by C. Desir
“That must not have been your first DUI if they locked you up,” I say.
“It was. But it wasn’t your standard DUI.”
“Jesus. Did you hit someone? Kill a biker or something?” I want to take a step back, which is ridiculous and wimpy, but somehow it feels a little too real for me, a thing I’ve been patently avoiding, so maybe I don’t want to be having this conversation.
Joe shakes his head. “No. I drove into a White Hen Pantry, shattered the front window. Then I panicked and bailed. DUI. Leaving the scene of the crime. An unsympathetic judge. It all added up to a few months in corrections.”
“Fuck, dude. You shattered a window and left the scene? You must’ve been really loaded.”
He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”
I think about lighting up the second cigarette, just so I can get more of his story, but I see Mom’s Lexus pull onto the street. Great.
“I gotta go,” I say. And now I feel like a child because my mom’s here to pick me up. Like I’m on a playdate, not cruising out of the twelve thirty AA meeting.
He nods. “I hope I see you again, Natalie.”
I shrug. Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Probably depends on him more than me, since I’m going to be here on the regular for at least a few more months. I give him an awkward wave and bolt to my mom’s car. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I feel way younger than I have in years. Like some dude just schooled me, even though he really didn’t.
Mom’s bursting with questions when I slide in—the front passenger seat this time, Rudolph is evidently safely at home—but I hold a hand up and shake my head. Then I roll down the window, search through my jeans pockets for my lighter, and light up the other Parliament that Joe gave me.
“In the car, Natalie? Really? Is this smoking thing that necessary?”
“Well, Mom, you pick, cigarettes or all the other stuff I’ve been up to this past year? Your call.”
Mom’s mouth drops into a tight frown, but I know she’s not going to say anything. She wants to talk, but not if she can’t steer the conversation. She’s careful that way, not liking to get her hands too dirty if she can help it. Which frankly suits me just fine. She turns up the Christmas music and starts humming as I blow smoke into the frozen air.
One meeting down, fifty-nine to go.
Chapter
Four
I’m not even sure why I’m bothering with catching up at school. I’m a senior. This is supposed to be my coast year. Only my grades suck. They sucked last year too. I’ll either end up at a shitty state school or community college, if I graduate this year at all. A month away at rehab is a long time, and to be honest, I was pretty much phoning it in most of the semester, most of the past year really, so the rehab excuse is pretty flimsy. I’m going to have a crap ton of incompletes, but I guess it’s better than failing. I don’t care about school, but I do care about getting out.
Luckily, I only have three weeks until winter break. Most of my teachers are actually being kind of cool about the stuff they’re piling on, trying to minimize the assignments I don’t really need to do. I’d be shocked by it if I didn’t know it was all motivated by my mom meeting with each of them when I was in rehab, discussing my “situation.”
My first day back, my ex Brent comes up behind me at my locker and slides his hands so they’re less than an inch below my boobs. Classy. Can’t believe how much time I wasted with this guy.
“Fuck off.” I slap his hands and turn to see a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Nat. I missed you. How was rehab?”
I shrug. “How the hell do you think rehab was? It’s rehab. Not Universal Studios. And I wouldn’t have even had to go if I weren’t driving your drunk ass home.”
He steps forward and grabs my belt loops, pulling me into him. Brent is hot, but he’s a huge player and I’m not in any kind of place to deal with our past crap. “That’s not how I heard it. I heard you got in a wreck three blocks from your house. Smashed into a stop sign. That’s not my fault.”
Okay. That’s probably true. The fact of the matter is that I would’ve stayed at the party way longer and gotten a lot more hammered if he weren’t puking in the bathroom and I hadn’t felt obligated to take him home. Not that he deserved it, but he’s held my hair enough times for me to return the favor.
“Still. It was after I dropped you off, so it’s partly your fault. And I don’t see your parents sending you to rehab, even though you must’ve gotten grounded for being so wrecked that night.”
