They thought it was my fault.

I find it kinda hysterical that they think it's my fault that I come home at 3 a.m., smelling of that shit marijuana.

But when they suggested rehab for me… I just had to entertain them.

You see, the issue isn't that I do drugs but rather that I hang around people who do. I don't like drugs. They screw you up. But my parents didn't need to know that their baby rebel (as "baby" as a fifteen year old girl can get) isn't actually all that jacked up. So when I came home, October 19th, and they were waiting on the couch for me…I actually found it quite amusing.

We live in Port Angeles, Washington. I live here, I worked here last year, and I go to school here. I own here. I just…don't hang around here. No, I hang around the Utensils. That's what I and my local friends and all the others call the ones down in Forks. I hang around a specific dude, Michael Carob, and he just happens to do drugs with the other Utensils. Sometimes even some Pushovers (La Push reservation kids) came by. But those times, they were my people (non-drug users) and they "killed the mood" if they objected to druggies. So no one objects in fear of getting kicked out of the best parties that happen in the state; every night. I mean, in the past year or so I haven't missed a single night-crawling session with Mike and the others. I just don't do drugs. But my parents, again, don't know that.

So when I came home in a pair of skinny jeans, a pair of four inched high heeled leather knee-length boots (Jesus, that's a long name for a boot) and a low cut black V-neck top with a pair of fishnet arm-warmers…well, they kind of jazzed out and pulled out the brochures. But not after the whole "sit" greeting.

Let me start from sidewalk up.

I took my steps up the sidewalk, my untouched leather black bag swinging happily in my hands. Sometimes this was where my parents got their suspicions. I never really 'touched' the shit in my bag. I never found a reason to. About a week ago, they found yet another pack of shit that someone had snuck into my bag.

I gently pressed open the door before reaching up and releasing my long, dark auburn hair from its high genie-style ponytail. It swung out fully to the bottom of my shoulder blades and over my shoulders before finally ceasing. The mixture of brown, red, and black each shone brightly in my hair. It was natural, let you be. But I was surprised when my green eyes found two figures huddled on the couch; my parents.

My mom and my dad were sitting side by side on the couch, each in their pajamas and looking worn. I breathed in through my nose loudly to alert them of my presence. When that didn't work, I shut the door just loud enough to be heard only in this room. Then my parents turned their heads. Dad's soft expression hardened as he saw me and mom's tear-filled eyes attempted to dry. Mom swiped at her tears and stood up from the seat she was in. She was still beautiful, even after forty-five years of living. Her hair was the contribution of red to my auburn and her eyes were the slightest blue in their emerald green. Her face was worn, though, and small tear tracks proved restlessness in her eyes. She was wearing her thick blue bathrobe but I suspected nothing else (ew).

Dad stood next. He was wearing just a gray t-shirt and a pair of green and blue flannel pajama bottoms for the year-long cold weather that we gained in Washington. It could never be told what the weather was in this state. Dad's own hair was the brown contribution to my hair and his own eyes were a bright blue. His face held gruff shadow and perched on his nose was a pair of tiny full-circle spectacles. He was a professor and often reminded me of Negima from the anime.

"Sit down, Bet," Mom said quietly. Her voice was hoarse and proved her long hours of crying. I frowned at this. They led to such assumptions. Though I felt the slightest pang of guilt for making them cry and not clearing this up, they were children needing to be taught. They needed to learn on their own that I wasn't taking drugs and though I was friends with some of those people, I was just as much friends with those who don't take drugs.

My mom swung out her arm in a sweeping gesture to the couch and I accepted my seat on the center cushion of the stiff blue couch. It had come with the house. There was a flat screen TV on the black coffee table that served as an entertainment center up against the wall that the couch faced. "Betty, we believe that your habit has gone too far." Dad said bluntly. I raised my eyebrows at my dad, staying silent as I mostly did.

Mike even praised me often as the silent contribution to the party; every good party needed one. I suppressed the smirk on my face but barely. My parents were too oblivious, though, to notice that if I was high, I'd be on Cloud 9, not down here on this disgusting earth. Mom blinked away the oncoming tears and dramatically tilted her head to face the ceiling. I had to suppress my giggles and laughter at the dramatic scene that was meant for nothing.

As mom continued her theatrics, dad decided he would speak for the time being. "We understand that drugs can be very…addictive." I bet dad had one of those moments where the word is on the tip of his tongue but it seemed alien, foreign to him. Dad's facial expression showed he was struggling to find words to explain this situation. "And we know that you are a beautiful girl, inside and out." Dad continued. The fact that he was feeding me this shit totally evaporated all guilt from my mind, just for his corniness. He was, in no way, going to make me believe anything that sounds like a line out of Smallville.

I didn't need a family drama episode; I needed them to know that they can trust me and I wanted them to feel bad for not believing they could. I suppressed my anger and instead settled for just waiting, expectantly as dad struggled again to take this slowly. Dad finally stared me in the eyes, determination shining and the anticipation of triumph bright in his mind. "You are a beautiful, kind soul. You just took a wrong path somewhere." He continued softly. He was trying to be gentle, at least, and this was something to give him credit for. Hell, he could do interventions professionally with this speech he's got wrapped up!

Mom finally settled down enough to take a seat beside me. Then she took out the bag from my purse that had been freshly restocked. It was full, which meant I hadn't done any of it, but my parents were too dumb to even glance at that fact. "This," She said and shook the bag in my face, the weeds bumbling about in the compacted bag. "Can't be here," She finished and stood up. She made an entire show of walking over to the trash can and tossing it in the bin. I made no comment about how that was going to end up in some hobo's system later on.

