I held the joint in my hand as I sat on my bed. It was only four in the afternoon, and I was home. I had spent the last week of school running home from the bus stop. I didn’t want to face BB again. I thought I was tough, but I didn’t want to be. Teasing and acting mean to kids on the block was one thing. Delivering drugs was something else. I was too afraid. I hated myself for it. I believed I was weak. I believed I was worthless. I couldn’t even smoke my birthday gift. I didn’t want to.
I heard a dish fall in the kitchen. I stood up quickly and stepped out of my room. I saw Dad stumbling around the table. I thought he was drunk or high again, so I stepped right back into my room. Then I heard a thud. I knew he must have hit the floor hard. I leaned back on my bed up against the wall. I was waiting for his usual snoring. But it didn’t come. I lifted my head and listened. It was quiet.
I shot out of my room and was leaning over Dad. His eyes were open but he wasn’t breathing. I started screaming and shaking him.
“What’s going on?” Mom stood in the opening to the living room. Her hair was pressed up to one side of her head. She was only wearing a bra and sweat pants.
I was still shaking Dad. I screamed, “He’s dead. I think he’s dead.” Tears made it hard for me to see.
I felt Mom shove me out of the way. “Oh no! No!” She screamed. She turned and looked at me with fear in her eyes. She yelled, “Call nine-one-one!”
I started patting down Dad. Each pat felt like I was touching a strange mass lying in the middle of the kitchen. I finally reached for Dad’s jean’s pocket. I had to shove him on his side so I could pull out his cell phone. I dialed.
Thirty minutes later the police found us still sitting beside Dad. But we were just sitting next to a dead body. Mom had her head between her knees and was rocking back and forth. I was just staring. I knew the minute they came in that more than Dad would be taken away from me. They would find the drugs still cluttering up the living room. They would find the small amount of pot in my room. I knew nothing would be the same.
The police called it Protective Services. They took me. Away from my neighborhood. Away from my mother. Away from everything I knew.
I was alone.