And I do.
I hold on to that dream.
But then one of the kids in the audience shouts out another question, and I don’t even hear it ’cause I’m so lost in my head.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, looking over at the kinda wannabe gangsta kid standing toward the back. He takes off his Red Sox hat as if that’ll make me hear any better, shouting, “What about weed? Do you smoke weed?”
My heart seems to freeze up for a second, but I recover quickly, laughing it off.
“Hey, man, I used to smoke weed, like, all day, every day, and, uh, you know, again, I wouldn’t say there’s anything wrong with the substance in particular. I mean, to me it’s the same as drinking—I definitely don’t see a difference. But the problem for me was that I started using all these different substances as a way of fixing myself. So instead of having to face any of my fears or issues or anything, I just got high. And because I was high all the time, I never actually learned how to cope with anything—I never matured—and, even still, I’m like a, no offense, but, uh, sixteen-year-old trapped in a twenty-four-year-old’s body. I don’t know how to have real relationships with anyone—either romantic or otherwise—and just in general I don’t know how to live in the world. I can’t hold a job. I’ve been in and out of institutions since I was eighteen. Does pot have anything to do with that? I mean, yeah, it does. I used pot—along with everything else—as an escape from reality, right? And now I barely know how to function in reality at all. It’s super pathetic when you think about it. It’s pathetic to need drugs to get through the day. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I’m embarrassed about it. And the hell if I wanna have to keep living that way. So I choose not to today. But I can’t do it on my own. I need help. And as much as I’ve totally fought against this idea, I am learning how to reach out and get humble and take suggestions. It’s definitely a slow process, but at least I’m working in that direction. Does that make any sense at all?”
The kid kind of purses his lips, nodding his head and then smiling as he sits down.
His question is the last question.
Everyone applauds like crazy, and I spend a good long time talking to different kids who’ve formed a line waiting to ask me some more questions or whatever.
I try to answer as best I can and just to listen and be supportive and all, but I can’t help but be distracted by this sense of guilt at my own hypocrisy, biting and scratching at my insides like a rat trying to escape its cage. Christ, I mean, I know I’m a phony—a goddamn liar. The worst part is, I completely agree with everything I told that kid. It is pathetic that I’m still smoking pot. It’s pathetic that at twenty-four years old I still don’t know how to face reality without getting high. All the things I love to do, I only love to do when I’m able to smoke first. I can’t imagine my life without it—you know, watching movies, taking Tallulah on hikes, swimming laps at the community pool, hanging out with my friends, listening to music, drawing, any of it. I can’t do it sober—I really can’t. And pot’s the only drug I have left. If I get rid of that, then I’ll have gotten rid of everything. I’ll be alone with myself. There’ll be no more escape. I’ll die like that. Fuck, man, it really feels that way.
But only I know the truth—the truth that back in Charleston I have a fucking eighth of weed hidden over the refrigerator—the truth that for the past two years I haven’t ever been really sober.
Nobody knows I’m straight lying my ass off.
These kids come up, one by one, telling me how great I am.
The teachers tell me the same thing.
Even the principal comes up. “Nic,” he says, smiling finally. “I just wanted to tell you that in all the years I’ve been with this school, your talk was absolutely the most moving and, I’d say, important assembly we’ve ever had. Thank you so much for taking time from your busy schedule to come share with us.”
I smile back at him.
I lie with my smile.
I lie with my eyes.
I lie with my words.
I am a liar.
It’s not exactly news.
I’ve been a liar since as long as I can remember.
But standing here, right now, with all these kids actually taking time out of their lunch break to talk to me, lying doesn’t really feel all that cool or clever. I mean, I used to respect good liars. I remember when Zelda and I first started hanging out, she was pressed up naked in bed with me, talking to her boyfriend on the phone, lying her ass off, while I kissed down her body at the same time. She seemed so above us all—so sophisticated and cunning. It was sexy then. I admired her for it. But then again, her lying did eventually tear us down till there was nothing left. Her lying was like an abscess spreading quickly beneath the skin. Her lying destroyed everything. And now I have a feeling that my lying is about to do the same.
Still, I don’t let on.
I keep on smiling and lying and smiling.
I tell
