A late-night drive is like trying to finish a math test: it's stressful and there is a 90% chance you'll kill yourself over one dumb mistake. You might think it's crazy, but to be honest, I haven't felt that way since I got suspended at Claiborne School of Arts.

If you haven't been to Oregon before, Claiborne is this inner-city-level school where kids like me can become the next generation of artists, writers, dancers, or musicians. You probably think the campus is like the ones you would see on a Broadway show, but it's not.

No one breaks into singing montages or brags about painting masterpieces to end world hunger.

I mean, sure, the campus has courses ranging from acting to ballet, but we art students do other things, like hang out with friends, procrastinate on shitty assignments, and sign up for extracurriculars no one gives a fuck about.

But when you are a broke sixteen-year-old kid, you're forced to do shit you don't want to do. Take my job, for instance; every weekend at eleven-thirty a.m., I show up at this movie theater called The Regal Fox Tower, where my manager Mr. Long gives me these mind-breaking jobs to do.

I usually clean out the popcorn machine, unclog the toilets, and endure three hours of bitching from the customers. But this time, I get to sweep up all the empty movie rooms. My ex-best friends Kiara and Gwen are on popcorn and soda duty, while some intern is handling the tickets outside the theater.

The first room I went to smells like popcorn and hot nacho cheese. Soft music plays from the white screen as the screen turns black and rolls the ending credits. I notice bits of popcorn under the first row of chairs and decide to get to work.

I sweep years' worth of candy wrappers, popcorn pieces, empty soda cups, and other junk into the bucket. While I worked, the ending credits to Billy Crystal's Mr. Saturday Night still keep rolling on the white screen. The emotional soundtrack fills the dimly lit room as I move to row 4.

When I was a little kid, my older brother Matt and I would sneak out of the house at night and go to the theaters. We didn't care if the movie was a horror or a comedy, Matt and I would blow all our allowance money on popcorn, drinks, and tickets and watch movies until we passed out in our cushioned chairs.

But as we grew up, Matt couldn't spend with me anymore because he has to work at the mining factory.

I don't blame him, though; over the past year, mining factories are laying off workers left and right, so money is kind of a big deal to my family. It affects us to the point where my older sister Andie is taking a gap year from Berkley to help out, while my mom and dad are working dead-end jobs at the bank.

So when I first applied to the theater, I was hoping to make a little money to buy food, pay bills, and find wireless bras that fit me. But the second I saw my old friends in the lobby, I realize that is never going to happen.

Speaking of old friends, Gwen Kowalski shouts my name as she enters the vacant movie room. Her dark blonde hair looks like a wet mop. A dark pink scrunchie hugs her right wrist, while homemade bracelets secure her left. Her blue eyes watch me scoop up the last piece of popcorn off the floor as Gwen asks me if I can do a solid for her.

Usually, a solid is when you do something nice to your best friend and she does something in return.

Gwen does not do any of those things; because every time I do her job, Gwen would not lift her finger for me.

Instead, she would use me as a scapegoat just so that she could get away with not doing her chores.

Sweet, isn't she?

"Hey, Kat," Gwen sighs, adjusting her nametag. "Do you think you can take over the popcorn booth? I am feeling really tired."

"Sure, just let me work on my Scarface impression," I reply sarcastically.

"You're very funny."

"No, I'm being serious, Gwen. You stay here and act like an entitled bitch while I ride my bike to my house and grab my shotgun out of my bedroom closet."

Gwen crosses her arms and shoots me a look. "Nice sarcasm, Kat, but I don't want to hear it from a dropout like you."

"I got suspended, dumbass. No thanks to your fucking boyfriend and his cronies."

Gwen brushes me off dismissively. She pulls the thick, pink scrunchie from her khaki pants and turns it into a curly ponytail. "Whatever, just do the fucking popcorn job, Kat. Kiara's got her hands full."

I close my eyes and reopen them. Gwen is a total bitch, but my family needs the money to pay the bills. Shoving the wooden broom and bucket into Gwen's hands, I walk out of the movie room and then head to the station where my other best friend Kiara Kwan is shoveling popcorn inside a large, candy-cane-colored bucket.

