Heroine(75)

It’s the last thing she ever says to me.





Chapter Forty-Nine


panic: sudden, overpowering fright, especially when out of proportion to actual danger I’m headed home, my mouth in a tight line.

I will not think about the cooling bodies of my friends, even though I keep wiping my hands on the steering wheel, trying to rid them of the feel of Josie’s neck, slick and chilly, with no pulse. I will not think about how Derrick finally escaped his skin, how Josie doesn’t have to compete with Jadine anymore, or that Luther won’t have to patiently smile through yet another basketball story, someone else reenacting his life.

My phone goes off, the screen flashing brightly in the cup holder. I snatch it, hoping I was wrong, hoping it’s Josie and she wants to know where I went. It’s a text from Patrick, from his new number.

Need anything?

Yes, I fucking do. I need every balloon he’s got and I need it right now so that I don’t have to think about what just happened. But I’ve pulled into the garage already and shut the door, the clatter undoubtedly alerting Mom that I’m home. If I leave again I don’t think another old selfie will cover my ass, and I’m sure as shit not inviting Patrick over for a house call when Mom’s there.

I turn off my car but stay inside, tapping my phone to dial Patrick’s new number.

“Whatcha need?” he answers, and he’s so cool and calm, so under control that it’s like I finally have permission to lose it. Everything I clamped down on in Josie’s basement and on the drive home is out, rolling from my mouth and down my face in a mess, loosely strung words and hot tears.

“They’re dead, Patrick. They’re all dead. I left them there. I didn’t know what to do and I just left and I don’t know.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . .” His voice is low and soothing. “Where you at?”

I wipe my nose and hiccup. “At home.”

“And what happened? Slowly.”

“We couldn’t get ahold of you, so Josie and I went out and got some from Edith’s guy, but—”

“Out at the truck stop?”

“Yeah.”

“No good. That’s some bad shit they sling out there.”

“You think?” I snap at him, my voice cracking. “So Josie and Derrick and Luther, they all shot it, but I still had some of your stuff so I did that instead so I’m okay, but they’re not. They’re all dead.”

“Uh-huh,” Patrick says, like the reiteration of the fact is mildly boring. Josie would be so pissed if she knew.

“So what do I do?” I ask, sniffing.

“Nobody knows you were there, right?”

“No,” I agree.

“Then you’re fine. Cops’ll just say, look, bunch of kids OD’d. Another Friday.”

And it kind of sounds like that’s how Patrick feels about it too, like “stay safe” was just his catchphrase, not actually a motto.

“But what do I do?” I ask again.

“Shit, I don’t know, Mickey. You’re shooting heroin. People die. That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” I argue, useless words that only make his more powerful.

“Look, do you want anything or not? I missed three calls talking about this.”

“FUCK YOU!” I shout so loudly my spine vibrates. “My friends are fucking dead!”

“Yeah, but you’re not,” Patrick says, calm as ever. “So call me when you need something.”

I throw my phone and it bounces off the windshield into the passenger seat as I hunch over the steering wheel, sobbing. Patrick said to call him if I needed something but he wasn’t talking about comfort. All he wants to do is sell me heroin to get me through this and if I had any cash on me at all right now I would call him back. I’m reaching for the phone anyway, wondering if we can work something out about what I still owe and how far my credit extends when the overhead light in the garage comes on.

“Mickey?” Mom’s standing in the doorway, still wearing her clothes but with a crease in the side of her face from falling asleep on the couch. “What’s going on?”

I grab my phone and wipe my eyes before I get out, even though I know I can’t hide the fact that I’ve been crying.

“Honey.” Mom comes to me when she sees, arms open. I collapse into her, smelling her shampoo and her overly sweet wine breath and a little whiff of the pizza from dinner. She pats my back.

“I know it’s hard,” she says. “Senior year. Last game of the season. But think about everything ahead of you. You’ve still got tournaments and you girls are going to go so far this year. Focus on that, honey,” she says, pulling back and pushing a strand of hair out of my face. “Focus on the good things.”

I would love to.

But I don’t have any heroin.





Chapter Fifty


hysterical: feeling or showing loss of control over one’s emotions I am a fucking mess.

My hands can’t hold on to anything and my bones feel alive under my skin, zinging with an energy that doesn’t extend to my brain. That’s dead, dormant, unable to do anything other than spew out images of Josie with gray lips, Derrick slumped slightly against Luther, the only warm places left on their bodies where their skin touched, holding on to that last sliver of life. It’s all I can think about, and the small measure of comfort that rested in that last syringe has long since lost any potency, overcome by panic—and guilt. My shaken mind keeps producing the word if, followed by an emphatic I, squarely placing blame.