He slips his thumbs under the hem of my shirt and for a second I remember how good he is with his hands. Really good. But I don’t need this noise, so I push him off and turn back to my locker.
“I told them I was burning off steam. Stressed out about college applications. They let me off,” he says. Of course they did. His parents are those kind of parents. The kind that want to be cool. Don’t get me wrong, I’d kill to have parents like that, but still, it’s all phony bullshit.
A bunch of people pass behind us, but they ignore us. Our school is pretty big. Close to five hundred kids in each class. Not really the kind of place where you pay attention to what’s going on outside your circle of friends.
Brent presses up against me from behind and rests his hand flat on my stomach. He drops his face into my neck and sucks a little on my skin. It’s been too long since I’ve been touched, I think.
“Are we having a moment here?” I snap, shaking myself out of the urge to sink back into him.
“I missed you,” he says, and something in his voice sounds real. I turn and he’s dropped the player mask and looks like he wants to talk.
Hell no. I’ve worked too hard to forget Brent and the whole mess of him in rehab.
“No you didn’t. You probably had your tongue down some girl’s throat fourteen seconds after I was admitted to the hospital.”
He bristles, but it shuts him down. “Don’t be a bitch.”
I shrug. “Calling it like I see it.”
His face changes again and I can almost hear him calculating. The way his face works, he’s the loudest thinker. I wait to see how he’s going to play this, ready to shut him down again.
“Wanna go somewhere and spark up?” he asks.
Unexpected. For a second I consider it, but then he steps forward and slides his hands around my hips, circling his thumbs against my stomach, and just like that, I jab him in the gut.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “What the hell was that for?”
I grab my Coach bag, not even sure I’ve put all the right books in there, but it doesn’t matter because I need to get away from this. “Brent. I can’t get high with you. My parents made me go to rehab. They’re having me pee in a cup every week. They’re jury-rigging the car with an attachment that will keep it from starting unless I do a sober Breathalyzer. So the answer is no. I’m not going to spark up with you. I don’t even like you.”
He shakes his head. “You used to like me.”
“No. Not really. I used to like fucking you. I never actually liked you.”
He looks hurt for half a second, but then he snaps back. “Such a pretty mouth. You can still fuck me. I don’t care if you like me.”
I let out a long breath and hitch my bag on my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass. But thanks for the offer.”
“Nat . . . ,” he calls as I barrel down the hall.
I turn, see his face, and immediately regret it.
“We should talk.” All pretenses are gone now. His expression is hard and serious.
I flip him off. “Nope. Save it for your therapist.” Then I swivel on my heel and bolt down the hall as fast as I can go without breaking into a run. I clench and unclench my fists, using the physical sensation to block out everything. Move forward, don’t look back, don’t think, don’t feel. I used to have booze to help with this, but now I only have my brain’s refusal to hang on to anything from before rehab. Which luckily, is enough.
* * *
&n
bsp; On my way out I see my American history teacher, Mrs. Hunt. Crap.
“Natalie, you haven’t completed any of your outstanding assignments.”
A gaggle of girls passes behind me, whispering, and I’m almost positive I hear the word “lush.” I take a step closer to Mrs. Hunt and drop my voice.
“I don’t know if my mom talked to you about where I’ve been for the last month. But I wasn’t exactly in a place to be doing assignments.”
Mrs. Hunt’s face is cold and unsympathetic. “Your mom did talk to me. She talked to all of us. And I did agree to make an exception to my homework policy for you because of your medical issues. But I emailed your assignments to you a few days ago. I assumed I’d have received at least one of your incompletes by now.”
She’s a bitch. And has no idea what I’m going through. But I’m not about to let her know she’s getting to me. So I smile sweetly and say, “Of course, Mrs. Hunt. I’ll have two to you by tomorrow.”
She doesn’t return my smile, just nods and heads down the hall.
