Late in tenth grade, Beale Air Force Base. Somehow the older kid down the street that I don’t know very well invited me to smoke a joint. We’re in the woods with a couple of his friends who are younger. I don’t know any of them that well, but they seem okay. It’s only the third time I’ve smoked marijuana but I’m playing it off like I know all about it. As far as I’m concerned it’s a sham, as I’ve never felt much of anything. But then he mentions Mark, who lives across the street. “You two are friends, right?” I hear hostility in his voice. “He’s okay,” I hand back the joint. “You know he stole my bike?” the guy says. “What? That doesn’t sound like him.” I know Mark, and I don’t think there’s any way he stole this dude’s bike. But he keeps talking about it, and I keep telling him I don’t know anything. I try to be non-committal so I don’t insult him, but I’m also not going to pretend to believe him. Mark’s just not like that.