Officers Dana Way and William Morrison at the headquarters of the alcohol enforcement unit. (By Claudio Vazquez/The Washington Post)

Officer Dana Way's job is to convince teenagers who drink that they'll get caught. Addressing a 10th-grade class at Bethesda's Walter Johnson High School, Way makes sure the students know that Maryland recognizes no safe alcohol level in the blood for anyone under 21. Even if they're not driving, if they're under 18 and caught drinking in Montgomery County they could lose their driver's license, be fined $500 the first time and be screened to determine whether they need treatment. He warns them that cinnamon gum on their breath makes him more, not less, suspicious, and that, contrary to adolescent folklore, putting a penny in their mouths won't work either.

The 10th graders laugh nervously.

Way is a member of the alcohol enforcement unit, another Montgomery County innovation. Its purpose is to break up drinking parties, to police stores and restaurants so they don't sell alcohol to minors, and, two days each week, to talk to 10th-grade health classes. Today it's Walter Johnson – which rarely makes the party raid list – where Way and a fellow officer have been detailed to convince students that the penalties are too high to risk drinking or even risk being around drinking.

Some things about high school never change; the officers are interrupted when someone pulls the fire alarm as a prank. On the other hand, some things do, like the posters on the wall that warn about AIDS and date rape. Officer Way's job is to tell the students what else has changed since he was in high school, when he drank beer with his buddies every weekend.

Way describes a St. Patrick's Day party he helped bust this year, knocking on a door that was opened by a teenager who didn't want to let him in. "I said where's the host? Not here? Well, where's the owner? Not here? Well, now we have a burglary." That got him inside, and upstairs he found the teenage hostess "passed out – they were doing vodka shots."

The message is that it's better to cooperate with the police. Don't run away, he advises, and end up with a criminal record "that can be with you forever. ... We've had kids who have jumped out of windows, broken legs."

Way admits that he drank at their age. "I did it in high school, everyone did it. But when I was in high school the penalties weren't as large as there are now."

Adolescents come with built-in hypocrisy meters, and so someone immediately asks why the penalties are higher.

"In the last few years you have kids showing up at parties and they're not wanted," Way replies. "They're rivals, and they go to the car and pull out a gun. There's more violence, sexual assault, destruction and vandalism and theft."

Way recalls a party he busted last prom season in Rockville, where he found a 14-year-old girl passed out on a bed, wearing a bra and blue jeans pulled down to about her thighs, with four or five boys sitting around her trying to look angelic. He didn't even realize the girl was there, under a pile of pillows and blankets, until everyone else had been cleared out of the basement and he heard her throwing up. She was so out of it she couldn't even give officers her name and address.

He winds up by warning the Walter Johnson students that even if they drive sober, the sound of someone vomiting in their precious car might make them crash into a tree.

When lunch time comes, a trail of students make their way to nearby Georgetown Square, where many of them go to buy food at the Giant or just hang out. I pick two girls who have stopped to light up cigarettes. They're ninth graders – too young to have taken the health class that Dana Way just addressed.

But they do like to party, which they define as "chillin' with your friends and drinking." They do it once a week or twice a month, they tell me. Soon they've called over some boys who describe their drinks of choice – "40s," or 40-ounce bottles, of malt liquor like St. Ides or Olde English, which they consider a single serving. A 40 is the equivalent in volume of 3½ beers, and some brands have twice the alcohol content. They also like "vodka OJ," which is popular because vodka leaves less telltale odor.

The boys soon take over the conversation. They say they know plenty of people with fake IDs, courtesy of desktop publishing and the photocopying machine, but they don't usually need to take the risk. Most often, they "give money to bums" to buy booze for them, or get it from older friends or siblings. Several say they steal from their parents' liquor cabinets, and one boy claims he drinks every day when his parents aren't home. "My parents work late, they're workaholics," he says.

When I ask if anyone here has ever passed out, one of the boys points to a girl with strawberry blond hair who has been standing around quietly. "She passed out last weekend," he shouts. "We had to carry her away." He laughs as she shakes her head and slips away from the crowd.

One of the cigarette-smoking ninth graders admits she has passed out "a couple of times." Does that worry her? "A little," she says. Her round face still maintains a look of childhood sweetness, even a little surprise at the things she's tried just since she graduated from middle school last year. "My mom knows I drink," she says. "She's an alcoholic. Your parents can't really stop you."

But what if one of your friends were passing out every weekend?

The girl answers, "I'd talk to them. You shouldn't pass out every weekend if you get drunk. You should get drunk to have fun."

