I like this part

The part I like this morning:

"Despite the pastoral setting, the place was called by everyone (including teachers) the “alley”—a reference to the places of deviation they had learned about in movies, where in small towns with rigid puritan standards, the grace of civil engineers had gifted teenagers the unlit backroads."


Anyway, here's the backstory to it. Sooooooo GDS:

Labelled in Waeburn’s hallways as a stoner, Jareth hid beneath overlarge ponchos sold on the sidewalks in front of East LA’s unobscured headshops by sad-eyed Guatemalan immigrants. During lunch, he’d head over with Bresios and two or three others—sometimes Paul Dine would be there with Mitzy Hanks, if they weren’t making out in the dark of a music practice room, or there’d be Leg Rouland carrying the bummy prop of a skateboard (named by his Hollywood parents, “Legend,” a title he’d tried to shed). They'd meet at the strip of Eucalyptus trees that edged the student parking lot, where they’d slump down, backs to the wall, to sit in the pile of dry leaves. Despite the pastoral setting, the place was called by everyone (including teachers) the “alley”—a reference to the places of deviation they had learned about in movies, where in small towns with rigid puritan standards, the grace of civil engineers had gifted teenagers the unlit backroads.
This smoking of Jareth’s was a pittance of a rebellion, spoil-sport really. His father, with a bowl of his own in the third drawer beneath his computer in the garage studio, couldn’t be said to care. The most his mother had ever said was, when finding in his sock drawer, his pipe (a cheesy cat-faced thing he’d paid too much for when he was 13), “You know this kills brain cells?” What a cliché, he had thought, as she had simply placed the embarrassment on the top of his dresser to stare at him with its gummy, muck-filled eyes.