“I don’t care,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, terrified that I’m about to cry.
“I do,” Josie insists, digging into her pockets. “You might have blown it at your house but I’ve got my ass covered here.”
“Josie—”
“Try Edith again,” she says, shoving some bills into my hands. “Her electric bill is due next week and she’s strapped.”
“She won’t sell her own stash,” I argue, but Josie shakes her head.
“She might love her kickers, but she likes having the heat on even more.”
I look down at the money in my hands. “And after that?”
Josie is about to say something, but shakes her head when I hear a woman calling for her from inside. “Get going,” Josie says, “or I’ll have to introduce you and make you stay longer than either of us wants you to be here.”
“I’m going to puke in like five minutes,” I tell her.
“I see that,” she agrees, forcefully grabbing my shoulders and spinning me around to face my car. “Later.”
I make it to Edith’s without getting sick all over myself, but she’s about as happy to see me as Josie was.
“Neighbors,” she hisses when I come to the back door, but her mood improves when she sees the wad of cash in my hands.
“I don’t have much,” Edith warns me, motioning for me to sit at the kitchen table as she heads back to the bedroom. Apparently I’m only granted access to the living room when Josie is with me. I feel so bad I don’t care, and I rest my forehead against her table while I wait, shudders passing through my body. I never bothered to count Josie’s money, and when Edith puts a brown bag in front of me I push the whole wad to her without even checking to see what’s inside.
I need to get it in my system fast, but Josie has all the needles, so I chew up two 40s and wash them down at Edith’s sink, hoping I’m somewhere near respectable when I get home, which needs to happen fast so Mom doesn’t wonder where I’ve been.
I can hear Mom’s shower running when I get in the door, so I take the opportunity to head upstairs and start my own. What dirt I have on me from the game slides off with the sweat, and a little bit of balance returns as I stand under the hot water. I’ve still got nothing in my stomach but pills, so I yank on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie to raid the fridge, wet hair hanging down my back.
Mom’s waiting for me at the counter, a glass of wine in front of her along with a catalog for mail-order chocolates that I’m pretty sure she dug out of the recycling—which means that she’s trying really hard to look casual. I cross to the fridge, taking my time gathering up the stuff to make a sandwich, putting on my own show.
“How you feeling?” she asks.
“Better,” I tell her. “Think I caught a little something.”
“C’mere,” Mom says, holding out her palm. I walk into it, wishing that I felt like this was purely out of caring, and not a test of some sort. “You’re a little warm,” she admits, pulling away and wiping her hand dry on her robe. I bite into my sandwich so that I don’t have to reply.
Mom turns a page of the catalog to a section that’s all sugar-free candy. I chew. Neither one of us speaks. She’s moved on to organic stuff and I’m halfway through my ham and cheese before she tries again.
“You really scared me today, Mickey,” she says, softly.
“I know,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”
And I am. I’m sorry that I collapsed on the field and I’m sorry that I yelled at my friends today and I’m sorry that I put Josie in a bad spot and I’m sorry that Edith has to balance being in pain with paying her bills. I’m sorry about all those things. But mostly I feel sorry for myself, and I’m sorry for being me at the same time, which gets my already fuzzy head mixed up even more.
I finish eating and rinse off my plate, heading for the stairs to save us both from this awkward semi-conversation. I’m halfway up the steps when I glance down to see that Mom isn’t looking at the catalog anymore, she’s just staring at where I was standing, her face unreadable.
“I love you, Mom,” I say.
She glances up. “I love you too, Mickey,” she says, and I get a smile. It’s a real one that cracks the blank mask from a second ago, and seems to wash away that little pucker of concern that was forming between her eyebrows.
I really, really need to make sure I don’t fuck this up.
I’ve got a text from Carolina, asking if I know what the English assignment is. I shoot her back the answer, followed by, How’s the arm?
She answers right away. Better. How’s whatever’s wrong with you?
