“You’re taking it wrong,” Nick replied, lifting his eyebrows mischievously. “Want me to show you?”
“Show me what?”
“You have to crush it, cut it like coke, and bump the lines,” Nick informed, “and enjoy the high. Let’s do it.”
“I’m not snorting my medication, douchebag.”
“I’ll snort it for you.”
Blake shook his head at the suggestion. “You’re not snorting my meds either.”
“You’re no fun.”
“You know damn well that’s not true. I’m fun as fuck,” Blake said, chucking a pillow at Nick.
“But on Adderall you’d be even more fun. Believe me, you’d feel like a star, shining bright and hot as hell, sparkling for all the world to see.”
“That sounds like a messed-up Christmas carol.”
“You’d be the angel on top of the tree,” Nick continued, throwing the pillow back at Blake before tossing himself onto the bed. “A spiritual experience.”
“You’re selling this stuff hard.”
“I just want a hit,” Nick confessed.
“No shit,” Blake chuckled. “You’re not subtle.”
“If you ever decide to take the leap, I hope you’ll think of me.”
“Think of you while I’m getting high or invite you over to partake?” Blake teased.
“You don’t want to fuck me so just call me to come over and snort the shit, dick,” Nick laughed.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
While Blake was enthusiastic about his alcohol and weed consumption, the idea of moving into anything harder wasn’t appealing to him. Being fucked up was awesome and helped him deal with the shit he’d been going through, but he could stop smoking and drinking whenever he wanted to. Playing around with a substance that had the ability to make him a fiend wasn’t a path he wanted to take. There were, of course, people who could mess with coke and the like and not get hooked, but Blake didn’t know if he was that type of person.
“Dinner!” Grace called, interrupting the conversation about video games Blake and Nick had fallen into.
Nick smacked his lips eagerly as they sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m ready to grub on some meatloaf, Ms. Mitchell. Thanks for the invite.”
“We never eat dinner together,” Logan noted. “You’re not going to tell us you’re pregnant or something, are you?”
“Bite your tongue,” Grace chided, cringing at the question. “Actually, before we get started, let’s go outside.”
“It’s cold out,” Blake reminded her.
“This will only take a minute,” she promised.
“Dom’s not out there waiting to do some corny proposal is he?” Blake asked, the prospect causing him to shudder.
“No. C’mon,” Grace said waving them up.
“Your kids are annoying,” Dominic stated as he followed on Blake’s heels.
“I’ll keep them around anyway,” Grace grinned, ruffling Blake’s hair.
“What’s that?” Logan questioned, standing in the porch and pointing at a blue Saturn parked in the driveway.
“That’s your Christmas present,” she replied proudly. “Well, both of yours. You’ll share it.”
Blake’s jaw dropped. A car. Their mom bought them a car. “How did you afford this?” he asked, knowing that as usual, money was tight.
“Dominic knew a guy. I got it for a very reasonable price. Don’t worry.”
“Badass. You have wheels!” Nick exclaimed, and Blake knew he was thinking of all the parties the ride could get them, too.
“It’ll be a while before Blake will drive it,” Logan said, jogging down the steps so he could get a closer look at the car. “No license means it’s mine for a while.”
“Maybe this will inspire Blake to get his permit,” Grace reasoned, grinning at Blake. “Give you some extra inspiration.”
“I’m inspired,” Blake confirmed. He didn’t know why he’d been dragging his feet on taking the permit test, but the promise of having a car to drive when he got it definitely lit a fire under his ass. Having a car would mean more freedom, something Blake constantly craved. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, hugging her before joining Logan inside the car.
“It feels good,” Logan called out the window to Grace. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she said, approaching the driver’s side of the car to hand Logan the keys. “You should take it for a quick spin.”
“I’m in,” Blake affirmed, smiling at his brother. “Gun it.”
“This isn’t the type of car that you ‘gun.’” Logan laughed.
