I’d like to say that it’s bittersweet and I’ll miss it, but the fact is, if I never again have to be in the high school parking lot at arrival or dismissal time, I’ll be a better person. Being in that parking lot has actually screwed up my relationship with Jesus, because of the mean thoughts I formulate about teenagers who won’t move their Size 0 asses out of the way of my car. The longer they take to move out of my way, the more horrible my thoughts of their morals, their futures and their hair.
“Don’t beep, Mom.”
“I’m gonna beep. I swear to god, I’m gonna beep.”
“Mom. Don’t beep. Mom.”
“I’m gonna beep. I’m gonna beep . . .”
I’m too old for this. In addition to the bad hip, my patience levels are in the near-empty red zone. I’ve actually worked through the scenario where I hurt one of them and - I gotta tell you - the consequences aren’t that bad. I understand there are some accomplished authors teaching creative writing in women’s prisons now. It could be my big break.
So yesterday, there was a big front-page story in our paper about these drug busts at four local high schools, including ours. Dozens of kids, ranging from 15 to 18, were arrested on drug charges and how did they catch them? Undercover cops posing as high school students the entire school year.
A police academy graduate whose job it was to go to high school and hang out with the stoners for an entire year: This concept fascinates me to no end. I thought about almost nothing else yesterday. (I rough-scripted and cast an AMC drama about it and it’s Emmy-worthy, trust me, especially if I can get James Franco and Lindsay Lohan on board.) And then in today’s paper was a follow-up story where one of the narcs talks about it. What a great morning I had, reading this.
She said the hardest part was taking the FCAT test. “It was long, a really long test,” she said. Also, the cafeteria food sucks, she got a dress code violation for wearing a skirt that was too short, and she had to do homework. In between buying drugs and turning down offers to go to the prom, she had to go to classes every day, write English papers, and sit through the pep assemblies. I bet there’s a diorama in her locker right now.
When she goes to the police academy reunion picnic, and everyone’s telling war stories of being shot at, chasing down pimps, and working nights, she can tell about when her pencil broke during the language essay portion of the FCAT.
I think she and the other cop-fake-students deserve a medal. It’s commendable that as adults, they could go to high school every day and not slap everyone silly, especially the ones in the parking lot.
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