Love is the Drug

by Alaya Dawn Johnson

  Bird expects her stomach to clench at the word, but it just sighs lazily and unfurls, a sea anemone in sun-drenched waters. “Even if this ends. And, okay, not like me weeping and throwing myself on his bier ending, just high school romance, let’s-see-other-people ending, I don’t care. I don’t care what my mother thinks, I don’t care what Paul thinks, and Marella, I love you, but I’m not going to let myself care what you think either. This thing with Coffee … it’s worth however long I get.”

  Marella giggles. “You love me?”

  Bird elbows her in the ribs. “Hey, baby, wanna see if there’s any fries left in the cafeteria? If we drown them in enough Tabasco and honey, they might even get to edible.”

  “You got it, Romeo,” Marella says, and reaches out a hand to help her up.

  * * *

  There’s a manila envelope in her school mailbox that afternoon. She brings it with her to English, not thinking much of the scrawl of her name on the front, or what teacher would hand back a test in an envelope. Only when the snow starts halfway through class, and Bird pulls out the loose pages that she certainly didn’t write, does she remember to worry.

  By then, all she can do is read.

  District of Columbia Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

  Name of Deceased: Sasha Calero Granger

  Cause of Death: Ruptured thoracic aortic aneurysm (TAA)

  The report goes on for two pages, detailing the precise location of the aneurysm and confounding factors (Dr. Granger had been taking quite a few of the sleeping pills she refused to prescribe for Bird). She doesn’t want to read it, but she does, if only to be sure. Roosevelt didn’t kill Sasha Granger, and he’s laughing at her for believing that he did. On the back of the last page she reads his handwritten note:

  SO YOU FINALLY SEALED THE DEAL WITH ALONSO. LET ME BE THE FIRST TO OFFER MY CONGRATULATIONS. GOOD TIMING, BECAUSE HE MIGHT NOT BE FREE MUCH LONGER TO ENJOY YOUR COMPANY. UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU AND ME, HOWEVER, YOUR THANKSGIVING ADVENTURE HAS MADE YOU FAR MORE INTERESTING TO MY COLLEAGUES. I TRIED TO WARN YOU. IT SEEMS THAT WE’RE NOT QUITE DONE WITH EACH OTHER AFTER ALL.

  Bird stumbles out of the classroom without asking for permission. She squats on a window seat and presses her cheek against cold, snow-crusted glass. Roosevelt knows what she did on Thanksgiving. She should never have taken that shroom, she should never have pushed. She thought that she’d won, that he would leave her alone and she would have the time to strategize against him. But instead it seems that he’s had a bug on her, not Coffee. But how? Who could have gotten into the house without Nicky or the neighbors noticing? Is it on her clothes? Her bag? It would have to be something they thought she would keep with her. And then it flashes in her memory: Paul’s bracelet. The one she kept for a week, and then dumped in a jar of hair relaxer. The same jar still sitting on the bathroom counter in the basement. That’s how she gave him all the reason he needs to threaten her forever.

  And it’s not just me. I’ve given him Coffee too. She hates the thought, she tries not to think it, but the only lingering effect of her psychedelic experiment is a disquieting tendency for her subconscious to assert itself implacably upon her conscious thoughts. Ideas she has spent years resolutely unthinking, feelings more closely guarded than a Guantánamo detainee, have broken free. But maybe it’s unfair to blame it all on that bitter earth mushroom. She’s never fallen in love before. And love, she knows, changes everyone.

  She folds the envelope and squashes it in the bottom of her bag. Either of them could die this afternoon, tomorrow, next week. She wants to be happy for however long she can. She’s tired of fighting. She’s tired of losing. Roosevelt can threaten her, but he can’t destroy everything.

  She waits outside until her class ends, then heads downstairs with everyone else. A few teachers begin to corral her sorry-faced classmates for the afternoon assembly, but Bird hangs back. Beyond the large glass plated doors to the front steps, Cindy de la Vega and a few of her friends huddle around a tablet. Bird would rather be out there than in assembly, so she joins them outside.

  “What’s up?” she asks Rupa Patel, hovering on the edge of the group.

  Rupa glances at Bird and frowns. “You didn’t hear? Charlotte’s mom died a few hours ago. I think they’re going to announce it in assembly.”

  “Oh no. Poor Charlotte.”

