When I was 14, in the ninth grade of high school, I loved spending time with friends. The only problem was that I didn't get along very well with many of my classmates or the kids in my neighborhood. I had to find friends in other places, so I traveled every day from my school in midtown Manhattan to Lower Manhattan where I had made many like-minded friends. I always ended up leaving much later than I should have. My curfew was 9pm, which is probably later than it should have been at my age, but I thought it was too early. I was outside and didn't even keep track of the time. One evening I went out straight after class to run downtown, it was around 3.30pm when I got on the train. I couldn't wait to get to the park to sit and talk with my friends. I had a rough day with all the robots at my school, picture perfect, two shoes singing as they skipped down the halls. They drove me crazy and I needed to rant to someone. When I got off the train and finally met my friends, it was around 4.30pm. We walked from 14th Street to Astor Place, because there was a Starbucks that we liked to sit at to keep warm. My friends and I were always broke, with no benefits, no jobs, just running away from society. After sitting for hours laughing, ranting and mostly joking with my friends, I decided to check the time. It was already 8:45! Not only would I be home much later than I should have been, but it was too late to use my Metro student card! I ran to the subway station hoping it would give me a long enough grace period to use the card. The deadline was 8.30pm, but you never knew. I swiped the card several times across the cold metal, but there it was, that horrible beep. The... center of the card... the window seat. I rested my head against the glass, relieved to finally be on my way home. I looked at my phone and saw that it was after 9:30 pm. I would be more than an hour late when I got home. I couldn't wait to be scolded. Next time, I thought, I should set an alarm on my phone to let me know when I needed to go. I didn't want to be in that situation again. When I think back, I realize there were other ways I could have returned home. I could have asked someone to help me on the train or stopped one of those police officers passing by. I probably should have called my mom, but I didn't because I was embarrassed and scared. I don't think I made a particularly bad decision. At that moment I thought this was the only way to go home. I probably would have stayed there for hours if I hadn't made the choice I did.