“It could be,” Nick stated. “People will drag race anything. You guys could drive it a few miles and find tons of ready participants.
“But you’ll do no such thing,” Grace reminded. “I didn’t get you this car so that you could wreck it on day one, and Heaven forbid you two get hurt...Take it for a quick spin and come back while your dinner’s still hot.”
“You got it, Mom,” Logan said, unlocking the back door that Nick was attempting to open. “We’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Blake buckled his seatbelt as his brother backed out of the driveway. Although it would be a while before he could legally drive it, Blake knew it wouldn’t be long before he took the old girl for a whirl. He couldn’t wait to feel the steering wheel under his hands, empowered by the fact that he had control of where it turned.
10
It had taken approximately one week from Nick’s mention of snorting Adderall for Blake to give it a try. He didn’t call Nick like he requested. He didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing. He knew Nick would be in and think it was great that he had begun taking his medication up his nose, but Blake knew better. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but damn if he didn’t enjoy having his head in the clouds. Things that would have bothered him sober couldn’t reach him when he was high. The start of the second semester was pain-free as the chemicals snapped and sizzled through his veins, charging his body with confidence, lighting him up. Suddenly he was above everything—his classmates, his worries, his insecurities. He was the sun, too hot to be touched, a ball of fire unconcerned about the land he could leave scorched beneath him when he lacked a filter. But he kept burning, be it through his Adderall prescription, which kept a steady succession of creamsicle powder packed in his nose after school, or the joints he rolled with Greg. The best way to ease himself down.
The late nights should have affected Blake’s academics, but it seemed they were destined to remain untouched by his inebriated existence. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would have struggled had he stayed in private school or if he was smart enough to have gotten away with doing his homework fucked up there, too. The drugs told him he was, that he could have done well anywhere—boarding school, the University of Kentucky, fucking Harvard. He was a goddamn scholar ready to get his PhD in life, summa cum laude. He’d figured out how to make everything better.
It was rudimentary, and at seventeen he was already the valedictorian. Greg and Ian didn’t get it. They were increasingly worried about Blake’s drug use, but Blake was pretty sure that was because they weren’t messing with Adderall. His friends were used to marijuana and its kicked back qualities, the natural shit that was nothing like the synthetic speed he was taking in. He was beyond just being alive. He was on a different plane, and that was okay. He didn’t need anyone to co-sign his shit, but if he did, Nick would’ve been an eager partner. Nick understood what it was like to breathe rare air. When it came down to it, Blake wasn’t like Nick. Nick was destined for prison. There was no doubt in Blake’s mind that his friend wouldn’t make it a few months past his eighteenth birthday without doing time. At seventeen, Nick had already done several stints in juvie on charges that would have gotten him harsher sentences as an adult. Unlike Logan, who had promptly cleaned up his act after being tossed into a juvenile correctional facility, Nick never changed. Sometimes, Blake wondered if Nick knew what a lost cause he was
, but he never perseverated on it because he didn’t want to lose the company. People got sensitive when you told them they had a problem, and Nick’s issues made him an easy companion.
Shit wasn’t easy with anyone else, though. In addition to the concern Greg had been showing for months, Grace and Logan were becoming more tuned in to Blake’s extracurricular activities. They weren’t aware of what exactly he was doing, but they knew something had changed. During hours of sobriety, Blake regretted the fact that they worried about him, that they struggled to understand his pain and that he was too weak to tell them. There was no strength in avoidance, he knew that, but it didn’t mean he was ready to face things head on. He’d been doing a great job of avoiding just about everything that mattered to him, save the drugs.
When he entered his second semester military history class and found that both Claire and Xander were in it, he’d barely batted an eyelash. It was easier to cope with everything when he knew a magic powder would sort it out. He hated how reliant he was on the escape but loved the opportunity to float away.