  “Yeah. At least I heard her dad should make it. Oh, and the quarantine is going to end in a week. Which is, like, crazy because there’s way more cases of v-flu now.” She shudders. “We’re lucky none of us has gotten it yet.”

  “Yeah,” Bird says, her voice drier than champagne. “Lucky.”

  Rupa turns her attention back to Cindy’s tablet, which shows a live stream of a BBC report about potential cease-fire negotiations with the Venezuelan government. The first ground war the US has fought since Iraq doesn’t seem to be going as well as everyone thought it would. But Cindy isn’t one of the disaster junkies who spends all her free hours flipping between CNN and MSNBC in the senior room. There has to be something more than yet another bleak report from the front to keep them staring at the screen so intently.

  “Did they mention Charlotte’s mom on the news?” Bird asks.

  “No, shh,” Cindy tosses over her shoulder. “Just listen.”

  This is difficult, since a cavalcade of ambulances, sirens blaring, drive down the street at just that moment. There have been a lot of ambulances around the city lately, but this is the most she’s ever seen at once. The quarantine is ending in a week? Bird shakes her head. Maybe that’s the point, to let the plague decimate the city now that all the important people have been safely vaccinated. But that’s a conspiracy theory not even Coffee would believe.

  Bird still can’t fathom what Cindy is waiting for until the sirens recede and she catches the faint end of a clipped British voice saying, “hopes for a cure of the so-called Venezuelan flu seriously called into question. A report, issued by an independent body of EU virologists, has made an urgent request for evidence of the efficacy of the United States government’s recently announced flu vaccine. The world greeted the announcement with joy, on the morning of the American Thanksgiving holiday, but it appears that some scientists have serious doubts about the safety or effectiveness of a vaccine developed only three months after the first cases.”

  “See, I told you,” Cindy says to a friend. “The vaccine thing is a total lie. My mom wants me to go with her to some farm in the middle of nowhere Virginia. She’s been getting shit at work because she’s not a citizen. Like, making her sign loyalty declarations. Totally serious. So she wants out and we’re going to wait until we can be sure the thing works.”

  “And miss the go-go?”

  Bird cringes at the spray of Felice’s acid voice behind her, but then remembers that she doesn’t care if Felice likes her anymore. It astonishes her, the relief of being Felice’s enemy. She turns around slowly, and is faintly surprised to see Felice holding a stack of flyers advertising Charlotte’s doomsday go-go.

  “Oh my God, Felice!” Cindy says. “Charlotte’s mom is dead. What the hell are you doing?”

  Bird enjoys the sight of Felice momentarily discomposed, her nostrils flared and head jutting rigidly forward. Bird wishes Marella were here; the schadenfreude of watching the queen bee face down this unexpected mutiny is too sweet to savor alone.

  “Charlotte,” Felice says, spitting out the consonants with machine-gun precision, “wants the go-go. She told me herself. Because she’s my best friend.” Bird repels Felice’s quick glare in her direction with a shrug.

  Rupa grimaces and turns away. Cindy jams her knit cap farther down over her ears. “You’re nuts if you think she’s going to want to go to some sweaty, loud go-go five days after her mother died.”

  “Then she’s nuts, Cindy. And so am I, because she’s my best friend and if she wants it, I’m going to give it to her. It’s the least I can do. Hell, maybe we’ve all caught the v-flu already.”

  “And
the thing you want to do with your last week on Earth is plan a dance? Where everyone can give the v-flu to everyone else? How is the school even letting this happen?”

  “Sidwell might still let us do it and, even if they don’t, I’ve got a backup plan. This will definitely happen.”

  “You are really that shallow.” The reservoir of hate behind these words surprises even Bird, but then she remembers Cindy’s confession in the senior room about the Bradley boy who raped her. Cindy’s reputation has always been indefinably slutty, and Felice has always treated her with a certain knowing contempt. Bird realizes that she’s witnessing a festering wound, finally lanced on the upper school steps.

  Felice, to her credit, sums this up very quickly. “Shallow? Sure, sometimes,” she says, ripping a piece of masking tape. “But I can think of worse ways to go.”

  Cindy’s incredulous snort clouds the air between them. “Than a high school dance?”

  “No,” Bird says, knowing she should keep quiet, but thinking of Charlotte, motherless in the hospital. “Than a go-go.”

  Felice’s eyes smile, even if her mouth doesn’t. They’ve only ever tolerated each other for Charlotte’s sake, and for a second that bond rematerializes like a sigh in cold air: a thick mist, evaporated, revealing nothing at all.