Kiara is the sweetest girl on the planet. She loves animals, meeting new people, and trying new things at school from basketball to organizing a fundraiser. I heard that Kiara had gotten a full-ride scholarship to some fancy school in upstate Pennsylvania. I think it's where she is going to meet up with all the best basketball coaches and sponsors.

Like me and Gwen, Kiara is wearing her red polo shirt but with black slacks and white tennis shoes. Hot popcorn crunches under her feet as my ex-best friend places two medium-sized buckets and a large Pepsi in front of a teenage couple.

Smoothing my khakis, I ask Kiara if I can give her a hand with the booth. Kiara doesn't answer, but she hands me a bucket and tells me to start scooping. One by one, families, couples, old people, and classmates swarm near the snack booth.

Frantic fingers select Mike & Ike, chocolate-covered mints, Milk Duds, Butterfinger BBs, and other candies.

Wide eyes study the varieties of soda, while I scoop a mountain of popcorn and dump it inside small, medium, and large buckets.

Several moviegoers thank me, and others yank the popcorn buckets and lime sodas out of my greasy hands and then flee without a care in the world.

Kiara, on the contrary, places the correct change and receipts in the palm of the customer's hands. She compliments their fashion choices and tastes in movies.

Girls in my old English class flock near the concession stand and then spent at least two minutes asking Kiara about what she thinks about River Phoenix's hair. But as soon as they saw me approaching, the girls wave goodbye to Kiara and leave the theater without saying a word to me.

Mr. Long, who is helping Kiara with the cash register, must have seen the entire thing because right after everyone went on their lunch breaks, he gives me the afternoon off and collects at least eighty bucks from the cash register.

"Are you sure you want to do that, sir?" I ask him. "Pay Day is next week."

"Well, you've been working hard this week. So I figure why not."

"Okay." I take the money from his hand and shove it inside my left pocket. "Thank you, sir. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure." Mr. Long replies. "Just don't get into trouble, okay?"

I flash him a thumbs-up before collecting my dark purple backpack behind the concession stand. I then head over to the ladies bathroom to change into my clothes and leave the bustling theater to find my black bike sitting between the metal bars of the rack. I unbolt the lock with my key, climb on top of my light purple seat, and toss my bike lock and key inside my backpack before pedaling away.

I plant my feet on the pedals and anxiously move forward.

Loose bangs fly past my shoulders. Thin creases course through my reddish-purple sweater and brown corduroy jeans.

A moon choker bounces on my chest. I can feel the sweat running down my acne scars. I pause beside the record shop to take my black hairband off when I see Gwen's boyfriend Joe Mason slowing down in his red convertible.

His dark blonde hair is slicked back with grease.

He wears this red letterman's jacket, a dark blue button-up shirt, and khakis. Freckles sprinkle his nose, which is covered in blood-soaked bandages - all thanks to me, of course.

"Jesus Christ," I murmur. I grasp the handlebars and was about to pedal away until Joe blocks my path with his fucking car.

"Hey, Kat!" he greets sarcastically. "How's suspension?"

Squeezing my handlebars a bit tighter, I look down at my combat boots and shut my eyes.

"Listen, jackass," I grunt. "I don't have the energy to pretend to listen to you, so will you just fuck off? I need to get home to my family."

"Well, hop on!" Joe urges. "I'll drive you right to them. I could even tell your parents the story about how their daughter broke my nose at lunch."

"Hm, maybe if you didn't grab my ass or spread lies about me sucking your dick at Gwen's party," I begin calmly. "I wouldn't have given you a free nose job."

"Really?" Joe cries, pointing to his nose. "Thanks to you, I am benched from all the games until my nose heals up!"

I point my finger at my deadpan face, sighing, "You see this? This is my 'I give a shit' look. Now, can you please move your car out of my way? I need to get home."

Joe grips his steering wheel, his dark hazel brown eyes glower at mine. My jaw hardens. I grab the handlebars of my bike and back away from the red car. I think about the pepper spray my dad bought me for Christmas.

The bottle is small, but the formula can easily give an elephant retina damage. Though I still have it in my front backpack pouch, I am afraid that if I spray it in his eyes, Joe's parents would hire the best lawyers in all of Portland and use them to destroy me on the stand.

"Like I said before," Joe says through his gritting teeth.