Better, I tell her, knowing that if I try to defend myself like I did today at lunch anything I say could end up screen-capped and part of a conversation that I’m not in on.
It’s a shitty way to feel, but it’s a shitty thing to do, too.
You know you can talk to me, Carolina texts.
And that’s the thing, yeah, I probably could. But Carolina is a straight shooter, and I don’t just mean she throws strikes right up the pipe. I can’t say for sure what she’d do if I came clean to her, but I doubt it ends with her skipping practices to come to rehab meetings with me, and after that conversation at the Galarza dinner table I’m pretty sure there’d be no asopao in my future, either.
I type out my go-to response—I’m fine—then erase it. Maybe not answering her at all would make my point better than anything. I’m looking for the right words, weighing options and even scrolling through emojis to see if there’s one for convincing people you’re not an addict when a text comes through from Josie.
Got us covered. See you Friday?
There it is again, that question mark, like maybe I’ll let her down.
Damn straight, I answer.
Cool, she types immediately. Ready for this.
There’s not a question mark after that one, and as I settle into bed I can hear Mom pacing downstairs, something she usually only does when she’s got a feeling there’s something wrong with a patient, but can’t put her finger on exactly what.
After that, it’s not a question for me, either.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
lead: to guide or conduct, as going before, showing, influencing, or directing with authority
Fridays used to mean getting pizza with Carolina and bingeing something on Netflix, but the last pizza we got together ended up in a field next to my upside-down car and I’m pretty sure Aaron is the only person she watches Netflix with these days, if that’s what they’re actually doing.
Now my Fridays mean telling Mom I’m hanging out with Jodie from physical therapy and driving to Edith’s with a curious mix of guilt and anticipation in my gut. I don’t know how long the fictional Jodie will hold up against her new suspicions, but using Carolina or any of the other girls could blow up in my face on both sides, and I doubt Mom would believe I’m spending the night at Dad’s after what happened last time I went over there.
“Jodie, really?” Josie asks.
“Nice cover,” Derrick agrees, laughing.
“Hey, if the truth is the easiest thing to remember, then the next best thing is a lie that’s almost true, right?” Luther says, in my defense.
“Whatever,” Josie says, checking her phone again.
“So . . . what’s the deal here?” I ask.
“The deal is that I’ve got more balls than these two,” Josie says, arching a brow at the boys. “They don’t want to risk being seen buying Oxy? Fine. I’m leveling up and taking you all with me.”
I can’t help but notice a little bit of Jadine in her tone, like talking to her sister over the weekend might have rubbed off.
“Leveling up?” Luther asks, glancing uneasily at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Heroin,” Josie says lightly, and now I definitely recognize her older sister’s nonchalance in the way she says it.
“Whoa, hold up,” Derrick says. “You know I’d follow you just about anywhere—”
“Mostly
just to look at your ass,” Luther adds.
“But I’m not hitting up some corner just to impress you,” Derrick finishes.
“You don’t have to.” Josie shrugs. “This guy delivers.”
“Delivers?” Edith sits up in her chair, suddenly invested in the conversation.
“Wait, like a pizza?” Luther asks.
“Yes, like a pizza,” Josie says patiently. “And yes, Edes, he’s on the way.”
“I don’t need another car in the driveway,” Edith says. “Yesterday when I was getting the mail Mr. Baylor said it seems like my family is getting bigger all the time.”
“Yeah, he’s a dick,” Luther says.
“He is,” Edith agrees. “But I don’t need him being a suspicious dick.”
“Don’t worry, I think this guy is pretty good at being discreet,” Josie says, tapping a text into her phone. “He’ll be here in two minutes, and I’m not telling him to turn around, like a pussy.”
Luther and Derrick share a glance.
“Okay, but . . . ,” Derrick says, suddenly sheepish. “I don’t even know how to—”
“We do,” Josie says, waving a hand between the two of us. “Mickey and I shot up last week.” While that’s not exactly true—we did use a needle, but we weren’t doing heroin—the looks on the boys’ faces leave me without words, my usual resting place.
