We all wore T-shirts that matched the White House lawn, grass so green it looked like a music video. When the First Lady arrived, we stood at the same time— in unison, our teacher called it—as we had practiced all that week. Nancy Reagan wore her usual shoulder pads. My best friend Reese ate Reese’s Pieces, pretending they were pills, first browns then yellows and oranges. We all held green balloons—aloft, our teacher said, which meant up high. There were some words about peer pressure and children’s futures precious as a string of pearls. An eighth grader read a poem about powder. We all said no to horse and mary jane. Jenna Goodwin let go of her balloon. Too soon, our teacher said. A girl from Blessed Sacrament threw up her lunch. A boy from Murch—who knew about such things— untied the latex opening of his balloon and gulped at helium, his voice diluted cloud, floating away.