take my hunger away from me. Actually, I don�t remember the last time I ate.

She comes back out; she�s got her baggy jeans and black shirt on. Her style is just as predictable as her routine. She sits next to me. I grab the joint from her mouth and take a drag myself. Three years and we�ve been doing the same thing every day. When she comes home from school, we sit and get stoned until we pass out and do it all over again.

But today is Friday. We�ve got another thing coming. Tonight�s our night to go out. By going out, we usually go to Baby�s house and get high there. She finishes off the joint and puts it out in an ash tray, then gets up.

I follow her, knowing where we�re going. We go out the door to our messy apartment, closing the door and not bothering to lock it. If anyone wants to come in our apartment they can. They won�t find the drugs, because we take that with us. There�s nothing of value there. Everything that�s worth anything is with us, everywhere we go.

I follow her to Baby�s house, a ten minute walk from our place. She knocks on the door then lets herself in. Baby looks up and smiles. She walks over and greets us. I take a seat on the couch. It smells like weed. The whole house smells like weed. I look on the table. There�s a razor, white powder, and a tiny straw. My girl sits on the floor in front of the table and immediately begins to snort.

I don�t do that shit, I see what is does to my girl. I see what it does to Baby. I don�t like it, so I don�t do it. I�ll smoke anything they give me, I�ll even shoot up, but I won�t snort.

The door opens again and three more people walk in. Two guys and a girl in between them. Baby looks up and invites them over. They snort and smoke too. The girl they brought with them walks over to me and sits on my lap. I don�t know her. I don�t care. She�s beautiful.

Four of us are passed out now, just me and my girl are still awake. I look out the window. These meetings almost always end up in everyone passing out. I am always the last one to pass out, though. My girl is doing things to me she�d never do if she was clean. I don�t really seem to notice, I can�t feel much past my waist. As I look out the window through the haze of smoke, I see blue and red lights flashing. They weren�t there before. Maybe it�s just the reaction from the pills I took earlier.

The door is knocked over and cops rush in. Did they even knock before the door was kicked open?

In a flurry of activity, I find myself with my hands cuffed behind my back and the all too familiar Miranda rights are being read to me. My girl and I are thrown into the back of a squad car.

It�s a typical Friday.

� 2000 [email protected]