Whisper to Me(35)

“Why would I laugh?”

“Because it’s stupid, believing in wishes. Childish. Crazy, even.”

“I hear a voice that isn’t there,” I said.

She laughed. “Touché.”

A pause.

“Are you okay, Cassie?”

“Huh?” I said. I felt like the world had blinked—a fraction of a second gone, some gap in the film, a shudder. It was disconcerting. I was leaning against the wall of the room now, and I felt light-headed. What happened?

“You look pale,” said Paris.

I closed my eyes. And when I did I saw a bowling alley, a bowling alley of my imagination, yawning open in front of me, front wall peeling up, to reveal the lanes stretching back like tongues into darkness, the pins standing up like teeth.

“Uh … I think I’m just nervous,” I said, when I opened my eyes. “About the … you know. The meeting.” My heart was beating wildly.

Her eyes grew.

I mean, of course they didn’t grow. But they seemed to. “Oh, ****,” she said. “Of course you are.” She reached into a cupboard and took out a bottle with a white label—vodka. She handed it to me. “Here. Take a gulp of that. Liquid courage.”

I held the bottle in my hand. “I can’t. I don’t—”

“You’re worried about the risperidone? Because—”

“No. I’m just … well. Underage.”

She rolled her eyes. “Drink. You need to calm down a little.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said the voice. “I will make you whine like a dog.”

I hesitated.

“Yes. Give it back,” said the voice. “And then go home. Or you will pay.”

Oh, **** it, I thought. I’m going to pay anyway, for going to this group thing.

I tilted the bottle back; swallowed. It was like swallowing fire: it seared down my throat and warmed my stomach. A beeping came from the kitchen.

“Time is up for you, *****,” said the voice. “I swear I’m going to—”

“Ah!” said Paris. “Cookies.”





Paris put the vodka back in the cupboard, took my hand, and dragged me back to the kitchen. She opened the oven, slipped on a flowery mitt that I never would have pictured in her apartment, and took out a tray of huge chocolate cookies, perfectly browned.

“Ta-da!” she said.

I mimed clapping.

Paris expertly slid the cookies onto a plate and then led the way back into the living room. She indicated for me to sit down again.

Right. The moment I’d been putting off. The awkwardness.

“Eat,” said Paris. She pushed the plate at me. They looked good—soft in the middle, the chocolate still molten.

I swallowed. “Um. Sorry … I should have said before … I’m allergic,” I said. “Peanuts. I’m really sorry. They look amazing.”

“No peanuts in these.”

I gave a half smile, embarrassed. I hated this, I always had. “It’s more complicated than that. What about the flour?”

“What about it?”

“Is it made in a facility that handles nuts? The chocolate?”

Her eyes widened. “Really? It’s that serious?”

“Yep.” I held up the bag I always carried with me, the one my mother had embroidered my name onto, and showed her the two EpiPens inside, the bronchodilating inhaler. “The smallest trace, and I could die.”

She went to the kitchen and came back with a bag of chocolate chips. I turned it over, showed her the label: MAY CONTAIN NUTS.

“Sorry,” I said.

She shrugged. “Don’t be. Next time I’ll get the right stuff. Can’t have you dying on me.”

I smiled.

She started carrying the plate of cookies back to the kitchen.

“You’re not having one?” I asked.

“Carbs? Are you kidding me?”

I frowned. “But you baked them.”

“Yeah. I like the distraction. It’s therapeutic.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Paris was wearing a long bodycon dress with vivid neon flowers all over it. Her hair was piled up, secured with chopsticks. She looked much better than she had at the hospital. She threw herself down on the chair opposite me, splayed herself—she had a way of sitting down like a cat; her limbs didn’t seem to have the same bones as most people.

“Your condo is beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Is it … um … do you …”

“Do I pay for it with the ill-gotten gains from taking my clothes off on a webcam?”

THE VOICE: ******* slut whore.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Partly. But my dad pays too. Sends a check in the mail. His signature on those checks is pretty much the only communication I ever have from him.”

“You’re not close?”

She smiled. “You could say that.”

“Does he live in Oakwood?”

She shook her head. “New York. Mom too. But, I mean, in separate apartments. They can’t stand each other. I went to high school there, but as soon as I could I got out.”

“Headed to the glamorous Jersey Shore,” I said.