#highschoolmemories

Senior Prom Night

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Chapter 6: Irama Tiga Langkah

Bel pulang sekolah berbunyi, namun getarannya terasa menyakitkan di kepala Yura. Ia merapatkan jaket milik Yohan yang masih tersampir di bahunya—jaket itu kini menjadi satu-satunya sumber kehangatan yang tersisa.

"Eonnie! Ya ampun, wajahmu merah sekali!" Suara melengking Minji membelah keheningan perpustakaan. Ia berlari mendekat, meletakkan telapak tangannya di kening Yura. "Panas! Kenapa kau tidak meneleponku tadi siang? Aku kan bisa menjemputmu ke kelas."

Yohan berdiri dari kursinya, kembali memasang wajah datarnya yang kaku. "Dia kehujanan kemarin sore," ucap Yohan pendek.

Minji menoleh ke arah Yohan, lalu ke arah jaket laki-laki itu yang membungkus tubuh Yura. Matanya memicing nakal selama setengah detik sebelum rasa cemas kembali mendominasi. "Ayo pulang. Aku sudah menelepon Ayah, katanya dia akan pulang cepat untuk memeriksa Eonnie."

"Aku akan ikut," sela Yohan.

Minji dan Yura serentak menoleh.

"Maksudku... rumahku searah. Dan aku harus mengambil jaketku kembali nanti," bohong Yohan lagi. Alis tebalnya bertaut, menyembunyikan rasa gugup yang mulai merayap. Ia tidak bisa membiarkan Yura pulang hanya dengan Minji yang ceroboh; ia harus memastikan dengan matanya sendiri bahwa Yura sampai di kasurnya dengan selamat.

Forty years ago, with the scent of old wood and nervous excitement in the air, we walked across the stage in the old gym to begin our adult lives. Some of us went straight to work, others started college, and some were just trying to figure it out as we went along. Today, we are the ones who look back with fond memories and say, “those were the good old days.” The music of the 1980s has made a…

At the end of May 1985, about 130 of us walked across the stage and received our diplomas. If you’re doing the math, that was 40 years ago. It’s hard to believe sometimes. With a class that size, you’d think it would be easy to know everyone—and for the most part, we did. Especially because most of the class had gone to school together since first grade. Kindergarten was optional back then, and I…

by Vile Murk or whatever version of me existed in 2015

Let me take you back to one of those in-between eras—either the last year of high school or what I like to call the “gap year of loaf.” You know the one. You’ve graduated, but you’re just floating. No real plans yet, no real rush either. Just life in a sort of hazy, transitional purgatory. That’s when weed first entered the picture for me—not in a wild or cinematic way, just a casual offer that turned into a lifestyle shift.

The first time I smoked, I felt absolutely nothing. Rookie mistake—I definitely wasn’t inhaling right. I think I just held it in my mouth like I was afraid of it. But the first time I actually got high? Whole different story. I remember staring at a light—just a regular-ass ceiling light—and thinking thoughts that didn’t even make sense. Just muttering “damn” to myself like I had unlocked the secrets of the universe. Then came the walk home. Normally a 25-minute trek, it felt like a pilgrimage. Two hours long in my head. I was behind this lady with a suitcase and for some reason that suitcase became like… a metaphor or a mirage? I don’t know. But I couldn’t stop staring at it like it was telling me something.

High school also had its little classic stoner movie moments. One that lives rent-free in my head is the time me and my homie came back from lunch—clearly high, no question. Her eyes were red as hell, mine probably looked like I had just been crying through a breakup scene in a rom-com. We walk back into the school, enter the forum, and boom—Spanish class awaits. And that’s when it happened. Our Spanish teacher, who was an absolute smokeshow—like, way too fine to be working at that school—stops us in the hallway. She looks at us, smirks a little, and just says, “You two have similar eyes.”

That’s all she said. Nothing more, nothing less. But to me and my homie? That was everything. It was like she knew exactly what was up but chose not to blow our cover. Just dropped the most casual, coded message like, “Yeah, I see you.” I’ll never forget her—mainly because she had that kind of unbothered hotness where she didn’t even know she was a baddie. The type that could’ve been cast in a CW show and wouldn’t have blinked twice.

From there, weed just became part of the routine. At first it was just smoking with friends, passing joints in parks, rooftops, basements—wherever the sesh could live. Then came the day I decided to cop for myself and got introduced to my first real dealer. Dude was like a weed mentor, trying to teach me to be discreet. This was long before legalization. I remember hotboxing my closet and getting caught by my mom, trying to convince her that it must’ve been a skunk outside or that I didn’t know what she was smelling. Like she didn’t raise me with functioning nostrils.

Then came my little dispensary job in the city. It was off-the-books, paid in cash, and lowkey sketchy. Every shift felt like I was stacking paper and dodging fate. My spot actually did get raided once—but on my day off. Pure luck. Felt like I was living in an HBO special.

Now? I’ve mellowed out. Still smoke, still indulge in an infused Rizzler when the moment feels right, but I’m not deep in that stoner lifestyle like before. Those early days though—those long walks, Lil Ugly Mane nights, closet hotboxes, Spanish class walk-of-shames—those were the roots. Just a kid figuring things out in a smoky blur. I’ve got more stories, maybe I’ll share ‘em in the next post.