I grew up to the sound of sirens. I was 12 years old the first time I got arrested, for egging a house. It was so long ago, I don't remember who's idea it was, but I'd be willing to bet money it was Ricky. He's gotten even less creative since we were in junior high, if you can imagine.

Nothing happened, really. I think the police officer was just trying to scare me. He took me for a ride in the backseat of the cop car, and when we got to the station, my dad picked me up within twenty minutes. I got charged with "criminal mischief." My dad was furious, but my mom wasn't, ironically enough. She always had this "kids will be kids," attitude, and after I did something stupid, I would always be subjected to the same story of her after-prom party junior year. Maybe that was her way of punishing me.

I wasn't the first in my family to get in trouble with the law, though, and the police station wasn't unfamiliar territory. Tucker was arrested at least three times that I can remember, all for different reasons. It wasn't that he had a drug problem, which is what most people assumed after he died. He didn't even do anything that bad, really. It's just that whenever he did, he got caught.

"Let me explain," he would always say, a smile spreading across his face, whenever my mom, dad, Jacob, Rowan, and I went to pick him up.

"This better be good," my dad grunted, but of course, nothing would ever be good enough for him.

It was never that I hated Jacob. I would've hated Tucker, if he were the brother that lived.

When Ricky said, "run," the first time, I don't know why that's the one time I didn't listen to him.

"What's happening?" Jose asked, with urgency piercing his shaky voice. We were all in his tree house getting high, which was a stupid place to be on a Tuesday night in December, when the ones who cared were studying for their mid-semester exams and the ones who didn't were out partying. We always existed somewhere in limbo, not being the overachieving, successful ones, but not cool enough to do anything really badass. Jose wasn't high, either; he was just overseeing us. We paid him two crisp $100 bills earlier that night, in exchange for the place and for him keeping his mouth shut. For someone who was supposedly a Christian, he was very easily bought out.

"Somebody must've smelled the marijuana," Ricky said. His normally dark eyes, now a shade of red, were darting back and forth. I was fairly certain he was the only person who ever actually smoked pot, yet still referred to it by its clinical name.

"Come on, let's get the fuck out of here. I can't get arrested again," Griffin said, because he had been in more trouble than any of us.

"Where are you going?" Dylan asked, right as Griffin was hoisting himself above the wooden ledge of the tree house, and flung himself over. It was one swift motion, obviously not his first quick exit from a crime scene. He fell to the ground, and I heard a crack.

"Fuck!" I glanced down a little bit to see, but not much, as if the police wouldn't arrest me if they could only see the top of my head. Griffin was grabbing his leg, and exclaiming obscenities, which was never a good sign.

"You okay, bud?" Dylan said, because even in the state of crisis, he was still concerned for his friend. Griffin didn't answer; instead, he took off running across the lawn, in the opposite direction from where the cop cars were pulling up out front. I could tell from the limping and the swearing that he was in a lot of pain.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!" Jose shouted, finally losing it, because we were all just staring at each other with wide, terrified eyes instead of taking action. I had forgotten what it was like to be stoned, so I think it affected me the most. I wasn't reacting to anything; I didn't know how.

He pulled his black fabric wallet, and thrust one Ben Franklin at Ricky, and the other at me. "TAKE YOUR MONEY AND YOUR DRUGS AND GET OUT OF HERE!!"

Dylan started to use the ladder, then said, "fuck it," and went the same way as Griffin.

"WHY AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING?!"

"Calm down, Jose. Marijuana isn't even a real drug," Ricky said, because he was one of those people who said that. Then he stared wistfully at his half-smoked joint. "It's a sin to throw a joint away, unless there are flashing red lights behind you."

"Did your dad tell you that?" I joked, because Ricky's dad got twenty years for possessing and distributing crack.

"No, Tucker did," he shot back, and I started laughing uncontrollably, even though I really didn't want to.

"DO NOT SIT THERE AND TELL ME MARIJUANA ISN'T A REAL DRUG WHEN THERE ARE TWO POLICE CARS PULLING IN MY DRIVEWAY."

"Jose, face it man, you're gonna get busted. We might as well do the gangster thing and get busted along with you. Sacrifice ourselves, you know?" Under normal circumstances, Ricky would've been concerned, but that was the pot talking, not him.

"Yeah, that's noble. Maybe they'll let us off, for being honest."

Jose didn't know what else to do at that point, so he crumpled against the tree house wall, with his head in his hands.

"Dude, they never just come to people's houses like this," Ricky said. "Someone must've tipped them off, and I have a feeling it wasn't the neighbors. Someone screwed us over. Dude, are you crying?"

"No," Jose said, "Just hyperventilating. And reevaluating my life."

"I wasn't asking you. I was asking him," Ricky nodded in my direction, and only then did I realize my cheeks were wet. "You are so fucking high right now, dude," and that was the last thing he said to me, before the officer read us our rights. While it was happening, I squeezed my eyes shut, and I wanted to beg him,

"Please, please don't tell Penny."