Everything was gray. The gray floor tiles, the dirty gray walls. The gray, hard plastic chair that pushed on my lower back. The gray rolling chair on the other side of the desk, which looked far more comfortable than my choice of seating. The cold metal against my hands. I was sure there would be pink marks on my wrists later. Was anyone coming?

I looked up to the ceiling. The lights were intense and white, glaring in my eyes. They were using those squiggly light bulbs that are supposed to be "good for the environment" and shit. I looked down the floor, a purple squiggle floating in the middle of my vision from looking into the light. Why did I have to land myself in this hellhole again?

I wasn't as scared as I had been the first time. But I was still pretty fuckin' scared. Not of the questions the officer would ask me, and not that my cellmate would be some freak rapist. I was scared of what my mom was going to do to me (well, try to do to me. I usually just escaped out the front door, giving her a nice flip of the middle finger). But she would have a field day when she found out I was arrested again. And don't even get me started on my dad.

Finally the short, grumpy-looking old man walked into the interrogation room. Same guy as last time. When he saw me, his expression turned from one of toughness to one of disgust.

"Oh," he said. "It's you."

I shrugged, the itchy orange jumpsuit rubbing against my skin.

"Name?" the old guy asked.

"Jimmy."

"Your full name."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "James Aaron Pierce," I replied. "...the third."

The officer nodded and scribbled something on his clipboard. "And do you know why you're here?"

"Well...I kinda..." I mumbled, twiddling my thumbs in my lap.

"Speak up," the guy barked.

"I guess I was in a place I wasn't supposed to be...again."

"And where was that?"

"The old warehouse on East 12th street."

"Were you aware that this was private property?"

"Uh huh."

The old man sighed and scribbled more on his clipboard. "Why," he asked, "did you and your friends decide to visit the old storage warehouse?"

I shrugged. "We needed a place to hang out."

"What did you guys do there?"

"We..." I heaved a sigh. Lying wouldn't help. "We got a little wasted, I guess."

"Well that was pretty obvious, since your Breathalyzer reading was 0.12." He marked something else on his paper. "Okay, James—"

"Jimmy."

"—James, I'm going to ask you some health questions, and then you'll be sent to a place for you to stay the evening. So, got any allergies?"

"Nope."

He went on and on questioning me about my health, did my family have any history of diseases or whatever. I wished I could be anywhere else.

"Aight, kid, follow me." He pushed himself up from the desk. I drunkenly stumbled after him.

Finally, when we reached my sleeping quarters, I got the handcuffs and shit off. I looked down at my wrists. The handcuffs had almost cut into my skin. But, hey, I lucked out—no rapist cellmate. No cell mate at all.

After reminding me that I was under constant surveillance and of the fact that the toilet was in the corner (no shit, Sherlock), the officer closed and locked the barred door to my cell. I clambered onto the bottom bunk. The mattress was thin and uncomfortable. I chucked the pillow across the room in frustration. Whatever. It was probably full of lice anyway.

I couldn't fall asleep. Too much to think about. I just rolled over again and again all night, thinking about all the shit of that evening. They arrive at the warehouse, put those damn handcuffs on me and the guys, take us to the police station and then here. They took all my stuff to inspect it. Soon I was gonna have to deal with my parents, a trial, and all that bullshit. But I was happy about one thing: that I wasn't the one to bring the weed that night.

"I can't believe you got yourself into this again!" my mom was ranting on and on in the car the next morning. She started going on about what a bad example I was for my sister and all that crap. I looked out the window, turning up the volume of my iPod.

We passed by the storage warehouse on the way home. I could see some of the broken bottles there from the night before. I didn't regret it. Shit, I don't regret anything. I was just happy to be out of jail and to have my stuff back.

"Jimmy, are you listening to me?" she asked, ripping my earbuds out of my ears.

"Nope," I stated plainly, starting to put my earbuds back in.

"I'm gonna take that MP3 player away," she threatened.

I chuckled. "Yeah, right." I put it down my pants and turned the volume up higher.

She gave an exasperated sigh. I smirked and continued to stare at the city going by.

I live in a small apartment in a city I like to call New York. I live with my irritating parents and my little sister, Ariella. She's a cute kid. She's probably the only one in the family I like, except for the dog, but it died two years ago. Oh, well. It was kind of a pain in the ass anyway. The other people on our floor hated it too. It was one of those small, yappy dogs, and it would always bark late at night.

The thing about my family is my parents just love Ariella more than me. They always did. She's their little angel, and I'm just a disappointment.

Even before she came around they didn't seem to like me much. I mean, yeah, they gave me food and water and bought me action figures, but they never tried to actually spend time with me. They were always too busy working and shit.

I used to try to impress them when I was a kid. I really did. I did anything to get their attention, but it didn't work. So I eventually gave up. And now they suddenly notice me when I do something they don't like. Just shows how full of shit they are.

Did I mention this is my second MIP? 'Cause it is. The first time, which happened last year when I was 15, my parents freaked out and yelled at me—two separate times. I was supposed to be grounded for 6 months, but those dumbasses couldn't keep me at home for their lives. I would just hang out after school with the guys. I never actually did schoolwork. I'd just hang out with my friends, smoke weed and shit. Which is pretty much what I still do.

"Alright, let's go," my mom says coldly as the car pulls into our space in the parking lot.

"Uh-huh," I mumble as I drag myself out of the passenger seat.

In the elevator on the way to our floor, I can feel her studying me. She has that confused, disappointed look on her face, like I'm no longer her kid or something. I hate that look. I mean, despite the fact that my parents are completely and utterly full of shit, I don't really want them to hate me. But I guess it's a little too late for that.

Fine. If they give me hate, I'll throw it right back at them. I mean, it's the golden rule, right?

They should have known better than to fuck with Saint Jimmy.