I read marijuana, the underline is Evaluator Code to revisit a subject when I’m not braced for it.
“Were you actually smoking marijuana, or were you just with the others?”
“No, I lost the musical chairs. I was taking a long drag right when the vice principal ripped open the van door.”
“Okay, so the school suspended you and wouldn’t let you join the track team. How did your parents react?”
“They sent me to a counselor. He was an asshole.” I’m doing post-adolescent contempt as best I can. An authority figure mandated by my parents—if I say I liked him or that we got along, the Evaluator will be certain I’m lying.
“Why was he an asshole?”
I shrug. “Just was.”
“A school counselor, then?”
“No. Somebody else. Seigelman, or something.” A school counselor would keep a record and I never attended that school. Confidential or not, the Evaluator could still verify the visit. Keep the name vague—of course I couldn’t remember—and the trail is too long and too cold to follow.
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