Derrick is impressed. Luther is disappointed.
I want to explain to him—somehow—but a pair of headlights sweeps across the living room before I can come up with anything. Edith mutters something under her breath, but stays in the chair when Josie goes to answer the back door. I follow her, Derrick and Luther trailing me. There’s a quick, polite tap on the screen door and Josie opens it to let him in.
“Um . . . Patrick?” she asks, glancing down at her phone.
“Yep,” he confirms. “Josie?”
“Yeah, hi,” she says, blushing a little bit.
“All right, so . . .” Patrick’s eyes sweep over the four of us, making an assessment. “You guys have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
“No,” I say, and it’s Josie’s turn to smack someone.
“What?” I complain, rubbing my arm. “We don’t. Might as well be straight with him.”
“It’s cool,” Patrick says. “Somewhere we can sit?”
Josie starts clearing the table of place mats and the salt and pepper shakers, like we’re all going to sit down and do math homework together or something. I take a minute to look at Patrick, trying to place him. There’s something in the line of his jaw, lightly covered in stubble two shades darker than his blond hair, that has me convinced I know him, but I’m not sure from where.
Casually, he reaches into his cheek and pulls out a balloon.
“Ewww,” Derrick says. “That’s gross, man.”
“Be glad that’s where I store ’em,” Patrick shoots back, and Derrick shuts up.
“Why, though?” Luther asks, curiosity piqued.
“If I get grabbed, I can swallow what I’ve got on me,” Patrick explains. “I make good money doing this. I get busted, I’m out. Bosses don’t need a dealer with a face the cops know.”
“You got a boss?” Derrick asks.
“You think I make this shit in my basement, bro? It’s not a one-man operation, and this ain’t exactly weed.”
“Right, I know,” Derrick says, nodding.
“Now pay attention, ’cause you only get the walk-through once,” Patrick says, his eyes coming back to mine.
And really it kind of is like homework, but not math, more like science. It feels like we’re doing a chemistry lab with our checklist—spoon, water, lighter—and the catalyst, a lump of something that looks like coal when Patrick bites the knot off the balloon. He shows us what to do, each step specific and somehow sacred under his hands, the concentration on his face reminding me of Carolina’s when she goes into the windup. Soon, four of Josie’s remaining needles rest on the table, syringes filled with what Patrick calls “a beginner’s dose.”
“You know how to shoot?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Josie says, eyes still on the needles. “What do I owe you?”
“First one’s on the house,” Patrick says.
“Dude, free heroin,” Derrick says. “You’re my new best friend.”
“Exactly,” Patrick says. “You want more, you call me. If it’s three in the morning, you call me. That’s what friends are for. Got a pen?”
“One sec,” Josie says, going to the hutch by Edith’s front door and rummaging around for one. “Um, hold on.”
She disappears into the living room, leaving the three of us with nothing to say and nowhere to put our eyes. Mine keep shifting between Patrick and the needles on the table, the only things that are capable of holding my attention at the moment.
Patrick suddenly snaps his fingers. “Mickey Catalan,” he says. “That’s who you are.”
“Shit,” I say. “You know me?”
“Yeah, my sister played for Hebron Hills a couple years ago. You faced off with them at sectionals. Hell of a game.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, remembering. “Five–two. We won, bottom of the seventh when your shortstop choked, error on a grounder that should’ve never made it to the grass.”
“That was bullshit, man,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “She had no business being on the field. Her parents paid for new uniforms for the whole team, and suddenly she’s first-string.”
“Dude, that sucks,” Luther says, and I swear he waits for a beat to see if Patrick recognizes him, too. It doesn’t happen, and I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed.
“You were, what, a sophomore?” Patrick asks, and I nod. “This girl’s got a hell of an arm on her,” he tells Luther and Derrick. “She picked off two at second in one inning that game.”
