Heroine(69)

“Very,” he agrees, holding my X-rays up to the light so that everyone gets a good look at my pelvis.

The screws are so easy to spot, dense white fingers that hold me together. I lean in, curious about these things under my skin that I’ve managed to touch, which one I can feel boring into bone the most.

Ferriman talks to Mom about things like adequate fixation of the hardware and good reports from physical therapy, but the upshot is that I’m fine. I’m better. I’m healed. He says he’s never seen anyone recover so quickly, and that I should be damn proud of myself. Ferriman blushes when he says damn, something I’m sure a pediatrician doesn’t get away with very often.

I smile and say the right things, but the truth is that my gut just bottomed out. Because if there’s nothing wrong with me anymore then there’s no reason to text Josie, to update Patrick’s number, to go to Edith’s. Ferriman just took away any pretense I had, any excuse I could make to myself about what I’m doing and why. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and it hurts to swallow. There’s a sharp pain in my neck when I look down, focusing on my toes, no longer swinging my legs. I’ve got tears in my eyes and they both think it’s for the wrong reason and nobody has any idea.

The thing is, I thought my hip didn’t hurt because I wasn’t going to let it, that I kept the pain at a distance as a form of self-care, preempting the agony with pills and then a needle. The thing is, I can’t tell the difference between honest pain and withdrawal anymore.

I just know that I hate both and I’ve learned I don’t have to feel either one.

Except now, if I keep using it’s not because I’m fighting off an injury or for some noble self-sacrifice to keep the team going strong so Carolina can shine. If I keep using now, it’s because I want to.

And yeah, I want to.

So when we go home I tell Mom I’m tired from the late game and I need a nap. She smiles at me and says that sounds great, like I just said I came up with a cure for cancer. I’m her golden child, the miraculous recovery, the strong one.

I shoot up and nod off, blissed out and warm in my bed.

Because if I’m an addict I might as well go ahead and just be one.

Fuck it.





Chapter Forty-Five


abandoned: forsaken, deserted—or—given up to vice

It’s easier after I embrace it.

There’s still shame as I head over to Edith’s on Friday night, but I’ve ditched any self-justification or rationalization, which makes room for anticipation. I spent all last Sunday cleaning up Mr. Henderson’s half acre, dragging dead limbs, raking up yard waste, and burning it all before the sun set. Mom complained, saying that our neighbor has two grown children and a few grandchildren and there’s no reason why his family couldn’t help him out, instead of me volunteering my time. I don’t tell her Henderson paid me sixty bucks.

That’ll all be going up my arm.

I’ve developed affection for the process, my mind fixating on the spoon, the water, the flame. The end result is ecstasy, but getting there is part of the pleasure, the steps forming a ritual that I know will deliver me.

I get religious people now.

We’re chatty when we’re high, Edith still relying on her pills, not willing to make the leap with us but happy to be there to catch us when we come down. She brushes Josie’s hair, my friend’s pupils tiny as she stares at the TV, her words coming out in a never-ending stream.

“I can be smart and pretty,” she says. “Everyone acts like their minds are totally blown when they find out I’m going to pharmacy school. Why is it surprising? I mean, Marie Curie was cute when she was younger and Ada Lovelace was flat-out hot.”

Luther is on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Try going to Baylor Springs without being rich, I mean just try it,” he says. “I get free lunch. Did you guys know that? My little sister can’t take it. She pays for hers anyway, doesn’t want her friends to know. What I just shot up would cover her for a week. Fuck. What am I doing?”

Derrick itches. That’s his thing.

“Guys, seriously. My skin is coming off. I want to unzip it and just step out of it right now, like a skin suit. A Derrick suit. It needs to happen. I can’t take it. Guys.”

He is digging pretty hard, leaving red streaks up and down his arms, dried skin flaking off. I borrow Josie’s phone and call Jadine. She says to give him Benadryl. I find some in Edith’s cabinet, expired. I give Derrick two and he washes them down. I tell him it’ll make it better and whether it actually does or just because I said so, he stops itching.

“Betsy is dead,” Edith says, her voice joining ours. “Bob and Helen and Betsy and Tom and Erin and Carter and Grant and Hayley.” She names off her loved ones, destroyed by time and fire. “Everyone dies,” she says. “Everyone leaves me.”

“I don’t fit,” I tell them. “I’m not good at being a girl. I’m not actually my mom’s daughter. My real parents are out there somewhere and if I saw them I might know what I am. If I was supposed to be smart or funny or strong or stupid or mean. I just don’t know.”

We’re all talking and listening at the same time, one hundred percent dedicated to each other while simultaneously lost inside our own heads.

“Jane Goodall was pretty too, in that natural way.”