Read Online Beer Money: A Memoir of Privilege and Loss by Frances Stroh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances Stroh
Ads: Link
the line between a life of privilege and a life in prison. Soon after Charlie’s trial, Michigan had raised the penalty for dealing cocaine to life without parole.
“Would you?” asked Sasha, looking over at Feren.
“Me? ” asked Feren jestingly, laughing her semi-insane laugh. “Not a chance.”
But I wasn’t convinced. Feren was the wildest of us all. Over spring break she’d apparently been cavorting with some French sailors who’d docked in Nevis, the West Indian island where her mother lived.
“I wonder what will happen to them,” I said, glancing down at the photo. “They’re so screwed; they’ll never get into college.”
“They’ll end up in reform school,” said Liv in that endearing deadpan monotone of hers. “As far away from drugs as you can get.”
Feren got up to replenish her drink. “I don’t know, Liv. They probably have great drugs in reform school. Like they do in prison.”
“Better than at Taft?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine a place where drugs were more available or more intrinsic to the culture. In Grosse Pointe some kids I knew were starting to use coke, but at Taft you’d have to hide under your bed to avoid being implicated in drug use, and you’d probably find someone’s stash while you were under there.
The irony was, my parents had sent me away at least in part to protect me from drugs. As it turned out, getting high was just such a key part of life at Taft—an essential step toward becoming an adult, an instant form of self-reinvention, and certainly a step away from a childhood that was best left behind. I talked with my parents once a week on the pay phone in the hall, but with all the kids gone from the house except Whitney, I imagined the scene at home was rough. My mother’s persistent cheerfulness in the face of my father’s emotional decline was enough to keep me in New York for half of all myvacations, either with friends or at my grandmother’s house in New Jersey. I hoped Whitney would survive until he could go away to school, too.
O ur “dorm mothers” were too detached to snoop—at least until sophomore year, when I roomed with Sasha. We’d chosen the room because no teachers resided on that hall, and the set of purple psychedelic curtains framing the window at the end of the hall, just outside our door, was a main attraction. We loved those curtains, with their absurdly bold swirling patterns, so retro 1960s, so symbolic of the ironies of Taft. Once Sasha took them down and donned them as a cloak she wore to sit-down dinner.
Pamela, a tall, skinny blonde from South Bend, Indiana, usually came down to do bongs with me. We used a “hit towel”—a regular white towel, dampened and rolled up for maximum absorption, into which we blew the smoke to avoid stinking up the room—and we sprayed Ozium in the air, as an added precaution.
But then Jan Coleruso, a newly hatched teacher from Yale, started knocking on our door during study hall, asking for aspirin and tampons, inhaling our room’s aroma as she stood in the doorway, her running shorts sprouting thick, muscular legs.
“Why is she stalking us?” I complained to Sasha as soon as she’d left.
“Um, because you’re a pothead?” Sasha would say wryly, grinning as she went back to her book. This was the routine.
Being practical, Pamela and I changed our schedule: we brushed our teeth, smeared Clearasil on our faces, and did bongs every night before bed, avoiding smoking during study hall hours.
Then one Saturday night my luck ran out. I’d been playing Quarters at an off-campus party, and my friend David, a day student, dropped me back on campus past the midnight curfew. The doors to the dorms had already been locked, and everyone’s lights were out except Coleruso’s. I knocked loudly and waited. I heard footsteps on the cement stairs, doors creaking open, and then my heartbeat pounding in my ears when I saw her through the porthole, turning the key in the lock, a gaseous cloud
“Would you?” asked Sasha, looking over at Feren.
“Me? ” asked Feren jestingly, laughing her semi-insane laugh. “Not a chance.”
But I wasn’t convinced. Feren was the wildest of us all. Over spring break she’d apparently been cavorting with some French sailors who’d docked in Nevis, the West Indian island where her mother lived.
“I wonder what will happen to them,” I said, glancing down at the photo. “They’re so screwed; they’ll never get into college.”
“They’ll end up in reform school,” said Liv in that endearing deadpan monotone of hers. “As far away from drugs as you can get.”
Feren got up to replenish her drink. “I don’t know, Liv. They probably have great drugs in reform school. Like they do in prison.”
“Better than at Taft?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine a place where drugs were more available or more intrinsic to the culture. In Grosse Pointe some kids I knew were starting to use coke, but at Taft you’d have to hide under your bed to avoid being implicated in drug use, and you’d probably find someone’s stash while you were under there.
The irony was, my parents had sent me away at least in part to protect me from drugs. As it turned out, getting high was just such a key part of life at Taft—an essential step toward becoming an adult, an instant form of self-reinvention, and certainly a step away from a childhood that was best left behind. I talked with my parents once a week on the pay phone in the hall, but with all the kids gone from the house except Whitney, I imagined the scene at home was rough. My mother’s persistent cheerfulness in the face of my father’s emotional decline was enough to keep me in New York for half of all myvacations, either with friends or at my grandmother’s house in New Jersey. I hoped Whitney would survive until he could go away to school, too.
O ur “dorm mothers” were too detached to snoop—at least until sophomore year, when I roomed with Sasha. We’d chosen the room because no teachers resided on that hall, and the set of purple psychedelic curtains framing the window at the end of the hall, just outside our door, was a main attraction. We loved those curtains, with their absurdly bold swirling patterns, so retro 1960s, so symbolic of the ironies of Taft. Once Sasha took them down and donned them as a cloak she wore to sit-down dinner.
Pamela, a tall, skinny blonde from South Bend, Indiana, usually came down to do bongs with me. We used a “hit towel”—a regular white towel, dampened and rolled up for maximum absorption, into which we blew the smoke to avoid stinking up the room—and we sprayed Ozium in the air, as an added precaution.
But then Jan Coleruso, a newly hatched teacher from Yale, started knocking on our door during study hall, asking for aspirin and tampons, inhaling our room’s aroma as she stood in the doorway, her running shorts sprouting thick, muscular legs.
“Why is she stalking us?” I complained to Sasha as soon as she’d left.
“Um, because you’re a pothead?” Sasha would say wryly, grinning as she went back to her book. This was the routine.
Being practical, Pamela and I changed our schedule: we brushed our teeth, smeared Clearasil on our faces, and did bongs every night before bed, avoiding smoking during study hall hours.
Then one Saturday night my luck ran out. I’d been playing Quarters at an off-campus party, and my friend David, a day student, dropped me back on campus past the midnight curfew. The doors to the dorms had already been locked, and everyone’s lights were out except Coleruso’s. I knocked loudly and waited. I heard footsteps on the cement stairs, doors creaking open, and then my heartbeat pounding in my ears when I saw her through the porthole, turning the key in the lock, a gaseous cloud
Similar Books
