Part I: High-School Confidential

I’ve been dodging everyone I went to high school with for years: changing addresses, moving every 12 months, blocking the Vaporella family phone numbers from each and every directory—phone or Web—I could find. So it was strange to see an invitation to my 10-year reunion settle into my mailbox. Seven hundred different faces flashed into my head at once. All the people I’d laughed with, cried on and had been avoiding—all in one place at one time. Together. Had they changed much? Had I? Would they look different? Would Mark Marbarz be there? Oh wait, he was a year older, so no. But still, all of my old friends and boyfriends. Could these suburbanites still party the way they used to? Did they still get high?

Well, they’d better, because I wasn’t coming all the way back home to sit in a stuffy room over scotches and Midori sours, enduring hour-long discussions about money-market accounts and how little Chad can’t stand his new au pair. I was coming home to get blindingly fucked up, like we used to. And if they couldn’t, didn’t or wouldn’t party anymore, I was gonna force it down their throats.

Please do not get me wrong: I loved my high school and every single person who stepped through its doors. These were the folks I shared my first everything with — including my first toke, first trip and especially my first glances at HIGH TIMES. But this was going to be my first glimpse of the hacky-sacking, class-cutting, Grateful-Dead-sticker-toting bunch of yahoos I used to hang out with in a decade — after no contact whatsoever. And all I could think was, “Are they all still stoners?”