Paper Squares and Prison Bars

I didn't want to tell this story, which is precisely why I should. It's one of those tales that lives in the back of your mind, like a forgotten pair of socks in the dryer.

[Disclaimer: This is a true story, but if you're under 25, please don't do drugs or view this as an endorsement of them. Trust me, you're not as invincible as you think you are.]

It was 2011, and I was running Zivity when my coworkers discovered a voicemail from an ex-boyfriend named Spencer. He was furious, accusing me of being a narc. The message was a time capsule from a past I'd tried to bury, and it dragged me back to the Smokers' Bridge outside my high school, where I first met him.

Picture it: 10th-grade Cyan, a walking cliché of teenage angst and poor judgment. I was the kind of girl who thought bad boys were a challenge, not a red flag. Spencer was tall, cute, and had that air of mystery that only a 16-year-old with a leather jacket and a pack of Marlboros could pull off. We fell into what passed for romance at that age—mostly sneaking around and making out like our lives depended on it.

One day, during our lunchtime ritual of sharing cigarettes and spit, Spencer pulled out a little square of paper. "Wanna trip?" he asked, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Looking back, it's disturbing how easily we got our hands on these substances. Some adult—probably in their twenties or thirties—thought nothing of selling acid tabs to Spencer, who was just sixteen. In America, this sick pipeline runs through every high school: adults who see kids as easy marks, perfect for moving product without drawing attention. They recruit teenagers with promises of easy money and status, never mentioning how they're destroying young lives in the process.

I was no stranger to recreational substances, but acid? That was uncharted territory. But in a moment of teenage invincibility (or stupidity—take your pick), I stuck out my tongue like a baby bird and said, "Why the hell not?"

Fast forward to dBase class, where I watched my pencil transform into a wriggling, liquid yellow #2 snake. My teacher—who I suspect had seen his fair share of dilated pupils—took one look at me and guided me to the back of the room. He set me up with a computer game and gave me a knowing wink. "Ride it out, kid," he said. Legend.

Orchestra, though, was a different story. I stumbled in with my French horn, but as soon as we started playing, the notes leaped off the page and danced in the air. The valves morphed into writhing tentacles. I wasn't making music; I was summoning demons. Panicking, I YEETED that cursed horn to the floor (leaving a sizeable dent in the bell) and scrambled over my bandmates to the door, shouting, "Sorreeeeeeeee, I don't feel well!!!!"

I fled back to the bridge, where Spencer later found me dangling my feet over the edge. He peeled me off and took me for a walk to clear my head. We ended up at an old gothic church—probably the worst place for tripping teenagers. The gargoyles leered, Jesus wiggled suggestively on the cross, and I'm pretty sure the Virgin Mary winked at me. I lit some candles in a haze of pseudo-spiritual reverence, then promptly blew some out because... who knows why? It made sense at the time.

We eventually made it to Spencer's friend's house, where I discovered my nemesis: paisleys. Those swirling patterns sucked me in like a psychedelic black hole. I stared at them for what felt like eons until someone whispered in my ear: "Earwax." That single word sent me spiraling into an existential crisis.

If someone whispers "earwax" in your ear while you're tripping, just say no.

When I finally came down, I decided this wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat anytime soon.

A few weeks later, I spotted two girls from the bridge outside of class in the school hallway, touching walls and giggling. They were clearly tripping, and I realized with a pang of guilt that I'd pointed them toward Spencer when they asked where to score acid. I couldn't let them wander around school like that, so I ditched class, grabbed them, and made a break for it.

Yes, I yeeted the horn again. My second-chair bestie was getting used to putting it away for me.

We ended up at a convenience store because tripping apparently makes you crave fluorescent lights and orange juice. "I heard if we drink orange juice, we trip harder!" one of them exclaimed. And that's where the cops caught up with us.

They stuffed us into a squad car, hauled us back to school, and grilled us like suspects on a bad cop show. They threw around words like "accessory" and "manslaughter," which was confusing because, last I checked, nobody had slaughtered any men.

Then came the moment of truth. The cops leaned in and asked, "If we search Spencer right now, are we gonna find any acid on him?"

I can't remember what I said or did. Did I nod? Did I shake my head? Did I mumble something cryptic? Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t think I did.

In my memory, I stood up for Spencer and protected him.

What I do know is this: they pulled him out of school, found the drugs, and I got a one-way ticket to solitary confinement. There's nothing quite like being stripped naked and paraded around like a prize pig at the county fair. I sat in that cell, watching shadows crawl across the walls, wondering where everything went wrong.

Spencer wasn't so lucky. His life shattered that day like a glass dropped on concrete. His record? Permanently stained. His future? He was derailed by a juvenile drug charge that followed him like a shadow. The reality is heartbreaking: a lot of youth in juvenile detention are there for nonviolent offenses, and about one in five juvenile arrests are drug-related. Over 70% of these kids never complete a four-year college degree. One bad decision was orchestrated by adults who should have known better, and Spencer became another statistic.

I was released without explanation. It was quite some time before I saw Spencer again—at Dab Nabbits while I was working behind the counter. I was dating someone else by then, and he could tell I was uncomfortable when Spencer mentioned moving away and blamed me for what happened to him. The bitterness in his voice was palpable; he'd watched his bright future evaporate while I somehow escaped relatively unscathed.

Recently, Spencer reached out again, but this time with forgiveness. He is older and wiser, encouraging me to reexamine my memories. And he was right—our memories are fallible, colored by time, emotion, and the lies we tell ourselves.

But Spencer helped me realize that the real villain wasn't me or him. It was the system that failed us both—that let kids run around with hard drugs and then slammed them in cages when things inevitably went wrong. It's a system where adults who sell drugs to teenagers rarely face consequences, while kids like Spencer have their futures demolished. In America, nearly 40,000 juveniles are arrested for drug offenses annually, and Black and Latino youth are disproportionately targeted, representing over 60% of drug arrests despite similar usage rates across racial groups. We criminalize children instead of protecting them from the adults who exploit them.

So, Spencer, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for any pain I caused you, intentional or not. You didn't deserve what happened. I've tried to make amends by fighting for drug policy and prison reform, but I know it doesn't erase the past.

I hope sharing this story offers some closure. Your story matters, and it deserves to be told.

To everyone else, let this be more than just a cautionary tale. It's an indictment of a broken system that criminalizes children while the adults who poison them walk free. Every time we lock up a teenager for drugs, instead of addressing why adults are selling to them in the first place, we're throwing away another life like Spencer's. We're all fumbling through this existence, making mistakes and hoping for grace. But some mistakes shouldn't cost you your entire future, especially when you're just a kid whose brain isn't fully developed. Spencer deserved better. Thousands like him deserve better. And until we recognize that vengeance masquerading as justice helps no one, we'll keep sacrificing children like ritual offerings to a system that doesn't care if they live or die—it only cares if they comply.