“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I hate who I’m becoming,” Frank quietly said.
“What do you mean?”
Frank took out another small bag, except this one was filled with a white powder.
“I had to take money from my mom to get this,” he said, clearly upset and close to tears.
“Whoa,” was all I could say.
He started to open the bag and pour out some of the powder onto a CD case from the floor of his car.
He saw me staring, shocked. “I just need one line, that’s all,” he said, almost trying to convince himself.
I was trying to think of something to say, trying and failing.
Frank continued, “I liked it when all I did was play football and smoke a little weed here and there. I didn’t hurt anyone and no one thought I was a bad kid. Lisa said I had a problem with pot, that’s why she left me the second time.”
“Frank,” I said, “No… don’t do this to yourself. You’re only going to dig yourself deeper into a hole.”
He stood still, staring at me.