The first joint I smoked was with my babysitter, Angie. I was ten. Angie, a long time friend of my mother’s, sat at the kitchen table. She carefully crumbled the marijuana, picked out the seeds, spread it evenly across the e-z wider, and rolled it. She licked the end, then lit it. She saw me watching. "Do you want to try it?" "Yes," I said. I sat beside her. Once, earlier, I tried to smoke a cigarette. Home alone, looking through my mother’s dresser, I found a cigarette. I put it in my mouth and lit it. I inhaled. I coughed; uncontrollably. I put out the cigarette. It was the last cigarette I ever smoked. "Inhale slowly," Angie instructed. I breathed in, slowly. Then out. Without coughing.