How to Fail at Being a Teenager

Level Six: "It's Gonna Be Okay"

There are a lot of ways that night could have gone worse than it did.

For one, I could have not gotten my phone back yet. I could have still been grounded for being caught with that vape, which was Shauna's fault, however irrelevant that is. She could've been calling and calling and calling, and it wouldn't matter because I wouldn't be there to answer. Or just as horribly, I could have not left my ringer on by accident. My mom turned it on every time I got grounded so she could read my texts in real time before I got the chance to delete them. But I was, and I did.

For another thing, Shauna could've been blackout-drunk, passed out, or too muddled to think straight enough for her to realize she should've done something to help. She could've been high as the sky, in her own world, or crushing her own lungs with a blunt. But she wasn't. She hadn't taken a single hit of anything, and the only drink she had, she couldn't even bring herself to finish.

And finally- not the only other thing that could've happened, but the only one I'm bothering to think of right now- Shauna could've not been with my sister that night. She could've been with Mini or Sasha like she was supposed to, or hooking up with some guy. Granted, that doesn't sound anything like something Shauna would do, but neither does going to Jessie Moscow's party with two girls she talks to approximately five times a week.

So yeah. It could've been a hell of a lot worse than it ended up being.

That doesn't mean the night went well. Not at all.

It was one nineteen in the morning when I got the call. At first, I thought it was my alarm, but then I realized that I've never set a weekend alarm in my life. Someone was calling me, which didn't make any sense, since the only two people I was friends with either were grounded or thought that I was. My mom was asleep, my dad was in Singapore on a business trip, and my sister never called me. Never.

I groaned softly and rolled over, sluggishly grabbing my phone off my bedside table. The screen blared yellow and green light straight into my eyes, making my vision all distorted. I didn't bother even looking at the caller ID with my fucked up eyes before hitting answer.

"Yuh?" I grunted, glancing momentarily at my watch before rolling back onto my side, the phone pressed between my ear and pillow. One nineteen? Who the hell is calling me at one in the morning?

"Carlo!" A voice half-screamed, half-sobbed into the microphone. I knew that voice by the first word. My heart skipped a beat. "Carlo, please! I need-"

Shauna's cries were cut off by a second muffled voice in the background, followed by the murmuring of what sounds like a thousand voices. I scrambled upright, my eyebrows forced down in confusion. "Shauna..."

I was interrupted by the sound of Shauna screaming at someone. Maybe everyone. "Call 911 you idiots! Someone call the fucking police!"

I shot to my feet, sprinting to my dresser to pull a pair of grey sweats over my boxers. "Shauna, calm down. Where are you? I'm coming right now."

"Jess- Jessie Moscow's," she sobbed, her breaths ragged and short. She's having an anxiety attack. "Please come fast-" she sucked in another gulp of air, this one shakier than the last- "and bring her inhaler. Please."

I don't even bother putting on a shirt before snatching my car keys off the dresser and running into my room. I knew exactly where she put her inhaler. Between the yellow tube socks and that lace bra she never wears 'cause 'it's too uncomfortable' in the middle shelf of her closet. Usually she couldn't even walk down the stairs without her inhaler with her just in case. She never would've left it by accident. This was on purpose. But why?