What a School Resource Officer Really Thinks When a “Good Kid” Gets Caught With a Vape Cart
The hallway outside the office was quiet, which was unusual for a Tuesday morning. I’d pulled Marcus out of second period because his backpack smelled faintly of watermelon candy, and I didn’t need to guess why. He sat across from me, hands flat on his knees, not slouching. He wasn’t a kid I knew from discipline referrals. He was a junior, ran the 400, had a part-time job at a grocery store. His mom called him “my easy one,” or so he told me once.
I asked him to open his backpack. He did. Inside was a folded bandana, and inside that, one disposable cart, half used. He didn’t lie. He didn’t argue. He just said, “It’s mine,” and then looked at the floor.
Here’s the thing nobody says to school resource officers: we don’t get to just look at a kid and decide whether they’re decent or not. We have a duty to enforce the law, but we also have discretion. The hard part is figuring out what to do with that discretion when the kid in front of you isn’t a “problem kid.” And yes, I feel bad. Not in a sappy, tearful way—more like a low, uneasy knot in my stomach that I’ve learned to carry.
I’ve done this job long enough to see patterns. Most kids caught with carts aren’t selling. They’re not running a drug ring. They’re kids who are stressed, bored, curious, or surrounded by older friends who made it look normal. Marcus told me he started vaping because his older brother had one, and it helped him chill before meets. He said he didn’t even think about it as a drug—more like a habit. And that’s exactly the kind of thinking that scares me, because he doesn’t see himself as a criminal. Neither do I.
But the law sees it differently. In my state, possession of a cart with THC is a misdemeanor, but depending on the amount in the oil, it can bump up to a felony. Schools have their own codes too. When I write a citation, I’m not only setting up a court date. I’m often triggering the school’s drug policy, which might mean suspension, expulsion hearings, or losing eligibility to run track. That’s not something I can “unsee” if I decide to be nice.
The question is: do I feel bad? I do. Every time. But I also think about the reason my job exists.
I remember a conference with a mother a few years back. Her son, Devin, got cited for sharing a cart with a friend in the parking lot. She sat in the same chair Marcus is in now, arms crossed, voice tight. She said, “You know he’s not a bad kid, right?” And I did know. But I also knew that Devin had told the friend to “just hit it real quick” during lunch, and that friend had asthma and ended up in the nurse’s office. That was severity. So I wrote the citation and I didn’t feel all that bad.
But Marcus? He hadn’t hurt anyone. He was using for his own anxiety, which is a separate problem that a court date doesn’t fix. That’s where the guilt lives. Not in the charging itself, but in the mismatch. I’m applying a system that treats a vape cart like a felony and a kid like a criminal when neither of those things feels true.
Here is what I’ve learned from all those years of sitting across from kids, parents, and the occasional angry grandparent: the worst thing I can do is pretend I have no choice. Kids hear that. Parents hear that. It sounds robotic and dismissive. The truth is I do have choices, and I try to use them honestly. If a kid has no prior record, is honest, and the cart is small, I’ve called parents instead of writing a formal citation. That’s allowed in some cases. But I can’t do it every time. My own policies, the district, and the district attorney’s office sometimes draw that line for me. When I do charge, I say why out loud. I tell the kid, “This is not because I think you’re bad. It’s because I saw the law, and I have to apply it consistently.” That doesn’t make it easier, but at least it’s not a lie.
The deeper issue—and I think this is what parents and teachers should really hear—is that most of us in this role are not out to get good kids. We are, however, stuck in a system that is built around deterrence and consequences, not around your child’s emotional state. That means if Marcus gets charged, it’s not because I hate him. It’s because a cart was visible, I’m a sworn officer, and my discretion has limits. But I also know that a charge like this can follow a kid for years. I’ve seen it happen. College applications ask about criminal history. Jobs ask. Scholarships ask. One bad decision at sixteen doesn’t define a person, but it can take up space in their life longer than it should.
If you’re a parent reading this, I’d want you to know a few real things. First, do not panic if your kid gets caught. Panic makes your kid shut down, and it makes you less effective. Second, ask the school resource officer or administrator to walk you through exactly what the law says and what happens next. Most of us are fine doing that. Don’t assume we’re docking on a power trip. Third, consider your kid’s actual reasons. If they’re vaping to cope with stress, a lecture and a fine isn’t going to help. Get them a counselor, a trusted coach, or a honest conversation about anxiety. That’s not excusing their behavior. It’s just treating the cause.
I’ve also had to learn to talk to kids about the law differently than I used to. Saying “this is illegal” doesn’t mean anything to a teenager who sees their friend’s older brother doing it. Instead, I ask questions: “What do you think happens when you buy from someone who doesn’t check IDs? What do you know about the chemical inside that cart? What are you willing to risk?” Those conversations are slow and awkward, but they work better than threats.
Marcus didn’t get a felony. I called my supervisor, I reviewed the policy, and I ended up issuing a municipal citation with a referral to a teen diversion program—which means if he stays clean for three months and does community service, the charge disappears. He still missed two days of school. He still lost a few meets. His mother called me later, not angry, just tired. She said, “I don’t want him thinking he got off easy. But I don’t want him thinking he’s a criminal either.” That pretty much sums up my life.
I don’t know if I’ll have to arrest Marcus again. I hope not. I’ve seen kids like him make it, and I’ve seen them fall hard. The truth is, I can’t fix the bigger problems just by writing or not writing a charge. I can only try to be honest with the kid in front of me, honest about the law, and honest about the fact that this system isn’t always fair—even when I’m the one holding the paper.
That knot in my stomach? It never fully goes away. I think it’s supposed to be there. It keeps me from getting lazy and calling every kid a lost cause. Some days it’s a dull ache, and some days it’s sharp. But I still sit in that office, I still open backpacks, and I still make calls that change lives. I just try not to pretend I know for sure which calls are right.
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