“Come on, let’s go!” Dan snaps over his shoulder, not even bothering to slow his hurried stride.
Asshole.
A twinge of that same anger I felt last night nips at my spine, but it’s fleeting. I’m too tired too—god, I’m too sore to care. Everything hurts: my head, my wrists, my palms, my eyeballs . . .
Grimacing, I throw my purse over my shoulder and set off across the parking lot, shielding my eyes with my hand. A murky memory suddenly comes to mind. Did I salute someone last night?
Dan’s already in the car, engine running, when I climb inside. The sour taste that’s been lingering on my taste buds for the last fifteen hours starts to pool inside my mouth as I settle into the passenger seat, the memories of what happened here last night still very much intact.
Stifling a swear, I lock my seat belt into place.
“What the hell were you thinking, Jane! Following me to the Bone Yard? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Dan starts yelling the second we pull out of the parking lot, enraged gaze shifting between me and the road ahead. It didn’t take much for him to deduce why I’d been in Morris Creek, especially when the cops told him where we could find my car. And when he asked me directly—in the few minutes we had alone—I confessed without hesitation. I may be a lot of things, but I’m no liar. “You could have exposed me,” he goes on, voice raised to levels I’ve never heard before. “Is that what you want? Are you trying to ruin my career? Because I’m not the only one who’s going to suffer if the Hoffstras don’t give us that money and I end up losing my job. You do realize that, right?”
“Yes, of course I know that. I was just—”
“You were just what? Trying to make a fool out of yourself in the middle of a parking lot? Trying to get thrown in jail?”
He levels me with a stern look that’s meant to make me feel like a child.
It works.
Tears prick my eyes, forcing me to drop my head.
“You realize how monumentally stupid that was, don’t you?” he goes on, hammering home a point I’m already very aware of. A point that’s been reverberating through my mind like jackhammers since I came to in a jail cell five hours ago. “We’re trying to fly below the radar—present the perfect image—and here you are getting high and attacking people with fruit. Fuck! ” He pounds his fist against the steering wheel. “What the hell were you thinking?”
My chin quivers. A hot tear slides down my cheek. The paternal-like disappointment in his voice is infuriating, but what’s worse is I know it’s deserved. He’s right. That was a monumentally stupid thing to do. I knew I shouldn’t follow him. I knew nothing good would come of it. But I still went. And as much as I’d like to argue that I never would have been out there had he just gone to the hospital like he said he was going to, he’s not the one who caused the spectacle; I am.
Despite his lies and infidelities, Dan has never come close to exposing our truth to the world, but I did.
A mountain of shame settles in my lungs, forcing my chest to shudder with every breath. I did this. I’m the one who lost control. My stomach starts churning again, prompting a surge of bile to rise in my throat. I quickly press my hand against my lips, swallowing it back.
He blows out a heavy sigh. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I don’t feel good. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No surprise there,” he says, tone softening a smidge. “Most people get sick coming off ecstasy. I saw it all the time in my ER rotation.” It’s subtle, but I’d swear he’s easing up on the gas, which helps a little, given the curves of this windy road. I’d almost believe he’s doing it for my benefit, except that I know how much he loves this car, and the thought of me retching all over the precious leather interior is probably what’s motivating him. That and his boyfriend’s ass. He wouldn’t want Julian sitting on a puke-stained seat. “Considering how sensitive you are to medications in general, it’ll probably get a lot worse before it gets better.”
A sneer pulls on my lip. Save the bedside manner for your ball buddy, Dr. Dickhead.
“Where did you even get the ecstasy, anyway?”
“Heather.”
He scoffs. “I should’ve figured. She’s a walking disaster—”
“No, she’s not.” I quickly uncover my mouth to defend my friend, though I have to admit I’m more than a little alarmed to know she had an entire bottle of ecstasy in her purse. Is that normal? Do people just walk around with a bottle of that stuff? “And I didn’t know it was ecstasy. I thought it was Zoloft.”
