Where It Began(49)

“My mom is pretty sure someone will slip me a rufie.”

“She’s completely unhinged. It’s the Junior Spring Fling, not a frat party.”

“I know. I just don’t want to stick out in a bad way.”

“All you need is a tight sweater.” Although not, perhaps, a Little Mermaid sweater. “I’ll go shopping with you.”

“Thanks. Are you going?”

My first thought is, of course. Of course I’m going. Because I’ve gone to every Winston School social event large and small since September. Because I’m on the committee that has planned and decorated every event large and small since September. Because Billy likes going to parties with a girl who looks damned good and so, of course, I go to parties and I look pretty damned good.

But, of course, I’m not going anymore.

“Doubtful,” I say. “I just have to focus on staying out of any form of juvie jail.”

“How could you go to jail?”

This makes me remember why I’m not talking about any of this stuff with anyone but Billy and people who are paid to listen and keep quiet about it.

“Not going to happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Won’t you please, please, please, please let me call my uncle for you? He’s a really good lawyer. Listen to me Gabby, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really need to have your own lawyer and not Billy’s lawyer. My uncle says. You really need to look out for yourself here.”

“Lisa, I’ve got my own lawyer. I was just filling out a bunch of forms for him.”

“Yeah, but my uncle could really help you. Gabby, this is serious. Don’t you want a lawyer who could help you? You have to take this seriously.”

“Why would you think I’m not taking this seriously? I could go to some kind of jail in Arizona. I could have killed somebody.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lisa squeals. An actual squeal, like a piglet having a coronary. “Don’t say that!”

It is so clear that I shouldn’t say anything. Even my best friend can’t stand to hear the truth about me. I have to shut it down or I’m going to be too freaked out to get out of bed, eat toast, or implement The Plan. Which is not exactly optional unless I want to embrace a new life as Rehab Wilderness Girl. Billy is so so absolutely and completely right.

You can tell Lisa is getting wound up again, and before she can start, I say, “I’m not going to talk about it. Save your breath.”

And Lisa says, “I know, I know. And I’m trying to respect that. I am. But this is really hard to watch.”





XXXVII


MEANWHILE, MR. HEALY KEEPS CALLING ME ON THE phone. No introduction, he just launches right in.

“Isabelle Frost says you’d be more comfortable with intensive therapy than AA?”

“Yup,” I say, “Because—”

But he doesn’t even want to hear about it.

I don’t know. Maybe all us girls who threaten to gorge ourselves on the entire refreshment table at Brentwood Unitarian AA, stab ourselves with plastic butter knives that aren’t even serrated, and thrust our hands and forearms into Brentwood Unitarian’s boiling hot forty-eight-cup industrial-size coffeemakers are a lot more comfortable with therapy than AA.

“All righty,” he says. “I think I should talk to your mom for a quick sec. I think we need a change of plan here to a heavier-duty therapist, all right?”

“I guess.”

“Someone objective-looking with big, bad credentials . . . hmmmm . . .”

After this, the frequency of Mr. Healy’s phone calls increases exponentially.

He keeps reminding me that I’m not supposed to be driving a car or hanging out with undesirables, by which I assume he means Billy (thank you, Agnes Nash), and to see if anything has changed. . . . Pregnant pause.

The only upside to the whole situation is that whenever I need to talk to Billy, apparently it’s all right to message him constantly in his new role as legal consultant. He actually seems interested. Even when I don’t message him, he keeps chatting me with questions eerily similar to Mr. Healy’s.

It is starting to feel as if I exist again, at least a little, in a tiny corner of the outskirts of Billy World. Sort of.

So this is my life:

Lisa is texting me to see if it would be okay to go to Fling in her mother’s arguably vintage acrylic cardigan that has sequined sombreros shading little napping men (No, not even close to okay. Tell her that you can’t wear racist outerwear to Winston School social events. Tell her anything) and me chatting online with Billy to get pointers on how I can stay out of jail.





gabs123: how did u get out of residential? big lawyer says residential is the worst case scenario if therapy doesn’t work out. i will DIE in residential.



pologuy: went to this outward bound thing in the rockies summer of 9th after pot in locker room at loyola match. did ropes course. listened to crap about personal responsibility. took other people’s ritalin



gabs123: no way.



pologuy: way. no booze no weed. what’s boy to do?



gabs123: i will not do a ropes course. just not happening.



pologuy: no worries. u need to knock over lots more trees before ropes course. that’s after 4th offense. not now. lawyer’s just scaring u so you’ll go all o mr. lawyer man, my hero when nothing bad happens to u