Disclaimer: I do not own any Higher Ground characters. I made up the plot, and several characters (Toby, Jenny, Sarah, and Styner). I also don't own the song "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles. But it is a groovy song and one of my favorites.

Martin Barringer held the telephone receiver tightly against his ear. He felt his world crashing down in slow motion, piece by piece. Scott was off the football team. He hadn't even quit—he'd been thrown off.

He didn't even know Scott anymore. For a few months now, Scott had become so distant and unresponsive. He was an entirely different boy than the one Martin had taken full custody of when his ex-wife left. He was gone all day, skipped school, disrespected Elaine…

And now this. The phone call from Coach Styner, who had said bluntly that he believed Scott may be on drugs. Drugs. Could he be?

Martin said thank you, and then goodbye stiffly to the coach, hanging the receiver back on the hook. Elaine came up behind him, circling her arms around his waist. He leaned back into the embrace thankfully.

"Who was that?"

"Coach Styner," Martin said slowly. "Scott's been kicked off the team. And the coach thinks he's on drugs."

Elaine pulled away with a slight gasp, and Martin turned to face her. She looked distraught. "Scott? Our Scotty? Drugs?"

"I don't understand," Martin said, sinking into a kitchen chair. "He loved football. Football was his life."

"We'll talk to him," Elaine promised. "We'll get this all sorted out. There must be some mistake. Scott's going through a very stressful time in his life…I mean, I'm probably causing some problems."

"Don't say that." Martin shook his head. "Scott adores you. There's no problem with you. You're a wonderful stepmother to him. This whole thing. It must be drugs. He must've gotten in with the wrong crowd. But don't blame yourself, Elaine. None of this has to do with you. You're one of the good things in his life."

Elaine smiled. As she leaned down to kiss Martin on the cheek reassuringly, they heard the front door swung open. Hastily, she pulled back, and Martin put a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go talk to him," he said quietly. "Together."

She nodded, and they went to the front hall. Scott had retreated upstairs to his room immediately upon entering the house, so they followed the muddy cleat marks up the stairs to Scott's room. Martin knocked.

"Go away!"

Ignoring him, Martin shoved the door open, and he and Elaine entered. Scott stood by his bed, dressed only in his football pants, his practice jersey and pads lying in a tangled heap by the bed. He turned to face the couple defiantly.

"I told you to go away," he snapped. "I'm changing."

"I don't care what you're doing," Martin said. "We need to talk, now."

"Screw that! I'm gonna go take a shower." As he walked toward the door, Elaine put her hand lightly on his chest to stop him. He instantly recoiled. "Don't touch me, skank!"

"Scott!" Martin grabbed his son by the arm and jerked him backwards, away from Elaine. "Don't let me ever, ever hear you talk like that to Elaine. You owe her respect. She's your stepmother."

"Let go of me." Scott spoke through clenched teeth. He pulled his arm out of his father's grip. "Leave me alone."

"Coach Styner called," Martin said. "He said he threw you off the football team. Threw you off! Says you never come to practice, you're insolent, you're obnoxious." Scott looked away angrily. Martin grabbed his chin and forced the teen to look at him. "Scott, he says you're on drugs!"

Scott glared at his father, not pulling away. "So what? You believe that jerk of a coach? He doesn't know what he's talking about!"

Martin released him and reeled backwards. "I've suspected it, Scott. I've thought it might be true. But it is, isn't it?" He shook his head slowly, no longer recognizing his son. It was his son's body, but it wasn't him inside. "Isn't it?"

"Get out."

"We'll get you help, Scott," Martin assured him. "It'll all be okay." He left the room, looking older and more haggard than he had upon entering.

"Get out, skank," Scott said.

Elaine advanced on him again. She put a hand lightly on his bare shoulder. He flinched. "Don't worry, Scotty," she purred. "I'll come visit you tonight. Make you feel lots better."

"No." The word, meant to be strong and absolute, was weak and whispered.

"You know you want it." Elaine's seductive voice covered a laughing undertone.

She's laughing at me, Scott thought. She's playing a game. A game.

"Tonight," she said softly. "Tonight, Scotty." And then she was gone.

Shower forgotten, Scott collapsed onto his bed. His stomach heaved, and his throat ached. Why, every day, did life go on so maliciously? Why? He felt sick, disgusted, and angry. Every day hurt so bad.

Rolling off his bed, Scott walked over to his desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a small plastic baggie filled with a white powder. He had no energy to go to Jenny's party tonight—or even to call Toby and invite himself over to his house. He'd just have to have his own little "party" here.

Opening the baggie, Scott frowned. Life went on, but as Jenny often said, a distortion of life was quite preferable.