Heroine(64)

“Uh-huh,” I say, finally understanding what the real problem is. Buying heroin from a hunky twentysomething and buying heroin from a scuzzy old dude are two different things. While I’m sure that Josie has her own reasons for wanting to put herself in front of Patrick again, I’ve got my own.

If I’m getting my stuff from somebody who jumped in fifty years ago and hasn’t climbed back out, as opposed to a guy who looks like he can do a cologne ad, I might have to do some serious thinking.

The garage door opens behind me as Mom comes home from work.

I don’t have time for serious thinking.

I take Josie off speaker and put the phone up to my ear as I wave to Mom and go inside.

“Call Jadine and get Patrick’s number,” I repeat to Josie, dropping my voice when I hear Mom come in downstairs. “We don’t know what’s in this other guy’s stuff. Patrick set us up, and nobody got sick.”

“You did,” Josie says, and I swear she’s suppressing a giggle.

“Nobody died,” I clarify.

“Yeah, right,” she agrees, all humor gone.

“Totally the biggest benefit,” I add. “I don’t care how hot Patrick is.”

“Omigod, but he’s so hot,” Josie says.

“All the more reason to get his number,” I say again, closing the door to my bedroom. “And Josie?”

“Yeah?”

“Sooner rather than later,” I say, as I feel the familiar ache of after-workout slip into something deeper, more nagging.

“No shit to that,” she says, and I hear her own breath catching.

I don’t know if she hurts, or if it’s the boredom she blamed the first time we met driving her to greater heights in order to relieve it.

All I know is that there’s an important game coming up, and we need to win.

And that means I need some heroin.





Chapter Forty-Two


euphoria: an intense, overwhelming state of happiness

We win on Thursday.

And the next Monday.

And the Wednesday after that.

Carolina’s face carries a little more worry than usual, a wince following every release, but she pitches the entire Thursday game, and gets us such a significant lead in the first few innings of the next two that Coach sits her. She says it’s because the relief pitcher needs the experience, and tells me the same when she strips the catching gear off me on Wednesday.

“Damn, Catalan,” Coach says, pulling the chest protector away from me. “We’re going to have to tighten this. Where’d your tits go?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Lydia says in mock indignation, throwing her arms up in the air. “Eat some cheeseburgers, Catalan.”

I laugh it off, but make a note that maybe I should actually go do that after the game. It’s hard to remember to eat when you’re not hungry.

“You’re fine,” Carolina says to me when I sit beside her, swishing water in my mouth to get the grit out from between my teeth. “Lose a little weight and suddenly everyone thinks you’ve got an eating disorder.”

Or that you’re doing drugs, I think. Carolina and I have been okay lately, and I’m not going to be the one to mess that up. I’m not happy about riding the bench, but if Carolina isn’t pitching there’s no challenge in it. I’d rather be next to her than out there, which is one hell of a compliment. She rests her head on my shoulder.

“Over halfway through our senior season, Mickey. What the hell?”

“I know it,” I say.

Maybe even better than she does, due to the growing importance of math in my life. It’s taken some experimenting, and more than one close call at home, but once Josie scored some balloons off Patrick and handed a few off to me, I’ve found a good method of operation.

If I shoot up two days before a game, I can get away with telling Mom I’m hitting the sack and laying low until my pupils aren’t noticeably pinpointed. I can sleep off most of the high and get through the days to the end of the game without feeling a twinge in my hip or a tremor in my hand. And if I reward myself with a little bit more of a push the night after . . . well, we did win.

I keep my stuff in the box for my cleats, which still carries the scent of leather and has that little package of silica gel clearly labeled Do Not Eat inside. It rests next to my spoon and lighter, along with a roll of clean needles, a syringe, and a little bag of cotton balls.

And of course, the balloons.

This time I have one red and one yellow one. Last week Josie gave me a blue one at Edith’s, along with a wink. Edith hasn’t mentioned her buddy with the hookup again, apparently happy to let us shoot up anybody’s heroin as long as we do it at her house. The fact that Josie must be buying when she’s not with us makes me wonder if she’s using without us, too, but I can’t say much since I’m sporting three holes in my calf no one knows about but me.

On the weekend I’ve got a real reason to celebrate. After Monday’s game, two different D3 scouts approached me, and I had solid offers from both schools by Friday. Those colleges can’t give me money in exchange for playing a sport, but they can ask me to play, and give me enough academic scholarships to make tuition manageable. Luckily, I’ve been able to keep my GPA in a place where they can do that without raising too many eyebrows.