“Zoloft? Why would she give you a Zoloft?”
I level him with a nasty glare that definitively answers his question.
Fear fills his eyes. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“No! Of course not.”
“So, what, you just asked her if you could have one, and she gave you the wrong pill?”
Another surge of guilt slams into me, forcing me to drop my head again. “No. I took it out of her bag when she wasn’t looking.”
“You stole it?”
I pinch my eyes shut, wincing against the disappointment in his tone. It’s nearly identical to the sound of the voice in my head. That nasty little voice that’s been berating me for the last five hours. The one that tells me I’m a terrible mother and a horrible friend for behaving the way I did. That same voice that says I don’t deserve even a smidge of the life I’m trying so hard to hang on to—
“Well, you’re accumulating quite the rap sheet, aren’t you?” he goes on. “Attacking perfect strangers with fruit. DUI. Narcotics theft—”
“They’re not charging me with any of that,” I spit out defensively, then quickly return my hand to my mouth as another surge of nausea starts burbling up. I cough against the acrid burn, and thankfully it stays at bay.
“Yeah, only because that cop pulled some strings. I hope you realize how lucky we are. There’s no way we could have kept that from leaking had they actually charged you. Everyone in Mount Ivy would have known what you did.”
“I know.”
Before Dan picked me up, I was told that Chris Chavez, a boy I sort of knew during my brief and wonderful stint at South Glenn High School, was the officer who took me into custody last night. (Sadly, I have no recollection of seeing him.) Apparently, he’s a detective down in Chicago, and made arrangements for me to participate in a first-time-offender’s program in lieu of getting charged with any of my crimes. With my schedule, I have no idea how I’m going to make the sixty-mile trek down to the city twice a week, but somehow, I’ll figure out how to make it work.
I have to.
Because once again, my family’s livelihood depends on me hiding the truth.
“How’d everything go with Avery?” I ask.
I was told that the police got ahold of Dan last night—just an hour after they took me into custody—but rather than have him bail me out then, I instructed them to have him pick me up later this morning, after Avery’s game. Despite my whacked-out state, it seems I had enough wherewithal to know I didn’t want her seeing me in that condition.
“Fine,” he says. “She was already in bed when I got home last night.”
“Well, what’d you tell her this morning? Where did you say I went last night? Because I’d been texting her right before—well, before everything happened . . .”
“I told her your mom got sick, so you drove down and ended up staying over.”
“Did she believe you?”
He shrugs effortlessly. “Yeah.”
I swallow a pained laugh. Of course she believed him. Why wouldn’t she? Dan’s an exceptional liar.
“And how was the game? Was she upset that I wasn’t there? Did it affect how she played or anything?”
He turns to me, eyebrows cinched up beneath the rims of his sunglasses, like I just asked if he kills puppies for fun. “No. She was fine. She scored a goal and got two assists—she played great. They won four to one.”
She played great. And
they won.
That’s good.
And she didn’t even care that I wasn’t there.
I swallow hard.
“So . . . did, um—did my sister show up?”
“No. Was she supposed to?”
“She said she was going to try . . .” Biting back the nausea actively creeping up my throat, I fish my phone out of my bag. I have to power it back on, and when I do, I find a text from Julie sent at 2:18 this morning.
No way I’m comma make the game.
Tell Avery I’m Soddy—be there next firm.
Translation: No way I’m going to make the game. Tell Avery I’m sorry. I’ll be there next time.
I’m sorry. I’ll be there next time . . .
My heart twists at the painfully familiar words.
Julie’s signed off with them a hundred times before, and every time I fire back a disapproving text in response. Something about how a promise is a promise and that you always honor it, especially when a child is involved. But as I sit here now—on the verge of throwing up, thanks to my drug-induced stupor—I realize I can’t say anything. Because after last night, I’m just as unreliable as she is. I’m just like my sister.
