Brandon. Yes, THAT Brandon.

Mo Money, Mo Problems... a Lotta Problems

Marshall finishes swiping his fingerprints off the computer and door handles (he's really good, I must admit), and proceeds to shut the machine down to its original state. My entire body shivers in nervousness. Something is going to go wrong, I know it. It'll be like an episode of some crime TV show when the investigators are just about ready to give up, but then that one guy with the mustache stays behind for thirty seconds after everyone's calling him to leave and finds my three inch long brown hair whisping through the air, catching it with his glove and placing it in a plastic bag, nodding slowly while his peers gasp in shock-

Bottom line, I get arrested. Marshall doesn't.

You'd think that'd be the biggest of my concerns right now, but no. Conner has caused me to completely disregard my own fate and possibility of being locked up. I mean, either he has seizures, or he's bipolar. I assume the latter. Being tripped up on ecstasy and sleeping pills plus symptoms of his disorder probably didn't help Conner in the slightest. And it's driving me nuts.

I never truly got Conner out of my head in the first place. It's like some part of me predicted this. I kept him there 'just in case' something happened where I would simply need to spring back, rescuing him from whatever was happening in his life. Well, my wish came true.

Will he be at school tomorrow? If so, what in the world will we have to say to each other? Given the chance that he even remembers what happened earlier today, tomorrow will be a day of tiptoeing and whispers. Not good.

I extract the bag from my pocket. What does it do? How... how does he feel? I mean, if I could feel nothing all the time, I think I would. An easy escape. But I know better than to turn to pills. What's going on that he has to result to drugs to cope with it?

Marshall snaps me out of my rapid thoughts, tugging on my arm and towing me downward as headlights beam through the glass windows. "What time is it?" he asks. I shrug, too frozen to do much else in this situation. "8:23. Alright. C'mon. Did you leave anything?"

"N-no..." I say, swiftly sprinting through a mental checklist of items I could've possibly left inside the drug store, although I didn't track any in to begin with. Marshall slowly gets on his feet, pacing slowly toward the back door. I don't understand the point of me coming with him to do this. Maybe somewhere in my mind, I wanted to make sure my twenty dollars was worth it. So far, it's a no.

Marshall gets us out of there way faster than we got in, so my heart beats just a little slower than it has been for the past twenty or so minutes. I remember a time in middle school when James snuck into our literature teacher's classroom after hours to retrieve his phone. I almost had a heart attack since he dragged me with him.

"That was fun," Marshall breathes once we're in my car. I parked about a block from the store, much to his dismay, but better safe than freaking sorry. The cops in West Crimson aren't big enthusiasts of the teenagers here.

"No, it wasn't." I start the engine, glancing around anyway to see if someone suspected our escapade and spies on us at this very moment. "I feel like I'm gonna puke."

Marshall laughs out loud, clapping me on the back. "Whatever. Now we can make use of the pills and talk shit about Freshman." He holds out his hand with pride. Hesitantly, I high-five him with about the effort of a mule. "No, no-dude I'm totally taking those pills. If Freshman wants 'em he'll hav'ta buy 'em back."

"What?"

"What? Gimme the bag, dummy."

Oh. No.

I pulled the bag out of my pocket... Marshall yanked me down when the car drove by-

"It's still in there."