I slam out the double doors and dig in my bag for my cigarettes, soft leather rubbing against my fingers as I search. We’re not allowed to smoke on school property, but the minute I hit the street, I’m lighting up. Most of the smokers hang out in a courtyard by the strip mall, but I’m not friends with any of them and I’m not super interested in chatting at this point.
A car pulls up alongside me on the sidewalk and I peer in. Amy and Amanda. My “friends.”
“Are your parents still making you go to AA?” Amy says, leaning out the window. Her hair is flat-iron perfect, but I can see from her eyes that she’s already pretty wasted. This is what we do. What I did. Water bottles full of booze to get us through the day.
“The court is, actually.”
Amanda snorts from beside her. Neither of them should be driving, but that’s never stopped us before. Amanda even took her driving test buzzed. We all thought it was hilarious.
“It’s not the same without you, Nattie,” Amy says.
I shrug. “My mom talked to all my teachers. They’re paying extra attention to me. I can’t pull off the stuff I used to.”
And frankly, I’m tired and don’t really want to. Being with Amy and Amanda requires too much energy. They’re always looking to me for entertainment and it’s exhausting. I’m an awesome drunk, but since getting out of rehab, I haven’t reached out to them. I’ve wanted to drink, but not with them. Not with anyone, really.
I never understood the alcoholics who drank alone, but watching Amy and Amanda shove each other and bust into uncontrollable snorts of laughter over nothing makes me totally get it. I want to be alone more than anything right now. The reminder of Brent’s fingers and his mouth on my neck and the look on his face and the We should talk, it’s pinging around inside my brain and all I can think about is making it go away. And not with the likes of Amy and Amanda.
“I gotta go,” I say, and smash my cigarette butt on the ground. I consider picking it up, but that’s stupid. Frickin’ Joe.
I turn to leave and Amy calls out, “When are you done with it all? When do we get you back?”
I shrug and don’t say what I’m thinking, which is: I don’t want to go back to either of you.
* * *
When I get home Mom is in the midst of a cookie-baking frenzy. The kitchen is covered in racks of cookies and cookie tins. Her short blond hair is sticking straight up like she hasn’t even had the chance to shower. Which, no way, nothing would keep Mom from showering. What if someone were to drop by?
I grab three of those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey’s kiss on top and beeline for my room. If I spend any more time in the kitchen, I’ll wolf down at least a dozen of them. I’m not so great with the stopping mechanism. But I’ve got other plans. I have twenty minutes until I have to leave for the afternoon AA meeting and that’s probably just enough time.
I lock myself in the bathroom in the hallway and pull open the medicine cabinets. Downstairs I hear Christmas music piping into all the rooms. God love techie Dad and his plan to create the perfect home for entertaining. I set aside boxes of tampons and Ace bandages until I finally find the bottle I’m looking for.
Tylenol with codeine. Thank Christ for getting my wisdom teeth out a year ago and leaving half the bottle intact. I probably would’ve hit this way sooner, but it’s been so easy to get booze or pot from people at school. Now I don’t want to bother with the hassle of that. I just need numbness for a little while. I don’t have the first clue how much of this will do the trick, but after the day I’ve had, I’m going toe up.
I finish the bottle in three long swigs and chase it down with a glass of water and a thorough teeth brushing. By the time Mom calls me down to leave for the meeting, I’m already feeling the effects. I hold myself as steady as I can and walk downstairs slowly. Concern is etched on her face.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “Exhausted. There’s a lot to catch up on at school. Don’t really have time for this meeting.”
Her mouth pinches. “You’re going. Not negotiable. If you need more time to catch up at school, I’ll talk to your teachers again.”
I wave my hand. My fingers feel swollen and fat, like they used to when I’d bare fist on the punching bag. “Not necessary.” It might be necessary, but I’m not quite lucid enough to discuss it at this time.
