Heroine

by Mindy McGinnis

  It’s as if I’ve found my mother.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  hyperfocus: intense concentration on a single subject

  The hate comes later, when I see the little round injection hole in my arm.

  There are two, one higher up from where Jadine expertly found a vein when she dosed me with Oxy. Then there’s the one I gave myself, right in the crook of my elbow where it was easiest. Bruises circle both, the one from Jadine a fading yellow that doesn’t quite reach the dark blue surrounding my fresh puncture.

  In the shower the newer bruise turns a livid red, the coagulating blood warmed by the water. I press on it, digging into the broken vein like I have with the screws on my hip, treating the wound with pain as punishment. There’s an ache that blossoms, pulling an exhalation from my teeth as I press until I feel my pulse, hot and insistent against my fingertips.

  There’s still heroin in there, somewhere.

  Josie told me it takes seventy-two hours to clear my system, even if I can’t feel the effects. It’s in there, chasing the multivitamin I take every day.

  I hold my arm up to the flow of the water, studying the tiny scab that’s already formed, the outline my fingers left behind. Mom is downstairs, making breakfast. I heard bacon frying when I crossed the hall to the bathroom, the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs. She’s following the pattern that has kept us together since Dad left, a variation on a theme, two plates instead of three.

  Mom’s down there right now, thinking about the women she will see today, the babies she will deliver. I’ve watched her often enough to know that her hands can perform one task while her brain ponders something else. She can mother me and many others at the same time, feeding me food while giving them her thoughts. Her life is in balance, calibrated.

  She is thinking of what others need.

  Her daughter is upstairs, fully focused on the crook of her left elbow.

  I am thinking about heroin.

  And that’s all.

  Chapter Forty

  boundary: that which indicates or creates a limit or extent; a separating line; a real or imaginary limit

  I am not a changed person.

  I go to school on Monday and no one knows that I have crossed a line. I have not become someone else. There is no sign on my chest. I am not accused of anything. Ironically, Lydia pulls me aside to apologize for what went down at the lunch table last week. I tell her not to worry about it.

  But I do not tell her they were wrong.

  I admit to myself that I am a heroin user, while also updating in my mind what that actually means. I am not a wasted person. I am not prowling the streets. I am not an addict. I am a girl spinning her locker combination. I am a girl who got a B on her math test. I am a girl who has two holes on the inside of her arm, but they do not tell the whole story of me.

  When Bella Right lost her virginity she told us all about it at Lydia’s house, detailing it to a degree that left nothing to the imagination and answered most of the lingering questions any of us had, except for one.

  “How did you feel the next day?” Carolina asked. “That’s always my thing, you know? Like, how can I just get up and use the bathroom and brush my teeth and drive to school and talk to Mom without thinking the whole time, I’m not a virgin anymore?”

  Bella Right only shrugged. “You just don’t. It’s supposed to be this big life-changing thing, right? But it’s not. You’ve still gotta pee, and eat and go to school and do all the same shit the next day just like you did the one before. Only difference is a guy’s dick has been in you. And you know what? By third period it’s like it wasn’t even a thing. I had sex, but oh well. I couldn’t spend all day thinking about it, right? So I go to fourth period, and then someone asks me what’s for lunch, and pretty soon it’s just another day. Nothing’s different. Not even me.”

  It’s true for me too, although the only thing that’s been in me was a needle. There is clarity to my day that I’ve never felt before, a distinct line between what things are and what they are not, as if my mind has found new, more accurate definitions for everything. I know who my friends are, and which ones belong in what parts of my life. I can sit at lunch and give Carolina hell for missing that line drive, and not wince when she hits my arm for it. The bruises there can’t hurt when she touches them, because her hand cannot cross the boundary between the two worlds. How can I feel pain from bruises she does not know I have, and that I refuse to acknowledge when I am with her?

