Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(28)

Anyway, the bookstore had been at the mall for a long time, and I’d been there before, but I never really paid attention.

Once I started working there, I fell in love with the place—well, parts of it anyway. The corporation that ran the store treated books and employees like hammers and nails. Just like everything else in the grown-up world, businesspeople had found a way to suck the life out of something fun. I mean, how the hell do you suck the life out of books?

But maybe some of that was on me, too. I was in a really crappy place after the miscarriage, and everything in the world seemed a bit off. The hardest part was how completely alone I felt. I used to pride myself on that, on my ability to be alone. For years, I’d been projecting this whole tough-chick image onto the world, and now it was breaking down.

If I had just talked to Johnny or Harry, or even talked more to Richie, maybe I would’ve felt better. Instead, I kept my secrets locked up inside, and they were eating me alive. But what was I supposed to do? It’s not like my bandmates were rallying around me. Even something as stupid and small as me getting the job at the bookstore caused all this tension—Johnny looked hurt, Harry looked like he didn’t care, and Richie just took it in stride. Where were the high-fives? Where were the whoops and hollers and “Way to go, Chey”?

I needed someone or something to hold on to, only there was no one and nothing there.

The pain meds helped when I took them, but they would wear off and the bad feelings would start again. So I started taking them more often.

Dr. McCartney at Planned Parenthood had filled a second prescription of Vicodin a week after the miscarriage. When I asked for a third, she told me I had to come in and see her in person.

This time I made the trip alone. It was a weekday, so the protestors were mostly gone. Only one woman with an oak tag sign that said, Pray for the souls of the unborn, stood across the street. She was nice looking, with a plain white blouse and a gray skirt. But she looked angry and confused.

Unlike the phonies and lunatics who had been there on the weekend, I could tell that this lady had lost a baby or had an abortion, and it had messed with her mind. It’s like she needed to do something but couldn’t figure out what. I guess holding a sign on the side of the road was the best she could think of. I felt sorry for her.

“Cheyenne.” Dr. McCartney had half a smile and half a frown when she came into the examination room. “You’re still having pain?”

Idiot that I am, I didn’t realize that I couldn’t get a prescription for pain meds until the end of time just because I wanted one. The pain from the miscarriage was gone. I wanted the meds for everything else. The Vicodin had become the one and only thing that was filling the hole in my life. I don’t think I’d really understood that until I was sitting back in the examination room.

I probably waited a whole five seconds before lying.

“Yeah, I am still having pain. Can you give me something?”

“We need to take a look and see what’s going on in there,” she said, very gently tapping her finger on my belly.

I was nervous. I wanted to run, but I went through with it.

The doctor didn’t say a word as she did the ultrasound and did the cervical exam. When she was done, she had me get dressed and meet her in her office. When I sat down she was writing on a pad, and for a second I was pretty psyched. I was going to get the pain meds after all. Only, when she handed me the paper, it wasn’t a prescription.

“This is the name of a psychiatrist friend of mine. He can help you with what you’re feeling and can help you stop wanting or needing to take the Vicodin.”

“I don’t need—”

She held up a hand for me to stop. “Cheyenne, I’ve seen a lot of girls come in here, and I understand what you’re going through. But there’s nothing physically wrong with you that would require Vicodin.”

I slunk out of there with my tail between my legs. I didn’t even look at the piece of paper she’d handed me until I was on the bus. I was too embarrassed. When I finally did look, I laughed out loud. It was the phone number for Dr. Kenneth Hirschorn, Harry’s shrink, Dr. Kenny. I crumpled it up and shoved it in my pocket. No way was Dr. Kenny the answer to my problems. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all Harry’s shrink. No, I would just have to find another way.

There was only one person in my life who knew enough creepy people to help me get meds without a prescription, and that was Theresa.

Theresa and I have one thing in common. We’re both fearless. I don’t mean that we’re not afraid of things. We are. It turns out I’m terrified of God and Theresa is scared of spiders. But we’re both willing to put ourselves out there, to take chances. Like when I tried out for the Scar Boys or went on the road with the band. Or like the people Theresa chooses to hang out with.

Her group of friends is pretty loose with drugs and sex and stuff; they’re not the kinds of kids you’d bring home to meet Mom and Dad. I think my sister hangs out with them to get attention because she has a self-image problem. She’s a really pretty girl, and she’s pretty smart; if she would just realize that, maybe she would pick better friends.

Anyway, I thought maybe she could help me get the pain meds. I was wrong. (I’m wrong a lot.)

“You want me to get you what?” It was later that same night, and we were alone in our room.