My Best Friend's Exorcism(36)

Gretchen was supposed to pick up the second verse, but as the synthesizers swelled and the traffic light changed, no one was singing in the car except Phil. Abby couldn’t stand it.

“Come on, ladies,” she said, calling out like a cheesy piano player. “You know the words.”

Gretchen looked out her window at the passing fast-food restaurants. Abby had no choice but to jump in on the chorus.

“So take a look at my cow/She’s got a chicken face/And there’s no one left here to remind me/That she comes from outer space.”

Once Abby started she couldn’t stop, so she kept up with the song all the way through the chorus, feeling like a dweeb for singing her heart out and being completely ignored. Then she stopped abruptly, as if she was never really planning to get much into the second verse anyway. The rest of the drive passed in silence.

Gretchen kept her sleeves rolled down no matter how warm the weather was. Some mornings she showed up with filthy Band-Aids on her fingertips. Her breath got worse. Her tongue became coated in a thick white film. The crimping had turned her hair into a frizzy nest barely controlled by a scrunchie, and her lips were always chapped. She looked beaten, exhausted, hunched over, wrung dry. Abby wondered how she made it past her mom every morning.

The first teacher to say something was Mr. Barlow. After Gretchen fell asleep twice in first period, he held her back after class. Abby waited until she came slouching out of his office.

“What’d he say?” she asked as Gretchen brushed past her.

Before she could answer, Mr. Barlow called Abby into his tiny office. The room reeked of Gretchen’s sour sweat. Mr. Barlow was pounding on his window with the heel of his hand, trying to get it open.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Gretchen,” he said, giving up on the window and turning on a desk fan. “But if you care about your friend, you need to get her off whatever she’s on.”

“What?” Abby asked.

“What?” Mr. Barlow mimicked. “I’m not an idiot. I know what drugs are. If you’re really her friend, get her to stop.”

“But, Mr. Barlow—” Abby said.

“Save it,” he snapped, dropping into his chair and picking up a stack of test papers. “I said my piece, you heard me, and the next person I’ll tell is Major. I’m giving you a chance to help your friend. Now get to class.”

Abby realized that no one was going to do anything. For five years, Gretchen had been the perfect Albemarle student, and the faculty still saw what they were used to seeing—not what was really happening. Maybe they chalked it up to PSAT stress or problems at home. Maybe they figured that tenth grade was a tough transition. Maybe they were caught up in their own divorces and career dramas and problem kids, and if she still wasn’t turning things around on Monday they’d say something. Or maybe the following Monday. Or the Monday after that.

Something was changing inside Gretchen. Maybe it was the acid, maybe it was Andy, maybe it was her parents, maybe it was something worse. Whatever it was, Abby had to keep trying. She couldn’t abandon her friend because soon Gretchen would be ready to talk. Any minute now she’d look up from her daybook and say, “I have to tell you something serious.”

The next day was Wednesday, and when Gretchen got into the Dust Bunny, Abby was relieved: she was still wearing the same clothes but didn’t smell bad. Maybe Mr. Barlow had gotten through to her after all.

Then a new smell hit her: United Colors of Benetton perfume. Gretchen was drenched in it. She’d gotten a bottle from her parents two years ago, and it quickly became her signature scent. That morning, Gretchen reeked of it. Abby’s eyes were still burning when she walked into first period.

Later that day, Abby went against her better judgment and appealed to a higher authority. She came back from TCBY and found her mother balancing the checkbook at the dining room table. Abby’s mom took every shift that came her way, sleeping at patients’ houses three times a week in case they woke up in the middle of the night and needed someone to change their Depends. Abby mostly saw her in passing or asleep on the sofa, or she heard her coughing behind a closed bedroom door. Clueless as to how to start a conversation, she hovered awkwardly by the couch until her mom noticed.

“What?” Mrs. Rivers said without looking up.

Abby dove in before she could second-guess herself.

“Do you ever have patients who hear voices?” she asked. “Like voices that talk to them all the time and tell them things?”

“Sure,” her mom said. “Nutjobs.”

“Well,” Abby said, forging ahead, “how do they get better?”

“They don’t,” her mom said, tearing up a stack of voided checks. “We put them on pills, send them to the nuthouse, or hire someone like me to make sure they don’t chug-a-lug the Drano.”

“But there has to be something you can do,” Abby said. “To make them like they used to be.”

Abby’s mom was exhausted but she wasn’t stupid. She took a sip of her Diet Pepsi and looked at her daughter.

“If this is about Gretchen, and it usually is,” she said, “then it’s none of your beeswax. You worry about you and let Gretchen’s parents worry about Gretchen.”

“Something’s wrong with her,” Abby said. “You could talk to her parents, or we could go over there together. They’d listen to you.”