Still, it happens. "When kids drink, they drink pretty much to get drunk," admits the second girl. The previous weekend, she drank and fell asleep in a boy's lap. Her parents don't know she drinks. "My mom's in denial. She doesn't want to know what I do. She's naive and they want to believe they're good parents. She makes it her business not to know." This girl thinks maybe kids get drunk when they get their hands on alcohol because they can't get it all the time.

"No, it's the fun of it, because you know that you're not supposed to be doing it," says the first girl, who didn't party with the others last weekend because she was away on a church retreat. "And it makes you feel good." Her boyfriend joins her, puts his arms around her, and says he gets drunk every weekend – sometimes on beer and vodka, but mostly by downing three 40s at a time. The boyfriend – who says that his mother works full time and his father could care less about him – spontaneously adds, "I never drink and drive."

The group starts to break up as kids return to class, and only those willing to risk being late remain, including the original two girls. They're both 14.

Now the second girl comes up with another reason why she drinks: "It gives you something to remember, to talk about." One of the things she remembers is the time "my friend broke a toilet bowl with her head. I was holding her head while she was puking," but the hair slipped out of her hand and the friend pitched forward.

With most of the crowd gone, the quiet strawberry blonde reappears. When I ask her how often she drinks, she answers, "Whenever possible." Then she amends that to "every other weekend." She began in sixth grade. Now she's in ninth. Was last weekend the first time she passed out? "No," she answers, and the others laugh knowingly. How much did she drink? She thinks it was more than half a bottle of vodka and about six beers, starting at around 7:30 p.m. She got sick around 10. "I was throwing up for two hours. Everyone just left me."

The house where they partied belonged to a student whose parents were away for the weekend but whose older brother came home and broke things up. After all the vomiting, the girl could barely walk, so "these two guys carried me to a friend's house to pass out." At that house the mother was upstairs, already asleep.

"It was a little scary," she admits. "I didn't know where I was going. There was a guy on each side." She got home about 5 the next afternoon and told her mother only that she'd been at a friend's house.

Do these kids ever do anything drunk that they later regret?

"Definitely," the first girl responds softly and slowly. "I sometimes get a little out of control with guys when I'm drunk. I have sex. I know about it. I mean, I consent, but I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't drunk, and I feel kind of bad about it afterwards."

Her boyfriend still has his arms around her, and he's smiling. She insists that even drunk she always makes the boys use a condom.

I ask how it feels to run into the boys the next morning at school. She shrugs and doesn't answer. Finally, her friend intervenes.

"It's not a big deal afterwards. It's just that you were drunk and everyone knows you were drunk, so it doesn't matter."

It might be easy to dismiss the kids at Georgetown Square as extreme. But there is plenty of evidence to suggest that they are not unique in either the amounts they drink or the reasons why.

Montgomery County instituted a new program in January to evaluate every teen who is cited on alcohol charges. In the first three months, the program screened 191 kids, two-thirds of them boys, almost all of them ages 15 to 18, and determined that 84 percent needed either mental health or substance abuse treatment or both.

The mental health workers who do the screening use various questions to distinguish teenagers who are abusing alcohol from those just checking out the party scene with friends. John Dunn looks for "a kid who's struggling in school. If the kid smokes marijuana, too, I'm much more likely to think there's a serious relationship to chemicals." They look for kids who have dropped their extracurricular activities. They look for a family history of alcoholism, for signs of abuse, for whether the parents and the child are able to talk to each other.

They see plenty of "good" kids, "getting very good grades, not low-functioning, hurting kids," Dunn says. The binge drinkers who do well in school and sports are the hardest ones to spot. "I ask kids how many times they've thrown up. Is it once every two weeks? If a kid's thrown up more than once and didn't learn, if he tells me he's getting drunk once a month, that's serious." The kids, of course, never think they have a problem. "They all say, 'I don't drive.' "

Some of these teenagers drink for the same reasons teenagers always have. To dull pain or handle stress or find a social niche or gain popularity. Others are typical adolescents, just taking risks. "We see a lot of obviously popular, attractive, sophisticated, nice kids who are just rolling the dice and hoping that snake eyes doesn't come up," says Dunn.

But kids are left on their own more than ever to take the gamble. In many ways what's new is the world adults have made for them.