Patrick’s gaze is back on me, even though my eyes are still on the needles because right now I’m like a kid at a birthday party, eyeing the cake to pick my piece. That’s one reason I don’t look up, the other being that I don’t want to see the question in my dealer’s eyes, the one I’ve been asking myself lately.
What happened?
But there’s another question, more urgent and easier to answer, a primitive call versus the philosophical tangle. There aren’t even words for it, just a deep, open space inside of me that’s asking for something to fill it.
Josie comes back with a pen and Patrick jots down his number—one time for each of us—pushing away Luther’s phone when he asks to add him.
“Number changes next week anyway,” Patrick says. “All I’ve got are burners.”
“Hey,” I say as he’s getting up to leave. “Do you sell to everybody around here?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Can you tell whoever shoots up in the park to pick up their shit? I heard there are needles lying around behind the dugout. That’s not cool.”
“Not cool at all.” Patrick nods like he gets it.
He tells us to stay safe and says goodbye to each of us in turn, resting his hand on my shoulder for a second longer than anyone else’s. There’s something deeply personal and almost caring about his actions, from the eye contact right down to the way he tells Josie to say hi to Jadine for him, and asks if their mom has been feeling better after spraining her ankle.
I don’t feel like I’m doing something illegal. I feel like a nice guy just brought me something I need, a friend of a friend who only wants to help me out. It’s a feeling that’s shared among the four of us as we choose our needles, Josie’s face puckering a little with trepidation as she watches the angled tip, her eyes finding mine.
That’s the thing about being a natural leader: people look to you even in situations you don’t know shit about, like just because I have absolute command of a diamond means I should make the call on who is going to shoot heroin first.
And if it is my decision, it’s an easy choice.
I am.
Chapter Thirt
y-Eight
heroin: an illegal addictive narcotic that produces euphoric effects
I make a fist.
I find a blue line.
I break my skin.
I puncture a vein.
I pull blood up into the syringe, watch it dissipate for a moment, a part of my body outside of myself, diluted in heroin, drowning.
Then I plunge.
I am suspended in warmth, elongated like my blood in the barrel, dissipating. I am wholly without pain or caring, even when I vomit. The act itself is almost graceful, robbed of its unnaturalness as everything in my stomach makes its way to my mouth as if that were only to be expected, and I turn my head in agreement, casually leaving it all on the floor next to Edith’s couch.
It doesn’t matter and I don’t care.
My friends move around me, asking me questions. Luther pulls the needle from my arm. Josie pushes my hair back from my face. Derrick lifts my legs onto the couch. Edith cleans up my mess and covers me with a blanket, happy to have someone to care for. I have nothing but love in me, for them and for this place where not only do I not feel pain, but I cannot even remember what pain is.
There is no hurt, there is no fear, there is no stupidity or awkwardness. I am beautiful to these people and I want to share this warmth with them, press their hands to my skin and let them feel what I feel, absolute acceptance and love.
Then they do. One by one, I watch them go.
Luther hesitates after tying off, the hand that holds the needle shaky. Josie takes it from him, shows him how to hold the needle straight, not at an angle. He’s about to tell her no, his mouth ready to release the word when she shoots. There is no regret on his face.
Derrick is easier, happy to have Josie’s hands on him, eager to show her that he will do as she says. But even she is replaced as the object of his affection once his veins are full. Then there is only Josie, tearful, left behind and scared to stick herself. Edith does it for her.
She stops crying.
There are no tears here, no room for anything other than the feeling that everything is all right, and always will be, and always has been. I turn my head, drawn in by the pattern of Edith’s couch, my eyes tracing the outline of blue roses, long frayed by years of use. I’m lost, eyes rolling, then closing, leaning into the warmth like arms enveloping me, heavy and comforting. Endlessly wrapping me inside and out, rocking, cooing, lulling.
Heroine Page 18