Which means I’m also like my mother.
Dammit.
CHAPTER 7
Dan wasn’t kidding.
It gets a lot, lot worse before it gets better.
Somehow, I manage to make the drive home without throwing up, but the second I walk into my bedroom, the floodgates open and all hell breaks loose. And it isn’t just vomit; it’s coming out the other end too. Fast and furious, stripping my insides like I’ve been gargling Drano rather than sipping ginger ale. I stay in the bathroom for hours, woefully transitioning from kneeling in front of the toilet to sitting upon it, the entire time taunted by torturous memories of what got me here in the first place: Dan and Julian kissing in the car, oranges smacking windows, the blue pill—AGH! That stupid, tiny little pill that was supposed to help me feel better but instead nearly ruined my life!
It’s five in the evening by the time things settle down and I dare climb into the shower to rinse myself off. I sit, cradled in the fetal position on the stone floor, until the water runs cold, then work my way into a fresh pair of pajamas and crawl into bed. Thankfully, Avery went straight from the game to her friend’s for a sleepover, so she hasn’t seen me, but Dan has decided to make an appearance.
“There’s some Motrin and Gatorade on the nightstand,” he says, his tone no longer angry but still heavy with disapproval. “I’m going to the hospital. I won’t be home tonight.”
In my condition, there’s no way to determine whether he’s trying to be an ass by telling me where he’s going or if we’ve graduated to some twisted, secret-code communication system now that I know the truth (hospital = gay bar), but I don’t care either way. I just want him to leave so I can go to sleep and wake up feeling like myself again.
Whoever that is . . .
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep—
My eyes snap wide and I bolt upright, smacking the obnoxious alarm screaming from the nightstand beside me. What on earth? I haven’t used a real alarm clock in years. Where did that come from? Disoriented, I lean forward for a better look. The red numbers are blurry—sleep still clouding my vision—but they’re bright enough that I can make out the time: 7:15.
Why would an alarm be set for 7:15 on a Sunday—
It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor—
My phone, also sitting on the nightstand, suddenly erupts with my usual wake-up call. The Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood theme song that always starts my day off right. Or at least on a hopeful note. I grab the phone to silence the alarm and see a new text message from Dan, sent at 4:45 this morning.
Early surgery.
Text me when you get up so I know you’re awake.
You have to be in Chicago at 10!
Wait.
Early surgery?
But . . . he never has surgeries on Sundays.
They’re only scheduled on weekdays.
And Chicago?
Why would I have to be in Chicago today—
Ohmygod.
A swell of panic suddenly floods my chest. I quickly tap on the screen and pull up the calendar.
It’s Monday.
It’s freaking Monday!
I slept through all of Sunday.
Shit!
Avery has to be to school soon.
Shit.shit.shit.
I hop out of bed and race down the hall, teetering down the front stairway like a drunk at closing time.
Am I still stoned?
No. No, I can’t be.
This has to be a sleep hangover.
I stumble through the foyer and into the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. My stomach doesn’t turn, so I guess that’s a good sign.
Avery looks up from the sectional in the adjoining family room, where she’s working her way through a bowl of cereal while she watches TV. “Whoa, are you still sick?”
“Wh-what?”
“Dad said you caught whatever Grandma had. He said that’s why you slept all day.”
I blink hard.
Dan covered for me.
Yet another lie, but this one was to protect Avery from the truth.
To protect me from her disapproval.
“Uh . . . y-yeah. I, um, I did catch what Grandma had. But I’m better now.”
“Are you sure?” She takes another bite of cereal, eyes narrowed skeptically. “’Cause you sort of look like crap.”
I rake my fingers through my hair, forcing a laugh despite the insult. “Yeah, I’m sure. So . . . you’ll be ready to leave for school in fifteen?”
“Yeah. Will you?”
“Mm-hmm. Yep, I just, um . . . I just need to get dressed and—”
Whoa.