It's a world full of baby boomer parents who don't like to lay down rules, says Mitzi Ross, who runs the screening program. Boomers who dabbled in drugs and alcohol themselves as teens feel hypocritical dictating to their children. Ross, a boomer herself, says that often it's a case of "parents being afraid of saying no to their kids, that their kids won't like them." Those parents who do want to exercise some control find it difficult when they're surrounded by other parents who don't even try. And there is always some place kids can go where there are no adults, since this is also increasingly a culture where there is a single parent or both parents are working. Ross notes that the Maryland Adolescent Survey – the State Department of Education's biennial study – shows a jump in drinking among kids between sixth and eighth grade. That's about the age when parents begin to relax about leaving their children alone after school.

The other big jump in alcohol use occurs at the beginning of high school. The screeners wonder about the role of huge schools, leaving students to their own devices, with open campuses at lunch and little after-school recreation. "So many of the kids start their serious pattern of use in ninth grade," says Dunn. "You're going to a big city every day. You're barely out of puberty, still look like a kid, you're out at 2:30 and running around with seniors. It's a mess."

Sylvia Fubini: "If you pull your head out of the sand and really see it as a serious problem, what do you do?" (By Claudio Vazquez/ The Washington Post)

"Karen, at most of the parties you go to, is there drinking?" Sylvia Fubini calls into the den where her daughter, a ninth grader at Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School, curls up under a blanket on the couch, watching television on a Sunday evening.

Karen chooses her reply carefully. "Lauren says every party has drinking after 10th grade," she says, referring to her older sister, who lives with her father and isn't here right now. Lauren later confirms that there's alcohol at every party she knows of – and that there are parties every weekend.

Earlier in the year, Fubini, who is divorced and runs her own business writing a health industry newsletter, got phone calls from families in her pleasant Bethesda neighborhood warning that their kids had come home from her house intoxicated. "My child swore nothing happened. Parents started to try to keep in touch. We even talked about getting a group together." Nothing happened, but one set of concerned parents told their son he is not supposed to be at the Fubini house unless there's an adult there.

We're sitting in her brightly lit kitchen, which faces onto a deck and a green yard from which three cats and a dog come and go. Sylvia Fubini is a pretty, petite woman with lively blue eyes and lots of energy. "I tend to be the house where the kids congregate," she says, especially in the afternoons when she's away at her office. Coming home, "I've found pot in the garage, beer in the garage, the brandy gone." Not a parent who hesitates to put a direct question to her children, she says she and both her daughters "have talked at length." Her older daughter "will tell me she's drinking and that my younger one's drinking," although Fubini doesn't know how much.

A few years ago, she went away for the weekend, leaving an au pair who went out on Saturday night. "The kids just all started to congregate here. They will just learn where the parents are absent. There was beer. ... My daughter didn't want them here. Kids showed up unannounced, uninvited, it just blows my mind." When the au pair returned at 11 p.m., she was unable to break up the party. Lauren, then a sophomore, called a college-age male friend to come help clear out the house. Fubini realized that "every time I left the house overnight I had the potential for this to happen."

But Fubini worries that if she forbids the kids to hang out at her home, they'll just go somewhere else. Once adolescents drive, much of the control seems to drive away with them. She knows some teenagers rent hotel rooms to drink. At least in her home, she can lay down some rules. "I will not tolerate drinking or pot because it's illegal," she repeatedly tells her daughters – but "I might as well be talking to blank walls."

She calls again to Karen to try to get her to join the discussion, but Karen has selected the safe course and fallen asleep in front of the television.

"They are doing everything much faster than we did," says Fubini. "They have cars, we give them everything, and they think they can handle it. There's a lot more overt dysfunction in families."

Parents are always told to make sure their children go to a party only where an adult is present. But during one of their talks, Lauren described a party she went to as a sophomore at a house in which the parents were there. "They were drunk upstairs and the kids drunk downstairs."

Even responsible parents are unsure what to do. On New Year's Eve, a neighbor sent Karen and her friends home from his house when he found bottles some of the boys had swiped from their parents' liquor cabinets. Another neighbor told Sylvia, "Kids are going to drink. Now what you've got to teach kids is how to do it in moderation." She thinks she agrees with that. On the other hand, she wonders out loud if she's naive about what goes on, even when she's home.

"Karen, is there much drinking among your friends?" she asks as her daughter finally emerges from the den in search of a bowl of cereal. Karen shrugs and names one boy who has a problem, but says she herself doesn't. Her mother asks if all the kids on New Year's Eve had been planning to drink.

"I know I wasn't," Karen answers firmly and exits with her cereal.

Fubini sighs. "I've asked my kids not to lie to me. The problem is, if you pull your head out of the sand and really see it as a serious problem, what do you do? What do you do?"