  * * *

  Bird waits for Coffee on the steps while Felice tapes go-go posters and Cindy cries and tells all her field hockey friends how much she’ll miss them and she’ll totally come back as soon as she gets the real vaccine. The rest of the school is trickling out from assembly, and from the heavy-eyed looks the seniors give Felice and Bird, Mrs. Early must have announced Charlotte’s mother’s death. Felice doesn’t reply to anyone’s awkward attempts at conversation, just rips her masking tape with pointed force and decorates the marble columns with posters of baby blue and lemon yellow.

  Felice is giving us this go-go as her last act on Earth, Bird texts Marella. I’m thinking I have nothing to wear. How bout you?

  A few seconds later, Marella’s reply pops on-screen. If we don’t go shopping, I might have to show up naked. It don’t mean a thang …

  Bird bursts out laughing and types, If it ain’t got that bootie swing? Are any shops still open?

  Maybe one of those AdMo thrift stores? Will check. Btw, sure you have date with C’s lips, but in case u want me I might b back late.

  Is everything okay?

  No reply. Bird waits for a minute, then two, and is about to hunt Marella down before her phone tweets and buzzes in her hand. It’s a text, not from Marella, but from Aaron.

  Dad says he’s got a cold and we should stay at school.

  A cold? Bird’s throat closes at the thought of those ambulances screaming up and down the street all day. But pandemic flu doesn’t mean that all regular viruses go on vacation. The chances that Nicky has caught v-flu weeks before the vaccination lottery starts have to be tiny.

  I’m sure he’s fine, Aaron. Stay here tonight and we can visit him tomorrow.

  But still, she waits another minute, frozen with images of flashing red and blue lights. Her phone chirps.

  Sarah wrote me yesterday, said that she was sorry she broke up like that and wants to try again. Her parents still have her on house arrest, but she said she’ll sneak into the city and meet me. So. I’m not saying we’ll get back together, but I figure it can’t hurt to talk again.

  “Oh shit,” Bird says, but she texts a simple, Take care of yourself. Try not to jump into anything.

  I’m gonna pretend I don’t know what u did last weekend, Marella replies and then, a few seconds later, Thanks, babe.

  The first wave of boys have finally made their way across campus, their arrival heralded by deep, laughing voices echoing off the school’s cold limestone walls. As they come into view through the thickening snow, Bird wonders, not for the first time, what sort of competitive urge induces them to wear such thin coats in the cold. They’re like peacocks, advertising their strength by deliberately exposing weaknesses. Bird, almost comfortable in a pea coat and giant scarf, finds the daily evening visitation silly but indefinably appealing — that covey of wind-bright cheeks, floppy hair, and loose ties has made her pulse speed ever since ninth grade, when those boys throwing Frisbees on the lawn and flirting with senior girls had been as far above her as clouds. Now she searches for one face in the pack, and is rewarded by the sight of dirty-blond curls squashed beneath a red knit cap, walking with Trevor. He waves. She starts to stand, then freezes, knowing how it will look if she goes running to him at the end of the school day. Felice notices, anyway.

  “So it’s true? Goodwife Emily and the fugitive? I mean, Coffee can be cool, but his boyfriend potential? Yikes. Wait till I tell Paul.”

  “I can’t imagine why you or Paul would care, but go ahead,” Bird says, exhausted. “And if this means you’ve finally given up on Trevor, congrats.”

  “What would you know about it?” Felice says softly, looking over her shoulder to make sure the boys don’t overhear.

  “You actually have a chance with Paul,” Bird says, and stands. How Felice takes this, she doesn’t notice — the hopeful grin and long, loping strides of the boy coming toward her have pushed every other thought out of her head.

  Coffee takes the steps two at a time and lifts her up in a hug that she supposes will end all speculation. He tastes of a just-smoked cigarette and peppermint and only a pointed whistle from Trevor makes her remember where they are.

  “Pissing on your territory?” Trevor asks Coffee.

  Coffee rubs her hands between his own and grins over his shoulder. “Just saying hello. Hello, Bird.”

  Bird laughs. “Hello, Coffee.”

  Trevor shakes his head and leans against the balustrade. “Damn, girl, you should come with a warning label. You seemed so nice too.”