  There is a feeling of superiority as well, something I have never carried with me off the field. I eat my sandwich, each bite heavy in my mouth, more food than I need. I listen to my friends talk, their words fluid and easy between them. For once I do not feel the need to participate, to make my own words and fit them with theirs, putting pieces of a conversation together.

  I keep quiet, holding things close to me. I know things they don’t know. I don’t need food. I don’t need words. I don’t need anything.

  Right now, honestly, I really am okay.

  And it’s not a lie.

  We’re eight games into the season, undefeated. It’s nothing more than was expected of us, and Coach tells us in the locker room not to get cocky. We haven’t seen any real competition yet. That’s coming on Thursday. Normally Coach doesn’t let up during the season, pushing us at practices in between games just as hard as preseason. But it’s raining now, the field nearly underwater. She tells us to do two miles in the hallways, then put in our reps in the weight room.

  Bella Right rolls her eyes, mutters, “Hoo—fucking—ray.”

  We trade spikes for sneakers, trying not to groan. Running indoors is absolute shit. The tiled floor has no give and if you don’t know how to land on your feet just right you’ll wake up the next day with shin splints. Normally I can feel the impact right up to my teeth, and I’m not looking forward to putting in my time after Carolina and I are finished stretching. But once we’ve shot down the science hallway, circled the auditorium, and passed the vocational tech rooms, I realize I feel nothing.

  It’s the heroin, what’s left of it, rushing through my bloodstream, feeding my brain, liberating my heart. I take a deep breath, my lungs incredibly open.

  “What are you smiling about?” Carolina asks, her own breathing a little shaky, her arm held a little too close to her side, protectively.

  “I feel good,” I tell her as we jog through the cafeteria, a group of boys glancing up as we pass.

  “You look good,” she admits after a second, her eyes trailing over me. I know she hasn’t missed the fact that I’m wearing long sleeves, pushed up just below the elbow.

  Behind us, the boys catcall the Bellas and Lydia, followed by yells as Bella Right wings a softball at them. She carries two with her when we run indoors, specifically for that reason. Carolina and I both laugh, the sounds mixing together as they always have, hers high and feminine, mine a lower note. I smile even wider, lengthening my stride on the last half mile, pushing Carolina to keep up with me.

  “It’s like that, huh?” Carolina asks, sucking wind but answering my challenge.

  I pass the locker room door a split second ahead of her, momentum taking me past the drinking fountains and a few lockers before I can slow down.

  “Perdedora,” I say to her.

  “Pendeja,” she shoots back, sweat streaming down her face.

  I don’t remember the last time I spoke Spanish with her. It feels good, even if we are just trading insults. We set up our weights, counting reps and spotting each other, laughing at Bella Center when her squat produces a fart that can be heard over the music.

  “Jesus,” Lydia says, pinching her nose. “Somebody put a bucket under her.”

  The baseball game was rained out and their coach gave them the day off, so we’ve got the room to ourselves, our muscles tearing and lengthening, our tongues loose as we tease each other. The door to the outside is open, letting in a cool breeze and a whiff of rain, washing away the smell of our swea
t. No one questions my long sleeves, and I break my deadlift record.

  I feel good.

  I feel like I can have both things.

  Chapter Forty-One

  betray: to violate trust, prove treacherous to, or abandon another

  Luther is waiting for me by my car after Wednesday’s game. I don’t see him until I’m fumbling for my keys. My head is down, mind rolling over the fact that I missed a pop-up in the third inning. We won anyway, and it’s the kind of catch that would have been nothing short of a full-on run-and-dive miracle move for anyone else. But for me, it should have been routine, and I couldn’t do it.

  I didn’t react quickly enough, and when the third baseman saw that I wasn’t springing up she went after it too, even though I called it. We came close to a collision and Coach gave her a hard talking-to about the fact that I called it, so it was mine, then told me I damn well better not call it unless I know I can get it.