I pull my coat, the knit scarf, and a hat on and examine myself in the hall mirror. Tylenol aside, I look better than I have in a while. Over the past year, I’d gotten really thin and not in a smoking-hot way, more in a chemo patient way. I’d lost all my muscle tone. My therapist in rehab said it was the booze, though it could’ve been not entering the gym for months. I blink slowly. My cheeks are a bit flushed and I could probably retouch my makeup, but my limbs feel like they’re moving through sludge so I leave it.
I follow Mom into the garage, concentrating very hard on my steps, one foot in front of the other. So hard that I don’t even notice my car is parked there. Fixed.
Mom beams at me. “Early Christmas present. We know how hard you’ve been working the program. So we got it fixed. And the Breathalyzer is hooked up. Dad did it. It was almost like one of his tech projects.”
I snort. “Almost.”
The garage is starting to spin and I brace myself against the door of Mom’s Lexus.
“You can drive yourself today,” she says.
I yawn. “If you don’t mind and it doesn’t mess up your cookie schedule, I’d like you to drive. I’m pretty tired and I don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”
Her gaze narrows for just a second and I steel my face into an expressionless mask. She won’t ask, I’m almost positive. She hasn’t asked about anything, not since the hospital, and even then, it was all vague inquiries as to how I was feeling. Old habits die hard. She smiles at me, pure plastic, and locks down any questions she might have. “I don’t mind taking you. We can listen to Christmas music in the car.”
Fucking perfect.
Chapter
Five
Shit. Damn it to hell. Joe’s at the meeting. An afternoon meeting. I thought he was a noon-on-Saturday guy. He’s been sober three years. Why does he hit up more than one meeting a week? Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t need this.
I slink to the back of the room when I enter, dropping myself into the same chair the Hispanic guy sat in during the first meeting. I shut my eyes for less than a minute, or three, and feel a body slide in right next to me. I don’t even need to crack an eye to know it’s Joe. He smells like Parliaments.
“What are you on?” he asks in a low voice.
I peel my lids open and blink at him. “What? What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “Your speech is too clear for you to be drunk. What’d you take?”
“Nothing. Fuck off.”
He leans in. “Tell me what you took or I’ll tell Blake over there not to sign your card.”
Crap. I got a
Boy Scout on my back now. Spectacular. “Tylenol. I had a headache.”
He shakes his head and stands up, taking a step toward Blake, who is apparently in charge of the four o’clock Wednesday meetings. I grab Joe’s hand and pull him back down.
“It might’ve had some codeine in it.”
“Jesus, Natalie. What are you doing to yourself?”
I’m too fuzzy to get into this with him, so I decide on “Not sure why this is your business.”
He swears under his breath and settles in next to me as Blake starts the meeting. Every time I start to feel myself dozing off, Joe elbows me in the ribs. Today’s meeting requires each of us to read aloud from the Big Book, but the words are way too blurry for me. I try to pull the “I’m just going to listen today” line, but it sounds dumb because it’s not like I’ve been asked to share my own words, just Bill W.’s.
“Natalie can’t read,” Joe says.
I shoot half-assed daggers at him with my eyes, but he lifts a shoulder and reads my part for me. When the book has gone around the room and Blake has given everyone a chance to comment—there are only two other people in the room besides us, a woman who looks like a soccer mom and one of the black dudes who isn’t Calvin—we circle up, hold hands, and recite the Lord’s Prayer again. Joe’s hand feels rough and my fingers tingle at the touch. Tylenol with codeine is pretty awesome, as it turns out.
Joe drops my hand before we even finish saying “It works if you work it . . . sober” and steers me back into the corner. I pull out my court card to give to Blake, but Joe snatches it and tells Blake he’ll take care of it. When the room completely clears, I turn on him.
“You better sign that. I need it or I’ll have to do more community service.”
“What community service are you doing?”
I look at my feet. They’re kind of swirly and distracting and I forget Joe’s question until he tips my chin up with his two fingers and repeats himself.
“Oh. I thought I’d volunteer to wrap presents at the bookstore. The proceeds go to this children’s literacy thing.”