Blake wasn’t ignorant enough not to realize that he was in a precarious place. He should have been able to feel happy without lines of Adderall lifting his mood. In theory, he knew that. It was difficult seeing beyond the immediate outcome, the instant gratification that promised he was more content than genuine. He always thought he existed in the gray areas—not happy and not sad, not gay and not straight—so, living somewhere in the middle of his baseline in an Adderall induced euphoria was surprisingly tolerable, though he much preferred the higher plane.
“Do you want me to state the obvious?” Greg asked as he and Blake sat at their usual table in the cafeteria.
“Anyone who says ‘yeah, sure,’ to a question like that is a glutton for punishment.”
“You would know about being a glutton for punishment, wouldn’t you?” Greg challenged.
“Subtlety is out the window, huh?” Blake mused.
“The time for subtlety has passed.”
“Well, I get the implication,” Blake promised. “And I don’t disagree.”
“And yet...no change. You’re still out there partying on school nights, checked out mentally, going downhill quick, man.”
Blake sighed. He could only imagine the shit Greg would give him if he actually knew what Blake was up to. He wasn’t running to tell anyone about his new habit, certainly not Greg and not Nick either. Blake didn’t take pride in the fact that he was snorting his medication. He didn’t think it was cool or respectable, but he did think it was a perfect escape, like exhaling a breath he’d been holding in for too long. Maybe if he were fucking around with the drug socially he wouldn’t have felt as much shame. There was something tawdry about the level of secrecy. Blake found, however, that the best remedy for the dark feelings was more Adderall.
“I think you chill with Nick too often,” Greg continued, taking a bite of his soft pretzel.
“Jealous?” Blake asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s beside the point,” Greg replied. “The guy’s a textbook bad influence, the perpetual devil on your shoulder.”
“And let me guess, you’re the angel?”
“Fuck no,” Greg laughed. “I’d crush those well-sculpted shoulders sitting up there.”
Blake chuckled, shaking his head at Greg’s penchant for self-deprecation. “Listen, I get that you’re worried about me and I understand why, okay? But shit isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be. I’m fine. Everybody’s allowed to let loose once in a while, right?”
“One in a while,” Ian scoffed.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Blake chided his constantly distracted friend.
“I’ve been sitting here listening to you yammer for the last twenty minutes,” Ian replied.
“I think that was a rhetorical question. Man, you’re such a cute kid,” Greg sighed, leaning across the table to pat Ian’s freckled cheek.
“Fuck off,” Ian laughed, shooing Greg’s hand away.
“I hate to cut this short,” Blake began as he stood up and pushed his chair in, “but I don’t want to hang out with you guys anymore.”
“That’s nice,” Greg tsked, giving Blake the finger.
“It’s not me it’s you,” he smirked, tousling his friend’s blond mop. “I’ll see you later.”
With that, Blake exited the cafeteria and walked toward the field. Settling into his usual spot under the bleachers, he lit a cigarette and closed his eyes as he took the first drag. The more attention people paid him, the more he wished they’d ignore him. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy the spotlight, he did, but only when it was for all the right reasons and not his current disposition.
He was nonplussed by the sound of the bell ringing, intent on finishing his smoke before heading to class. By the time he showed up to Military History, he was fifteen minutes late and Mr. Porter was not impressed.
“You’re late, Blake,” the teacher admonished as Blake slid into his seat.
“Looks to be that way,” Blake agreed, glancing at the clock.
“And you came with sass,” Mr. Porter noted, typing something into his laptop.
“It happens,” Blake nodded.
While it was rare for Blake to talk back to teachers, or any other authority figure, he was sick of everyone being on his ass about everything. Nobody was giving him space to breathe.
“So does detention, and I’m giving you four days of it. Let’s do two for tardiness and two for insubordination,” Mr. Porter decided.
Blake could feel all eyes on him, yet he refused to give them any reaction. He did, however, look to his left to catch Claire’s. She appeared to be more concerned than confused. He hated the notes of sympathy on her face, the hint of pity.