  I’m turning that over in my head, trying to decide exactly what went wrong, when Luther says, “Hey, Mickey.”

  “Shit.” I jump, dropping my keys. We bend to get them at the same time and he doesn’t miss the twitch of my mouth as I do.

  “Your hip all right?”

  “Yeah, just sore.”

  “So, uh . . . how’ve you been?”

  I give him a funny look while I throw my gear in the car. “I just saw you on Friday, dude.”

  “Right, yeah,” he says. “But that was . . .”

  I know what that was. It was Edith and Josie, Derrick and Patrick, needles and crossing a line. It wasn’t him and me at a basketball game, taking selfies. It wasn’t him awkwardly holding my hand as we walked back to the car, our knuckles tight against each other.

  It wasn’t us.

  “Wanna grab something to eat?” he asks. “You’ve got to be starving.”

  Actually, I’m not. But I don’t want him to think I’m avoiding him, so I hop in his car when he opens the door, once more adjusting the seat all the way back.

  “So what did you think of that, at Edith’s?”

  I don’t say heroin.

  “Meh, it was okay,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

  “Okay?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise at such a lukewarm response to something that sent me straight to heaven.

  “Yeah, I mean . . .” He spins his hand in the air like Mr. Galarza when he’s searching for the right word in English. “I don’t know. I felt good for a little bit, I guess, but then I kind of felt like puking. And I hate puking.”

  “I don’t think anyone likes puking,” I tell him.

  “No.” He smiles a little. “But it just didn’t feel worth it. I guess I don’t like it as much as you guys do.”

  “Huh,” I say, mystified.

  “I mean . . .” He trails off, his eyes cutting to me while he drives. “You do what you want to do, Mickey. I’m not judging you. Just be careful, okay?”

  I think of Big Ed, always telling me to be careful out there.

  “I am,” I say.

  “If we’re all together and using it to let go a little bit on the weekend, then okay, whatever. But I’m pretty sure Josie was popping pills all through the week, and Derrick will do whatever she does, even if it gets him nowhere.”

  “Right,” I say, my mouth suddenly tight.

  “You’re not doing that, are you?” Luther asks, scanning the lot at the diner for an open spot. “You only use at Edith’s, right?”

  “Right,” I say again, the word coming more easily after forcing the first one through my teeth. He takes my hand as we walk in, our fingers loosely linked.

  I wish it felt as good as being high.

  I’ve got a text from Josie on my phone.

  Call me.

  I put her on speaker as I drive. “What’s up?” I ask when she answers.

  “So . . .” She takes a deep breath, followed by a long exhale. I know her well enough by now to read it. Drama is what’s up.

  “Edith took Patrick’s number.”

  “Why does she need it?” I ask. “She didn’t even shoot.”

  “No. Listen,” Josie says sharply, her patience thin. “She took, like, all Patrick’s numbers. Those slips of paper he wrote on for us? I think she gathered them up while we were high.”

  “She doesn’t want us using?”

  “Nice thought, but no. She doesn’t want us using without her.”

  “Oooohhhh,” I say. It makes sense. Oxy is how she gathered us to her, an adopted family. If we move on to a different drug she can’t supply, the bond is broken.

  “Yeah,” Josie says, her tone flat. “I am so pissed right now.”

  “Just call Jadine and get his number from her.”

  “Yeah, I totally can call Jadine, but that is not the point,” Josie says, irritated that I’m not getting it.

  I do get it, though.

  “You feel betrayed,” I say, thinking of the messages on Carolina’s phone that I’m not a part of.

  “Yeah.” Josie’s voice is small now, hurt. “So I went over to talk to Edith and she was upset, said we’re going to be all about Patrick now and forget about her.”

  “Did you tell her Patrick doesn’t make us meat loaf?”

  “Ha, good one,” Josie says. “Didn’t think of that.”

  I pull into the garage and turn off the car. “Look, I get that you’re upset, but what’s the big deal? Nothing’s really changed. Call Jadine and get Patrick’s number. End of problem.”