"Why don't I give you a ride to your house and tell your mom and dad about what you did to my nose?"

I tilt my head to the side, threateningly. "I don't think you want that."

"And why the hell is that?"

"Because if you go anywhere near my family, I will tell the sheriff that your little brother loves giving coke to all of your friends, especially Gwen."

Joe's angered frown broadens. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"What?" I gasp. "no one told you that your brother is a drug dealer? Wow, some friends you have, but hey, you can always ask Gwen where her mouth has been for the past six months."

Joe massages his reddened face with his fingers, slams the gas pedal, and swerves the steering wheel like a deranged maniac.

The tires screech against the concrete road.

A symphony of spiteful horns blasts my ears as the sight of Joe's red convertible fades away into obscurity.

I watch the cloud of smoke dance above the road and then shake my head. I am glad the fucker is gone. It's bad enough that he tried to grab my ass at the school cafeteria, but now, he followed me to the record shop? The fact that Gwen is still going out with that asshole is insane, but at least I can finally go home without him breathing down my neck.

And with the money I earned from work, my parents and I can get a head start in paying some bills.

Grabbing my handlebars, I ride back to my apartment building in Newberg.

But to tell you the truth, I am not a huge fan of the place. After Andie graduated, my dad saw the apartment building in a newspaper article and told Mom all about its rough brick texture, incredible view, and cheap rent.

But as I look back, I wish I stopped him from making the worst mistake of his life.

Couples yell behind locked doors. Unsupervised teenagers cruise along the cracked concrete with their skateboards, blasting The Descendants from the large boombox. Old people steer their rusty cars to their parking spaces until there is nowhere else to park.

Falling beside me are men's clothes, boxers, and personal VHS tapes. A tweaked man looks at them in horror and yells at his angry girlfriend, who pushes a large suitcase out of a five-story window.

In the meantime, I pull the door open, move past a boring couple, and trot over to the lobby where the elevators are.

The entire floor smells like lemons. Dark streaks tarnish the brown tiled floor. Pushing the UP button with my thumb, I wait for the doors to open until the rancid odor of body sprays tumbles inside my nostrils.

Believe it or not, it comes from my landlord, Stanley.

He marches out of the bathroom, struggling to buckle his belt. His short, gray hair hides behind his elephant ears. Not to mention his head looks bloated.

Dark, greasy stains stretch on his white tank top as Stanley sees me waiting near the elevator door.

"Where the hell is my money, Katherine?" he asks in a singsong voice.

"Maybe it grew legs and ran away from the sight of you," I sigh, staring at the door.

Stanley lets out a pig-like snort and leans his sweaty back against the wall next to me.

"That's very funny, kid," he chortles. "Very funny, indeed. You do know that I am your landlord, right?"

"Really? Is that what people call you these days?"

"Drop the sarcasm and look at me when I talk to you."

"I would, but it's just so hard to hold my sarcastic comment in."

"Katherine."

Sighing some more, I reluctantly direct my eyes to the fat man standing close to me.

"I need my money right now," Stanley insists. "I have been pretty lenient on you before, but now, I am starting to get pissed."

He should meet my parents. They'd have a swell time drinking Chardonnay and laughing about my failures.

Groaning, I reach into my pocket and shove the money I earned into his hands - just in time for the elevators to open.

"Keep the fucking money," I tell him, boarding onto the elevator. "I was getting tired of carrying that shit, anyway."

Stanley's eyes widen. He counts the cash inside his fat hands and then asks me where I got it.

"Hard work and dedication, my dear Stanley," I answer in a fake British accent.

"Liar," my landlord croaks in disbelief. "You probably stole this wad, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I stole from your mom."

"Funny. Well, don't act cute now. I'll need the rent paid by next month or else I'm throwing you and your family out of the apartment."

Hitting the second button on my left, I wave my middle finger at him until the doors closed.

Stanley is a dick and all, but he's got a point. I need to come up with another pile of dough, or else my family will get stuck with the bill. Pushing my hair out of my eyes, I wait until the doors pull away before I force my way down to the buttery-yellow corridor.

My eyes drop. The keys dance in my hand. I trot to the left hallway, where I find my apartment door standing right in front of me.