Some of the things you do, according to material from Drawing the Line, include setting curfews; staying up until your child gets home; being alert for the smell of alcohol or the coverup signs of mints and toothpaste; establishing rules and consequences. But in Montgomery County, they don't just leave enforcement to parents.

As Officer William Morrison starts his 5 p.m. to 3 a.m. shift, the whiteboard in the alcohol enforcement unit's headquarters lists "Restaurant Hot Spots" that police want to monitor for possibly selling liquor to minors. Also listed are three stores they want to stake out for the same reason. Sometime in the evening the six officers on duty will probably be called on to break up a party, since it's a Friday night, but it's pouring outside, which might put a damper on things even for teenagers.

Morrison thinks this is the night he might arrest a father who let his son have a 20th-birthday party with alcohol a couple of weeks ago on the condition that all the guests turn in their car keys. But one 18-year-old high school student retrieved his, left around midnight and wrapped his car around a telephone pole on Arcola Avenue in Wheaton. He's in a coma and on life support. Morrison would like to cite the father for "adult responsibility" and furnishing alcohol to a minor, but he needs to get hold of the last two young witnesses and they're not home.

Hey, it's Friday night.

Morrison has a fringe of sandy hair, blue eyes and the air of a crusader. As the police department's first officer trained in drug recognition, he developed the alcohol enforcement unit with another officer about four years ago. Morrison believes it was unique in its mission – not just to look for drunk drivers on prom nights and holidays, but to combine education with deterrence and enforcement. And he coined the nickname, the Whiskey Units.

The Whiskey Units have developed a policy called "controlled dispersal," which means that instead of just busting up a party, they stake it out until they see evidence that kids are drinking. Then they block off the road so no one can drive away, surround the house and knock on the door. They give Breathalyzer tests to the kids and citations to those who test positive. Then they call all the parents to come, and they don't clean anything up first.

"When we first started it, we would hear the parents say, 'You should be out arresting burglars, murderers, drug dealers. These kids are only having a couple of beers,' " Morrison says. He's in his patrol car – Whiskey 17 – headed to stake out a store that's on the Hot Spots list. But when parents began to come to the party scenes, "they would see cases of beer, their feet would stick to the floor, they'd look at the damage that was done to the house. ... They might see 50 kids inside one motel room, or see a kid hanging over a toilet throwing up." Within three months, he says, he began to hear the attitudes of adults change.

"Most of the parents now are very upset. We've actually had to pull parents off the host."

Before the unit's reputation was established, it was not uncommon for parties to grow from a few dozen friends to a few hundred uninvited guests when Mom and Dad left town. Now, he says, it's hard to find a party with 100 kids, although there are still plenty of gatherings with up to 50.

At a party of Quince Orchard High School students in Gaithersburg in March, teenagers tried to play possum, refusing to open the door, turning out the lights and lying down on the floor out of sight. Morrison went to the back of the house. "They began throwing beer cans out the window," he says. One person jumped off the balcony. As the officers were planning to back out and block off the road, the parents suddenly came home. "The parents had no idea this was an ongoing thing," he says.

The Whiskey Units found beer, vodka and wine. "There's beer in the bathroom closet, under the bed, in the washing machine." They found several class officers who were designated drivers and had abstained from drinking, but cited them anyway for "constructive possession" – being in the presence of alcohol. "They were charged because there was so much alcohol and we were there an hour," he says, still sounding annoyed. "They chose to hide with the rest of the kids. Their parents were so upset: How could we charge them?"

Some police officials believe that with all the other demands on resources, alcohol enforcement has received too much emphasis, and some parents contend the officers of the Whiskey Units are overzealous. Last December, the units busted a large afternoon party following a half-day at Damascus High School, where school authorities had gotten wind of what the students were planning and alerted police. Thirty-one students were cited for drinking. Those involved with sports teams were barred for the remainder of the season; a student body officer was impeached, and others were banned from their extracurricular activities. But the action split the community because the school, which had allowed a teacher and its own security personnel to go along on the raid, had chosen to notify police rather than call the parents to prevent the gathering. And because the partying – and drinking – went on for several hours before police got there.

Ellen Pickett, the Clarksburg mother whose house was raided, fired off an angry letter to the Damascus Gazette, saying that she felt "used and violated." She and her husband, who both work full time, "are 100 percent against underage drinking," Pickett wrote, and would have stopped their son from throwing the party if they'd been informed. They were outraged by the police raid and the teacher's "sneaky" invasion of their home. "I suggest the two-hour delay was a deliberate plan to allow time for the house to fill up with teenagers and time for their blood alcohol levels to rise to measurable levels. That would grab headlines. ... The motive for headline-grabbing is obvious. There is talk in the county government of disbanding the police unit assigned to breaking up such parties."

