Pusher

twenty.

A green slip was slapped onto my desk in the middle of my last period. A part of me had honestly believed I might get through the school day unscathed, but the time written in messy scrawl at the top was proof enough of what a false hope that was.

I stared at the numbers, unable to make sense of them until my teacher spared me a polite smile and told me I was free to go down now. I nodded blankly, the gravity of the situation not quite hitting me until I was in the hallway. I was being called down to the principal's office. I had been caught.

My steps were purposefully slow as my sneakers tapped their pace into the linoleum floor. An anxious buzz slipped into my skin. The burning heat of my nerves incited a sweat to break out on the back of my neck. 

Surely, they had called my mother already. An acrobatic routine took over my stomach.  I tried to force her face out of my mind but her features kept coming back to haunt me. The hard line of her mouth. Those guilty eyes. She would find a way to blame herself for this.

I was tied for salutatorian in my graduating class. One more perfect marking period and I was sure I would have beat Patty McNally for the spot. I would have gotten to write a speech at our commencement ceremony. Surely they wouldn't give that honor to a student who's been pushing drugs in the girls' locker room.

My perfect record was forever marred. I'd probably lose my spot as treasurer on the student council. My scholarship offers could be taken back. My acceptance letters might even be revoked.

My hand hovered over the doorknob. I paused a moment, trying to remember what my past was like before I had ruined any hopes of a successful future.

It was boring. It was safe. I had wanted to be someone else — anyone else. As I stood in front of the principal's office, that same feeling crept into my gut.

The knob clicked when I turned it. I handed the green slip to the secretary and she waved me over to the waiting area. I sat in a particular lumpy chair, trying to summon back some of the color that had drained from my face.

Nerves made my palms slick, and I wiped them along the tops of my jeans. It was too hot, the heavy air closing in on me from all sides and getting stuck in my lungs. My hands were shaking worse than when I took the SATs last year.

"Angelica Moore."

I was only half sure that the name being called was mine, but I glanced up all the same and followed Mr. Harlow into his office. He was a man teetering between middle-aged and old, and it showed plainly on his face. Wrinkles bordered his sunken-in eyes and the bald spot on the top of his head grew every year he continued to work here. Though I wasn't entirely sure if the loss of hair was due to age or the stress of dealing with teenagers all day.

He was short and round, beady eyes darting every which way. He was a naturally nervous man, always wringing his hands and shuffling papers, but today he was about to vibrate out of his own skin. It only twisted the guilty feeling in my gut further.

A dark skinned police officer sat at the desk and I was directed to a seat on the opposite side. I wanted to melt into my own skin. Heat licked at my cheeks.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Moore?" He asked me. His voice was deep, husky, and despite its collected nature, it set me on edge.

I shook my head no in response, not trusting my voice. Just another lie to add to the pile. What was the harm in one more?

The officer held his mouth in a thin line, then pulled out a small, clear bag of weed and set it on the table in front of him. So this was what Maverick planted in my locker.