  “It’s not the end, Mickey,” she insists. “Remember that class reunion Edes went to? She reconnected with some guy that was in Vietnam and got into heroin over there and never gave it up.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s got a hookup,” Josie practically wails. “And now Edes says if we want to use at her place, we’ll have to buy from him. She told me he’ll deliver and everything, just like Patrick. But it’s not the same thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, finally understanding what the real problem is. Buying heroin from a hunky twentysomething and buying heroin from a scuzzy old dude are two different things. While I’m sure that Josie has her own reasons for wanting to put herself in front of Patrick again, I’ve got my own.

  If I’m getting my stuff from somebody who jumped in fifty years ago and hasn’t climbed back out, as opposed to a guy who looks like he can do a cologne ad, I might have to do some serious thinking.

  The garage door opens behind me as Mom comes home from work.

  I don’t have time for serious thinking.

  I take Josie off speaker and put the phone up to my ear as I wave to Mom and go inside.

  “Call Jadine and get Patrick’s number,” I repeat to Josie, dropping my voice when I hear Mom come in downstairs. “We don’t know what’s in this other guy’s stuff. Patrick set us up, and nobody got sick.”

  “You did,” Josie says, and I swear she’s suppressing a giggle.

  “Nobody died,” I clarify.

  “Yeah, right,” she agrees, all humor gone.

  “Totally the biggest benefit,” I add. “I don’t care how hot Patrick is.”

  “Omigod, but he’s so hot,” Josie says.

  “All the more reason to get his number,” I say again, closing the door to my bedroom. “And Josie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sooner rather than later,” I say, as I feel the familiar ache of after-workout slip into something deeper, more nagging.

  “No shit to that,” she says, and I hear her own breath catching.

  I don’t know if she hurts, or if it’s the boredom she blamed the first time we met driving her to greater heights in order to relieve it.

  All I know is that there’s an important game coming up, and we need to win.

  And that means I need some heroin.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  euphoria: an intense, overwhelming state of happiness

  We win on Thursday.

  And the next Monday.

  And the Wed
nesday after that.

  Carolina’s face carries a little more worry than usual, a wince following every release, but she pitches the entire Thursday game, and gets us such a significant lead in the first few innings of the next two that Coach sits her. She says it’s because the relief pitcher needs the experience, and tells me the same when she strips the catching gear off me on Wednesday.

  “Damn, Catalan,” Coach says, pulling the chest protector away from me. “We’re going to have to tighten this. Where’d your tits go?”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” Lydia says in mock indignation, throwing her arms up in the air. “Eat some cheeseburgers, Catalan.”

  I laugh it off, but make a note that maybe I should actually go do that after the game. It’s hard to remember to eat when you’re not hungry.

  “You’re fine,” Carolina says to me when I sit beside her, swishing water in my mouth to get the grit out from between my teeth. “Lose a little weight and suddenly everyone thinks you’ve got an eating disorder.”

  Or that you’re doing drugs, I think. Carolina and I have been okay lately, and I’m not going to be the one to mess that up. I’m not happy about riding the bench, but if Carolina isn’t pitching there’s no challenge in it. I’d rather be next to her than out there, which is one hell of a compliment. She rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Over halfway through our senior season, Mickey. What the hell?”

  “I know it,” I say.

  Maybe even better than she does, due to the growing importance of math in my life. It’s taken some experimenting, and more than one close call at home, but once Josie scored some balloons off Patrick and handed a few off to me, I’ve found a good method of operation.

  If I shoot up two days before a game, I can get away with telling Mom I’m hitting the sack and laying low until my pupils aren’t noticeably pinpointed. I can sleep off most of the high and get through the days to the end of the game without feeling a twinge in my hip or a tremor in my hand. And if I reward myself with a little bit more of a push the night after . . . well, we did win.