“Four days,” Blake repeated, as if he had to somehow agree to the sentence.
“Why don’t we try to avoid making it five?” Mr. Porter warned, clearly not interested in dealing with Blake’s newfound attitude.
Deciding that he’d also had enough for the day, Blake kept his mouth shut for the rest of the class, zoning out of the lecture as he thought about what kind of trouble he could get himself into later that night. He knew he should stay home and study for his permit so he could finally—legally—drive the car his mother had bought him months before, but he was more interested in getting wasted.
Sneaking his phone onto his lap, he opened his conversation with Nick.
Blake (1:32pm): What are we doing tonight?
Nick (1:33pm): Is the correct answer getting messed up?
Blake (1:33pm): Sounds about right.
Nick (1:34pm): Well then that’s what we’re doing.
Blake (1:34pm): I can always count on you.
Nick (1:35pm): It’s like I’m the king of fucked up things.
Blake (1:35pm): All hail King Dick.
Nick (1:36pm): Was that autocorrect?
Blake (1:36pm): Nope.
Nick (1:37pm): Didn’t think so.
Nick (1:37pm): Savage.
Blake (1:38pm): That’s me.
At least today.
11
Blake knew he should have called it a night after round one of the revelry, but he was too chock full of adrenaline and Adderall to settle down. The University of Kentucky basketball team had won the championship, and it was epic. He didn’t want to miss a moment of the celebration. The prior months had been a blur of drugs, detentions, and stress, so it was easy for Blake to rationalize that he deserved some pure, unadulterated elation.
Since he was home in time for curfew, his mother had gone to sleep, which gave him the perfect opportunity to sneak out to continue partying. There was a moment, as Blake stared up at the ceiling before climbing out of the bed to put on his hoodie, that he considered not going, thought about being moderately responsible, but he figured there was no point in starting then. Especially when Kentucky was alive with UK pride.
Bending down to tie his shoes, Blake held his breath, trying to
hear beyond the door to make certain his mom and Logan had turned in. The singular sound of the soft whirl from the vents assured him that the coast was clear. As gingerly as possible, Blake turned the knob on his door and pushed it open slowly, grimacing when the hinges squeaked. Already committed to the feat, Blake began to creep down the hallway, strategically avoiding the floorboards he knew would creak if he put pressure on them. One misstep and his intention to leave the house would be loudly announced. Carefully, he descended the stairwell on the tips of his toes, cringing with every step. When he reached level ground, he picked up his pace, grabbing the keys to the car from the bowl on the foyer table.
As soon as Blake exited the house, he let out a relieved sigh, standing still for a moment to savor the cool, early-April air. He made it. Deciding it was best to manually open the door, he slid into the driver’s seat and shifted the gear to neutral. Instead of starting the car, he got out and pushed it to the street, only putting the key in the ignition when it was far enough down the road that if his mother did hear it, she’d think it was the neighbor’s.
His lack of a license should have been in the forefront of his mind, but it was nothing more than a fleeting thought as he drove toward Nick’s house.
Blake (1:22am): I’ll be there in 10. Come outside.
Nick (1:23am): You have the car?!
Blake (1:23am): Yup.
Nick (1:24am): Fucking badass
Nick (1:24am): I got the party lined up
Blake (1:25am): You better.
Nick (1:25am): Just said I did. Pay attention to driving.
Blake tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, focusing on the winding, country road. He’d sobered up enough from the first party to know he was fine, but he couldn’t deny that he had a case of tired eyes. He knew how to perk himself up, but he’d wait until he got to the party.
Nick always had the hookup. For a guy who didn’t seem to have many friends, he had a ton of people to get wasted with, and those people were privy to where everyone was partying. Though it was nearly two in the morning, the stranger’s house they were standing in was packed with loud, drunk teenagers. Blake wondered who the “host” was and where the hell their parents were. He wasn’t complaining, but it floored him that other teens had so much access and freedom.
His Own Way Out Page 6