"You are an example for your sister, just as your Anna and Caleb were for you!" Mom exclaimed. Mom seemed to forget that Nikki, my baby sister, was not yet at the impressionable age. Neither was she at the age to talk appropriately or get out of her adorable stage. Nikki was three. I mean, sure, she could easily get at the weed but would she seriously know how to use it? And besides, wouldn't throwing it in the trash just make it end up to her even more? Hell, Nikki could be that hobo! She tended to look in the trash quite often with her curiosity getting the best of her as soon as she finished knocking over the trash can first.

"We need you to clean up your act." Dad was obviously tagged after mom's one-sentence role in the intervention. "We're sending you to rehab, every day after school at 3 p.m., straight from school." Dad said. "The Recreational Rehabilitation Center is a place where kids like you, ones who've lost their way, can find themselves again." Dad said. Ugh. Though this sounded very unappealing in his terms, they sounded appealing to me; watching people who messed with drugs and then lying about the times that I "did" drugs. I could even add in a tear or two. Maybe this could be quite entertaining. The more I thought about it, the more psyched I was. Hell, I could even crack off the parties because of this; it ought to keep me satisfied.

It could be very hilarious, the stories I come up with and seeing others' reactions. Oh, yeah; this is da shit.

Dad opened his mouth again to speak but I decided to put us both out of our miseries. "Alright," I said simply and stood up from my seat. I zipped up my bag from where it'd been left open by my careless mother. "'Alright'?" Dad repeated. I looked at him, both eyebrows raised in question. What was his objection? "Alright; I'll go." I answered more clearly. I carried my bag over to the stairs and was halfway up when dad let out a huff of triumph. "You will start tomorrow; I've already set up an appointment for you to head down there. You will be quite satisfied when you make a fresh slate." Dad called after me. I grimaced at this. He just had to add the corny.

3-Embry-3

Of course, I had no clue what the hell was going on. But when I saw mom on the beach with the other parents, most of them seeming a bit amused while others seemed a bit confused, I knew something was up.

My "bull" radar shot to the sky when I saw mom's determined expression. My mother, Hanna Call, has been my only parent since…forever. I've never had a father. So when I saw how determined she looked, it was only the motherly type that made me so positive that this concerned me. The reason that Billy Black, Sue Clearwater, and all the other 'rents were here (including Quil Ateara Sr.) left me confused.

All nine out of ten of us were here, though Sam was here with Emily as well, already settled with the other parents on the driftwood that surrounded the roaring fire. "Sit down, boys," Sue announced with a slight smirk being suppressed from her face. She found something amusing. I sat down between Jake and Seth, the two safest of the Pack besides Quil, who'd already taken his seat on the ground where I didn't want to be. I didn't like being on the ground; the thought of all those…sandy creatures crawling all over you make me paranoid.

It was basically the only thing that left me with too much fear these days. I freak out when itty-bitty cretins are anywhere near me. Mom gave a soft reassuring smile to each of us though it was nervous. "Mrs. Call here seems to have the impression that you boys…are on steroids." Sue announced to us. I was about to burst out laughing before Billy spoke up. "I'm also concerned with this conclusion," He said. But the teasing gleam in his eyes was matched with a similar gleam that told us to roll with it, to just make this assumption as clean as possible and let her believe it for the sake of our secret.

Mom's soft smile evaporated into a concerned, grim line. But Paul was an idiot. "I admit it," He confessed falsely. I turned to glare at him but halted my movement when I saw Billy's silent order in his eyes again. I had to roll with it. "Are each of you…connected to this drug?" Mom asked the rest of us. Paul smirked smugly. If you could call the Quileute heritage of being a shape-shifter a drug, then yes, yes we are. So we had to confess. One by one, we each begrudgingly began to confirm this false assumption for the sake of my mom's safety and our secret.

Finally my mom let out a hefty sigh. "This is why I have enrolled each of you in the Recreational Rehabilitation Center in Port Angeles." Mom announced. I think everyone was shocked at this announcement; even the adults, maybe. But Sam recovered quickly. "And I will also go with you to this center as a patient." He said begrudgingly. As Alpha, he had to commit and dedicate to this Pack so he had to ride this one out with us. Mom smiled at him proudly, a fine expression of triumph glad on her face. Next time, I promise, I will listen to my Bull Radar.

A/N: It's very short but it will suffice for the PROLOGUE. Live and learn, my pretties. If anyone's actually reading this anymore. Now, for a fine visit from our old friend, here for SEASON 2…..(drum roll, please)….

"I don't want to."

"AW! But Mr. Disclaimer…you're a key role in this story. If you're not here, then we can't publish this story online because then it'll be called plagiarism (wow, I spelt that right)! We'll get sued and you will have to do this for other people who don't respect you."

"YOU don't respect me."

"Yeah, but I'm me which makes this a whole lot more fun."

"Only for this one story because I haven't done any for season 2. Will you even make a season 3?"

"I sure hope so. If people review and actually write…ooh, this reminds me! I was looking on my story stats and found out that someone in Iraq has been reading my stories. So I want to dedicate season 2 to the soldiers of Iraq, along with the suffering locals who are innocent. I hope that you all make it through this peacefully. I love you all, and I wish you the best."

"You know what, sure; Reapersama101 does not own Twilight or any of the characters that she did not create. Please do not sue us."

"YAY!"