Heroine(33)

I’m not exactly looking for Betsy Vellon’s name, the last provider of Edith’s OxyContin stock, but it would jump out at me if I saw it. With only her and Edith left to refill the safe, things could get sticky if Betsy bows out early. Edith’s prescription for osteoarthritis isn’t enough to take care of herself, let alone me, Josie, and anyone else she sells to.

There are other names in the obituaries, pictures that I don’t expect to see. Parents who died suddenly, and a few people my own age who passed away unexpectedly. Some of the obits skip the euphemisms and flat out say that their loved one overdosed. My internet searches catch up with me and pretty soon I’m getting ads in my sidebar for cremation services, mattresses with remotes, and discreet adult diapers.

So I stop looking.

I tell myself that it’s because I want to get back to pop-ups about the World Series, not because I’m bothered by that word.

Overdose.

Yes, I know that people die from this shit. But the obits are for washed-up dreamers who didn’t hit their goals before thirty, stressed-out parents who needed a little break and ended up taking a long one, and people who just plain look like junkies, who have been messing around with this, that, and the other for so long that they tried too much of something new.

The obits I’m reading aren’t for athletes who know exactly how much to take in order to perform. They aren’t for bored prima donnas like Josie trying to fill up their spare time.

The obits are for people who are nothing like us.

“I can’t remember the last time I took a shit.”

It’s not something I would usually share, but it slips out. Josie almost does a spit-take with the whiskey that she’s sipping, and over in her chair, Edith lets out a snort. It’s Saturday night, the ache of a full week of real practice settled into my bones, sending me over here instead of to Carolina’s for “Netflix and chili,” as we’d started calling it, specifically for my mom’s benefit.

“That’s the Oxy,” Josie says, wiping her chin clean of a dribble of whiskey. “Take some Metamucil, that’ll clean you out.”

“Prune juice,” Edith argues as she flips the channel. “You don’t need to be putting all that stuff in your body, darlin’.”

“Says your dealer,” Josie adds.

I laugh, but the truth is there’s nothing funny about not being able to take a shit. “Does Metamucil work?” I ask Josie, who is crushing an Oxy with the base of one of Edith’s Precious Moments figurines.

“I guess so.” She shrugs. “I don’t really worry about it. It’s got to come out sometime, right?”

Actually, it doesn’t. But Josie doesn’t seem concerned, and while the Oxy has loosened my tongue, I don’t think she keeps me around for constipation stories.

“What are you doing?” I ask, as Josie forms powder into a line with her nail file.

“Somebody told me if you snort it, you get high faster,” Josie says.

“Somebody?”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate and doesn’t look at me. Instead she checks her phone, then looks down at the white streak she’s created, a fine wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “Do you know how to do this?”

I almost laugh, but catch it just in time. Josie’s never asked me how to do anything, and I’ve always followed her lead when we’re under Edith’s roof. Outdoors I could run circles around her, or even pick her up and throw her a good distance. In here, she’s the one who knows what’s up. Except right now she doesn’t, and the part of me that got left behind when Coach had Lydia show the freshmen how to slide last week is ready to show off, even if I have no idea what I’m doing.

I come over to the end table, eyeing the line. “How much is this?”

“I crushed up a forty,” Josie says.

I lean over the table, unsure. “I guess you just plug one nostril and snort, right?”

“I don’t know, yeah?” Josie’s phone goes off and she grabs for it.

Without her attention on me, I rock back on my heels, enjoying the stretch of the long muscles of my quads. I love even more that I can do this, that I can bend without crying, move as if the accident never happened. If Coach could see me like this . . . my eyes go to the white powder, the Precious Moments next to it, cuddling her puppy.

Yeah, if Coach could see me like this.

Josie tosses her phone onto the end table, knocking the statue over the edge. I’m supple and warm, snagging it from midair with little effort. I put it back, for some reason turning her so that the little girl isn’t looking at the Oxy.

“Nice save,” Josie says. “Hey, Edes, the guys are coming over.”

Edith’s eyes open slowly. “They buying?”

“I don’t know.”

“The guys?” I ask, sudden, hot anxiety peaking in my gut. I’m comfortable here in Edith’s house, my muscles long and relaxed, the heat of her living room matching the warmth blooming inside. I don’t want more people here, ones I have never met and don’t know how to talk to.

“Don’t worry, they’re cool,” Josie says.

She doesn’t seem to get that that’s exactly what I’m worried about. Boys don’t intimidate me in a weight room or in a gym, but put me in a social situation with them and nothing to lift, throw, or kick, and I’m deadweight. Girls like Josie know how to drop their shoulders, tilt their heads, and use their hips to make conversation. Me, I ask them their stats.