It was probably a dirty, disgusting joke, I thought. Like me, Jackson hated dirty jokes. I hated them because they were usually quite juvenile. He hated them because he was brought up in a home where no curse word was accepted and taking the name of God in vain was really considered a sin. I knew that just listening to these jokes made him feel guilty. I was feeling sorry for him but suddenly began feeling sorrier for myself.
The first indication that something was wrong with me was the way the music began to sound. It seemed to be going in and out, the notes elongated, the bass very low, and the high notes shrill enough to shatter glass.
The second hint came when the crowd in front of me began drifting out of focus, some of the students dwindling and some widening. Their faces ballooned. Their laughter was like rolling thunder.
Despite all this, I felt a strange uplift in my spirits. I wanted to laugh, even as I also wanted to cry. I moved back and forth from depression to elation, as if I were on a roller coaster of emotions. I could feel the pounding start in my heart and realized I had begun to break out in a sweat.
For a moment, I thought I could see a terrific storm heading my way. Windows rattled, and the pathetic gym decorations seemed to be floating in some wind. A small tornado was coming. I wanted to shout a warning.
Before it hit hard, I remember looking at the empty cup and then at Marsha, who stood off to the side with Brenda and the others.
They were all standing there with identical idiotic smiles on their faces, watching me.
Between these insane visions, I had a realization: Jackson had handed me my glass of punch, but Marsha must have distracted him so Brenda could put something in it.
Was it X, or was it worse?
I was losing control and soon wouldn’t even be able to explain why.
The music got louder and louder. I dropped the cup and put my hands over my ears.
I heard the voice of someone shouting, screaming. It was terrifying.
And then I realized why.
It was my own voice.
I was the one screaming.
2
Mrs. Turman, our school nurse, called an ambulance to get me to the nearest hospital immediately. I should have been grateful that she just happened to be one of the chaperones that night, but later I would be embarrassed and quite ashamed, even though it wasn’t my fault.
Afterward, I wished everyone would simply ignore me the way they usually did. However, my behavior had been wild, and there were many who enjoyed reenacting it with great exaggerations. I couldn’t walk through a hallway without someone going into an out-of-control Saint Vitus’s dance, their arms and body twisting awkwardly.
I had panicked at the party because I knew exactly what was happening to me and what could result.
They said I was swinging my arms madly to keep everyone away from me.
I spun around so much that I fell backward, first ungracefully on my rear end and then out flat. Jackson was at my side, holding my hand and saying something to me, but his voice sounded as if he were talking through a tunnel. Mrs. Turman was there next to him. She was taking my pulse and then shouted to someone.
I think I blacked out and woke again while someone was putting a cool cloth on my forehead. What seemed like moments later, I felt myself being lifted and then rolled out of the school on a stretcher, Mrs. Turman beside me and holding my hand. I was trembling terribly and crying. I must still have been swinging my free arm madly again, because they stopped the stretcher so someone could strap my arms in and then strap in my feet as well.
Later, I had a glimpse of my father’s face as they wheeled me into the emergency room, but a glimpse was enough to understand that he wore an expression that was a mixture of concern and rage. The school had contacted my home immediately, and he had just gotten back from his shift at the production company. My mother was standing beside him, holding my brother’s and sister’s hands, all three looking absolutely terrified. My family had arrived at the hospital quickly, but they couldn’t come into the examination area right away.
The paramedics pretty much confirmed what Mrs. Turman had believed and what I knew: I was suffering from a serious drug reaction.
The question none of them could answer at the moment was: Did I take the drugs willingly, or did someone spike my punch?
Once I knew that was the issue, I immediately felt sorry for Jackson, since he was the one who had handed me the cup of punch. He was sure to be the person of most interest to the police in determining if this was my doing or someone else’s. They might even think it was he. An incident like this required that the police investigate, and that would have repercussions at school, where Dean Becker and the principal were surely going to pursue their own inquiry. The school had a no-tolerance rule for drugs. If you were caught dispersing any, you were expelled and charged with the crime. Using could have the same result.
I had a fitful night at the hospital, with crying jags and periods when my body seemed to freeze. It took all night and into the late morning before I was really able to converse relatively intelligently with anyone. My mother remained in my hospital room for the whole night, holding my hand. When I opened my eyes again, she was asleep in the chair but still clinging to my hand.
The moment I moved, she woke up. “How do you feel?” she asked immediately.
I was still trying to figure out where I was and how I had gotten here. I shook my head. “What happened to me?”
“We’re not sure yet, honey, but it has to do with drugs. Your daddy took your brother and sister home.”