Silas Jones

Good Choices

Two years ago, Connie McHale’s older sister Alexis got t-boned driving home drunk from a graduation party and even though she didn’t die and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even technically “her fault” or whatever, it’s now mandatory for all grads to go straight from the stage at the center of the football field to an idling bus where the only place to sit is next to Connie, who is clutching her mortarboard even though she was supposed put it in Vince Principal Walter’s cardboard box like I did, for which I didn’t get a “Thank You,” just a “Make Good Choices,” which is VP Walter’s “thing” he likes to say at assemblies and, in my opinion, is a lie because I don’t make ANY choices, all of them get made for me, like for example; sitting next to Connie on the bus ride to an undisclosed location that turns out to be a Hard Rock Cafe where we, the Class of 2014, are forced to pass an entire night Not Dying or Losing the Use of our Legs; slumped in booths drinking Mountain Dew and listening to a playlist that includes two versions (Up Tempo and Regular) of the Jeremih song “Birthday Sex,” which I like even though I have never actually had sex (birthday or otherwise) unless you count that time Ella Van Cleef stuck two fingers inside me at Tom Skoog’s party, in Tom’s mom’s white-lit walk-in clo