Drenched in Light by Lisa Wingate Read Free Book Online Page B

teacher was loudly quoting a Shakespeare passage about haste.
    As the halls emptied, Mr. Stafford escorted the officers from the police task force toward the front door, so that they could walk over to the high school building and repeat their assembly for the older kids. “Down the front steps, follow the covered walkway around the middle school building to the right, through the parking lot, past the performance hall, the maintenance building, and the tennis courts, to the three-story brick building with the glass doors. The newer building.” It had always chafed at Mr. Stafford that the high school facility was years newer than the middle school building, which had originated in the thirties. After closing as a public school, the building had become an arts magnet high school, then finally a magnet middle school, as the program grew and a new high school was constructed. “The administration office is just inside the double doors, and . . .” He glanced at his watch, frowning. “I thought someone from the other building was coming to walk you over.” Spying me, he angled his guests my way. “Ms. Costell can escort you over there and check you in at the office.”
    He paused to introduce me. Shaking hands, I thanked the officers, politely complimenting the assembly and saying that it was beneficial for the kids. But what did I know, really? I was no expert on kids and drugs. I was just the dork in the sherbet-colored dress on Red Day.
    The police officers weren’t aware of that, of course. They assumed that, as my staff name tag indicated, I was an actual guidance counselor. The sergeant, a fifty-something seen-it-all type whose badge read REUPER, delivered some stats about marijuana, crack, meth, Ecstasy, and huffing common household substances among area teens. Giving me a list of Web sites that offered good information, he suggested follow-up techniques I might use to develop a cooperative home-and school-based prevention program.
    I tried to imagine actually calling some Harrington kid into my office and questioning him or her about drug use. The parents would have a fit. Harrington kids were above such interrogation.
    “It can happen anywhere. It’s not just gang kids from the wrong side of town.” Sergeant Reuper appeared to be reading my mind. “High expectations and performance pressure can cause kids to look for an escape hatch. These days, marijuana and methamphetamine are inexpensive and relatively easy for young people to procure. They can buy just about anything they want on street corners not four blocks from here. Then there’s the entire class of commonly available household products we talked about during the assembly. Kids don’t think that inhaling butane, correction fluid, or aerosol propellants is drug use, but it is. It’s pervasive, and it’s deadly.” His eyes narrowed toward the hallway, as if he could feel the demanding culture in the atmosphere. “Addiction is an equal opportunity killer. It’s a tough thing to beat, and the only effective solution is a coordinated effort between home and school. There’s no room for denial, in either place.”
    In that instant, I could relate to what the kids in our classrooms might be going through. I knew about addiction and denial. Not drug addiction, but I knew about keeping secrets and hiding who you really were. Even in middle school, I realized I had a problem with food, but I didn’t think anyone would understand, so I kept dabbling with binging and purging until I had an addiction I couldn’t control. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll get busy putting together some awareness programs and parent information.”
    Mr. Stafford blinked in surprise. Clearly, he didn’t think I was capable of constructing an awareness program. He couldn’t imagine how much I really knew about hitting rock bottom, admitting the truth to your family, and climbing the twelve steps out of the pit.
    “Call us if we can help,” the sergeant said,