Heroine(73)

I need to be who she thinks I am.

I eat until I might puke, my belly pushed tight against the band of my sweatpants, the dirty spoon and clean needle leaving impressions on my skin. We talk about plays and stats and things that happened at last week’s game and what might happen tomorrow. My phone goes off twice more and I reach into my pocket to turn it off. I cannot be getting updates about heroin while I talk about softball.

By the time we’re finished eating Mom has had a little too much wine and her eyelids are heavy. She groans when she stands and I tell her she’s pregnant with a pizza baby and her face folds in a little and that was a stupid fucking thing to say to a woman who can’t conceive. She goes into the living room and curls up with a blanket and a book, and I’m pissed at myself for being such a dumbass. Of all the words in the dictionary those are the ones I chose to say to her.

I take our plates to the kitchen and add the spoon from my pants to the dishes in the sink, then power my phone back on to find four texts from Josie.

Jadine still not answering.

Seriously do you have Patrick’s number?

I am not doing so grassroots over here.

Lol weird autocorrect. great

I’m not doing so great either, and when I hear a slight snore from the living room I take a chance and call Josie.

“Where the fuck are you?” she demands.

“Nice,” I say. “I’m at home.”

“You seriously don’t have Patrick’s number?”

“No, I seriously don’t.”

I hear a tiny popping noise over the phone, and I think she just bit into one of her nails. I imagine nail polish cracking, Josie scraping away at what’s left.

“Okay, look,” she says. “Get over here, and we’ll figure something out with Edith’s guy. She gave me his number.”

I glance into the living room. Mom is out.

“I thought she said he’d deliver, like Patrick?” I argue. “Why can’t I just meet you at Edith’s?”

“Because she doesn’t want us over there right now,” Josie tells me. “That neighbor, Mr. Suspicious Dick, told her that next time he sees more than just her car in the driveway he’s calling the cops.”

“He can’t do that,” I say. “It’s not illegal for us to go to Edith’s.”

“Technically, no,” she agrees. “But what we do there is illegal, and she said to just chill for a little bit.”

There’s a rumble in my stomach, the pizza rolling uncomfortably. “Edith actually said chill?”

“No!” Josie yells at me. “And that is so not the point right now, anyway. Are you coming over or not? Mom’s on a date with the new guy and she wore her expensive underwear so that means she’s not coming home tonight.”

“Ewww,” I say.

“Try being me,” she snipes back.

I glance back into the living room, where my mom is just being a mom. Tired and worn out on a Friday night, wrapped in a blanket with a book that’ll take her a year to finish splayed across her chest. She’s snoring louder, her chest rising up and down.

My stomach rolls again, and it feels like everything in there moves south.

“I’ll be there in ten,” I say.





Chapter Forty-Eight


overdose: an excessive amount; a lethal dosage of a drug “I can’t hang out,” I tell Josie as soon as she gets in my car. “I’ve got a game tomorrow and—”

“And softball is everything. Yeah, I know,” she interrupts. “Head out to the truck stop on the freeway.”

“Seriously? That’s like twenty minutes.”

“Yep,” Josie confirms. “And we don’t have Patrick’s working number and Jadine isn’t answering her phone and we can’t go anywhere near Edith’s. Now, either we make a new friend or we both have a long fucking night, and a real shitty day tomorrow, because I cannot take this, Mickey, and judging by the sweat that just popped up on your lip I’m guessing you don’t feel so awesome, either.”

I’m not exactly talkative, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Josie say so much. She’s in a bad way, her hands shaky and her nails torn, the tips just sticking out of the ends of her sleeves.

“No, I don’t feel so awesome,” I say. “And I’ve got—”

“A game tomorrow that decides the fate of the universe, I know, so can you fucking drive faster?”

“Being conference champs is important,” I snap at her, remembering Coach’s speech under locker-room lights, the set faces of my teammates. “It affects our ranking going into the tournament bracket. It matters, Josie. It really does.”

“So does going into withdrawal,” she says.

And I can’t argue with that.

When we get to the truck stop, Josie checks her phone.

“Okay, he says drive over to where the dumpsters are.”

“Classy,” I say under my breath, breaking my silence, but I clam up again when we get behind the line of semis and a rusted-out S-10 flashes its lights at us.

“That’s him,” Josie says, tucking her phone into her pocket.

We get out together and walk over as the driver shuts his door. He’s Edith’s age, hair tied back in a ponytail, the seam on his flannel shirt blown out on the left shoulder.