I took a puff of my inhaler and the bathroom alarm exploded.
The bathroom door flew open. The principal snatched it out of my hand.
“Give me that vape, criminal.”
“That’s not a vape. It’s my inhaler. I have asthma. I need it to breathe. Give it back.”
He pulled my hands behind my back, dropped it into a plastic bag, and sealed it.
“Please. The nurse gave it to me. I can’t breathe without it.”
He just looked at me.
“You can go five seconds without hitting a vape. What’s wrong with your generation?”
He tucked the bag under his arm, grabbed mine, and pulled me into the hallway.
I reached for the bag, but he yanked me forward.
I grabbed his sleeve to say, “I can’t breathe,” but nothing came out.
He kept walking.
My vision blurred.
My knees hit the floor.
Everything went black.
When my eyes opened, I was in the nurse’s office with an oxygen mask on my face.
I looked up and saw my mom holding my hand.
The nurse had a stethoscope on my chest and was whispering to my mom.
“That was close. He made it.”
My mom got up and slammed her fists against the door.
The vice principal walked in, holding the Ziploc bag with my inhaler like it was evidence.
“Well, well, well. The criminal has woken. I can’t believe you passed out because you didn’t get to hit your vape.”
He smiled.
“As a parent, you should be aware your kid is doing drugs. Shame.”
My mom didn’t say anything.
She just raised her hand and slapped him.
“You prick. I’m suing you. You can’t tell the difference between an inhaler and a vape? He almost died in your hallway.”
He folded his arms.
“Our new alarm system flagged it. Are you smarter than our technology?”
My mom walked into his office, pointed at the bag on his desk, and said:
“This is the approval I signed two years ago. I told you when you were hired.”
He looked at the monitor.
“It detected chemical compounds. That’s what it’s there for.”
I reached across the desk for the bag.
He slid it closer to himself.
My mom put both hands flat on his desk.
“Pull up the sensor data.”
He turned the monitor.
“See? There are compounds. Exactly what the system is designed to catch.”
The nurse stepped forward.
“You confiscated albuterol sulfate. That inhaler. The one approved for him two years ago. The one that was keeping him alive.”
My mom grabbed the mouse and went through the detection history.
“Seventeen alerts since the system was installed. All the same compound. Same bathroom. And not once did anyone check.”
My mom snatched the plastic bag from his desk and handed me my inhaler.
She looked him in the eye.
“You trusted a machine over a child who couldn’t breathe.”
I took a puff of my inhaler and told him, ‘Your machine was wrong. I almost paid for it with my life.’”