Morrison responds that police were late getting there because the party occurred on one of the days they spend teaching in the schools, and that they didn't inform the parents because they feared the party would just be moved elsewhere. But it's true about disbanding the unit. Police Chief Carol A. Mehrling announced in November that the department planned to break up several special units, including the one devoted to alcohol enforcement, to make better use of limited manpower. County Executive Doug Duncan, who received community protests against the plan, announced he would not let that happen until the department came up with a plan to continue enforcing underage drinking laws. As of July, Morrison and the others will be reassigned to various district stations to advise regular beat officers, although how that will work is not yet clear.

Morrison believes breaking up the unit is a mistake. "If we shut down a party with 50 kids, that's 50 less people that are drinking and driving down the road," he says. If they convince one kid in a health class that the chances and consequences of getting caught are too high, that's one kid they might have stopped from drinking. They're getting almost complete compliance now from local beer and wine stores, he says, although he's beginning to see more alcohol drifting in across the county line from D.C. Still, he believes the unit has had a positive impact, even though "we can't see how much good we're actually doing."

The question could be asked of all Montgomery County's efforts – how much good are they actually doing?

Drawing the Line cites a list of achievements. The top three are: that no alcohol-related deaths have occurred during prom season since the program began, that the rate of binge drinking among 10th graders dropped from 33.5 percent to 29 percent between 1992 and 1996, and that more than three-fourths of Montgomery County residents are aware of county efforts to reduce underage drinking.

Still, it takes time to change the environment in which kids grow up, argues Trina Leonard, who no longer works for the county but is setting up similar programs in five communities around the country for the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. "You're not going to walk into a high school where you've got 90 percent of the kids drinking and give 'em a presentation and they'll say, 'Well, we're never doing that again.' ... You think of the whole culture they're exposed to about alcohol."

Nancy Rea of Drawing the Line believes ours is a culture that bombards kids with mixed messages about drinking and then blames the problem on peer pressure. "I think the problem is a bigger problem than peer pressure. It's not that somebody says, 'Why don't you drink?' Nobody says anything to you, you just kind of feel out of place." If you drink, "on Monday morning you can say, 'I had such a great time; Friday night I got so plastered, buzzed, wasted.' Can you say, 'Friday night I had such a good time – I stayed sober'? It doesn't come off quite the same way."

Pit one county's efforts against that whole culture and Trina Leonard's modest expectations make sense: "There's a certain number of kids that probably will drink, there's some who wouldn't drink even if you put a bottle in their hand – [and] then there's this really big swing group," she says. The theory is that if you give that swing group other ways to have fun, if you make it hard enough for them to get hold of alcohol, if they see their older siblings getting caught and punished, maybe they'll decide to wait until they're 21 and legal.

At least that's the theory.

By late Friday night the rain is pouring down in sheets. Whiskey 17 parks a few blocks away from a Bethesda address that's been phoned in to police by a man complaining that teenagers are drinking noisily next door. The other Whiskey Units roll in one by one, all careful not to be seen in their police cruisers. They sit in the dark, which is punctuated by thunder and lightning, like troops massed on the border, waiting for "the Bomber" – a junky, unmarked car – to scope things out more closely. When he finally arrives, the driver of the Bomber takes a look around, even peers into the windows of the suspected party site, then radios back: "There ain't jack going on over here, not a creature stirring, no music, no noise."

Just before midnight another call comes in, from Norwood. The dispatcher says a teenage party seems to be getting out of hand and that "they might be about to fight." Almost immediately, another police unit radios that it has intercepted 15 of the party-goers in a van. Some of the kids are trying to run away. Morrison swings Whiskey 17 around, flips on the overhead flashing lights and accelerates. But before he gets there, the radio squawks that the occupants of the van are under control.

The Whiskey Units converge on a cul-de-sac near the Norwood house. The house appears to be quiet, although paper cups are scattered on the lawn. The other units leave, but Morrison decides to ring the bell. A harried-looking woman answers and tells him that she had given her daughter permission to have some friends over from Sherwood High School but then "all these other kids showed up" from another high school and "it got out of hand." That's when she called the police. "I'm the only adult here," she says, a young son peering out from behind her.

Morrison informs her that the police got the kids who left the party.

"All of them?" her teenager calls out from the living room in disbelief. "You got all of them?"

Susan Cohen last wrote for the Magazine about the ethics of cloning.