"Friend of mine made it," I said, without even looking at the ID card.

"Well, you're not seeing that friend anymore. Christ's sake, Jake, you're only seventeen." The legal age for buying alcohol and marijuana in Ontario, then and now, was nineteen; the legal age for buying tobacco is eighteen. Go figure.

"You can't tell me who I can see," I said, looking out the window. Seagulls were pirouetting above the waves. If they could get high, I didn't see why I couldn't.

"Hell I can't," snapped my father. He had a long face and a full head of dark hair, graying at the temples. If this was 2018, that would have made him thirty-nine. "So long as you live under my roof, you'll do as I say. Jesus, Jacob, what were you thinking? Presenting a false ID card is a major offense."

"It's a major offense if you're a terrorist or an identity thief," I said, looking across the wide teak desk at him. "Kids get caught buying pot all the time; no one gives a damn."

"I give a damn. Your mother gives a damn." Mom was out playing tennis. It was a Sunday — the only day Dad wasn't normally at work — and he'd gotten the call from the police station. "You keep screwing up like this, boy, and—"

"And what? And I'll never end up like you? I pray for that." I knew I'd hit home. A vertical vein in the middle of his forehead swelled up whenever he was really pissed.

I used to love it when I got the vein.

His voice was trembling. "You ungrateful little bastard."

"I don't need this shit," I said, turning toward the door, preparing to stalk out.

"Damn you, boy! You're going to hear this! If you—"

"Fuck off," I said.

"—don't stop acting—"