  “Warning label?” Bird takes a step away from Coffee, though she keeps his hand. Her stomach lurches; has Coffee told him about her problems with Roosevelt?

  “This one,” Trevor says, pointing at Coffee, “nearly got the shit kicked out of him by your ex-boy.”

  “Paul? What the hell?”

  Coffee grimaces. “You can be such a dick, Trevor. And for the record, I could have held my own.”

  “I pride myself on my dickishness, my caffeinated friend. But in this case, I merely state the truth. Paul could bench your entire body mass in tenth grade. You have a bum leg and the muscle definition of overcooked spaghetti. Emily should thank me for saving your life.”

  Bird climbs up two steps, so she can look down at both of them. “What the hell is he talking about, Coffee?”

  “I got into it with Paul this afternoon. Trevor broke it up. And if the confessional is now closed, Father Robinson —”

  “Paul said you were too good for Coffee,” Trevor interrupts. “Coffee took exception. Though frankly, dating you seems to be a health hazard.”

  Bird glares at him. “I think you’ve come down with a bad case of correlation-causation fallacy, Trevor.”

  This surprises Coffee into one of his dart-laughs. “She’s got you there, Trev.”

  “Be careful, that’s all I got. And avoid Paul.”

  “He’s your friend,” Coffee says.

  Trevor looks thoughtful. “For my sins.” He exchanges a quick good-bye with Coffee, nods at Bird, and heads back across campus without so much as a glance in Felice’s indignant direction. Bird avoids it as well, acutely aware of the audience on the upper school steps. She takes Coffee’s hand and drags him down the stairs and out of the range of anyone’s stare. She should tell him about Roosevelt’s latest salvo, about the bug she kept in a jar, but she’d rather kiss him.

  After a while, he pulls back. “This might not be the best idea,” he whispers. “I’m sure Marella’s told you so.”

  She forgets about Roosevelt. “Don’t even,” she snaps. “This is not some telenovela, Coffee. I’m not a curse.”

  He touches her like he doesn’t know how to stop. She br
aces herself against the reverberations of his fingertips.

  “Not because of you, because of me.”

  “You said you loved me.”

  Now he laughs and pries her fingers, very gently, from his wrist. “I hate to tell you this, Bird, but that does sound like a telenovela.”

  She smiles, then remembers herself. “Don’t you dare break up with me for my own good. Don’t even approach that bullshit. If you love me, then …”

  He is very still. “Then what?”

  “Stay.”

  “Don’t worry, menina.” He flashes his teeth. “I’m too selfish to leave.”

  She loves his kisses when they’re soft and lazy, but she loves these too: hard and challenging and a little angry. It’s all him, everything she wants, everything that will stop the rest of it from mattering, even for a few stolen minutes against a wall.

  * * *

  Coffee takes after his mother: the same dirty-blond hair, the same willowy height. Her hair is straighter and finer than Coffee’s, her eyes a clear blue to his swamp green. She smiles with reserve when they greet each other, but Bird doesn’t blame her for being wary. Bird’s role in Coffee’s life has been intense, and they’ve only just started dating.

  “Would you like something to drink?” his mother asks. Her accent is stronger, with lilting vowels broadened by Brazilian Portuguese instead of Coffee’s polyglot mix of British and American.

  Bird wonders if Coffee’s mom expects to interview her, and nervously requests tea, which feels safe enough. Coffee squeezes her hand.

  “It’s all right,” he whispers. “Just talk to her for a few minutes and we can go to my room. She’s just curious.”

  “Curious to see the Jezebel who ruined your life,” Bird mumbles.

  Coffee snorts. “Did that all by myself.”

  They sit down at his kitchen table, an intimidating slab of striated steel, which would look like something out of an operating theater if not for the glass bowl full of dried roses in the center. The whole apartment seems as though it came to life from the sketchbook of a religiously minimalist interior designer: chrome and molded plastic, shades of beige and white with a single splash of red on the refrigerator handle — an exclamation point at the end of a very dull sentence. His mother moves among the showroom perfection with regal ease, her movements neat and graceful when she pours boiling water from the chrome electric kettle into two mugs. The setting suits her, but Coffee looks awkward and overbright, like a painted farmhouse sandwiched between glass high-rises. He slouches on the molded S-chair and fidgets with a loose end of his knit hat until his mother hands him one of the mugs, three fat tea bags bobbing on top. Bird’s only has one, and though she doesn’t ask, his mother’s lips slip up.