My bladder suddenly drops to the floor, weighed down like a water balloon dangling from the faucet. Pee. I have to pee!
“—yep. Fifteen minutes,” I say urgently. “I’ll be good to go.”
I hustle back upstairs, my footing already more stable than it was on the trip down, and head straight to my bathroom. I yank off my pajama pants and plop down on the toilet—
Aaahhh . . .
It comes as no surprise that my urine is the color of apple juice—there can’t be an ounce of hydration left in my body—but what is surprising is how clean the bathroom is. The tile floor is streak-free; the heap of soiled towels I threw in the hamper are gone. It even smells good in here—more like Bath & Body Works than a porta potty.
I blow out a heavy, grateful breath. Dan’s always been a neat freak, so I know that his tidying was more about easing his own OCD than helping me, but I still appreciate it. The reflection in the mirror, however, isn’t nearly as pretty a sight. Avery was right: I look like crap.
The natural waves that I usually blow out straight hang limp across my shoulders, like overcooked noodles stuck to the bottom of the pot, and the rings circling my eyes are so dark you’d think I just went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson.
I look like a drug addict, which is just great, considering I’ll be attending my first-offenders group for possession of an illegal substance in just a couple of hours.
“Thanks a lot, Dan,” I grumble. If he went to all the trouble of setting the alarm, he could have at least given me some time to get ready.
I splash some cold water on my face, scrubbing away the eye crusties with a washcloth, then attack the dried puke that’s spackled to my teeth and tongue with my toothbrush and a big rinse of mouthwash. I’m not usually one for concealer, but today it’s a must. I smooth a healthy dollop across my entire face, then roll on a quick coat of mascara, wincing at the angry red lines splintering across my eyeballs. There’s not much I can do with my hair at this point, so I dampen my brush, drag it through the brown mess a few times, and finally tie it back in a low ponytail.
I hustle back into
the bedroom, grab some undies and a bra from the top drawer, then a pair of black leggings and a gray sweatshirt from the second, and get dressed. My stomach growls as I slide my feet into my running shoes, reminding me I haven’t eaten in thirty-six hours.
Thirty-six hours . . .
I shake my head, baffled.
How is that even possible?
How can people do drugs and still carry on with life?
I head for the door, making a quick pit stop in the bathroom for one final look in the mirror.
Ugh.
Now I’m a drug-addict soccer mom . . . perfect.
Avery’s rinsing her bowl at the kitchen sink when I make my way back downstairs. I grab a travel mug from the cupboard just behind her and can’t help but notice that her nail beds are still outlined with neon-green paint. A twinge of anger starts to rise in my chest—the urge to call her out on her crime tickling my taste buds—but I swallow it away over a heavy sigh. Who am I to call anybody out on bad behavior?
I pour myself a cup of coffee, grab a package of Pop-Tarts from the pantry, then head for the front door, saying, “All right, let’s go.”
Thankfully, Dan got rid of the oranges, but the car itself feels uncomfortable as I settle into the driver’s seat, like all the shameful acts I committed—and still can’t remember—are buried beneath the leather and gadgetry, waiting to reveal themselves like little ghosts when I least expect them.
Dammit, Jane.
You were so stupid.
So, so stupid.
Another pang of guilt snakes up my spine as I back down the driveway and hit the road.
As usual, Avery tunes the radio to her playlist, while my thoughts wander to the day ahead. After I drop Avery at school, I’ll have exactly two hours to get down to Chicago for the ten-o’clock meeting. My chest starts to tighten. Ordinarily, two hours would be more than enough to make it to the city, but I have no clue where I’m going. No idea where to park or where to go once I get there. The only information provided on the discharge paperwork was the name of the program, the Women’s First Offenders Group, and an address in southwest Chicago. The address of the police-mandated program I have to attend or else be faced with a fine, possible jail time, and my very own rap sheet.
See Jane Snap Page 8
