“No, no, no. Addiction is a cultural crisis. It’s going to take leveraging the power of entire communities to make things better.”
“Wow.” She stared at me like she’d never seen me before. “You really drank that Kool-Aid, didn’t you?”
My heart gave a sudden lurch. “What?”
“I wish you could hear yourself objectively.” Her words carried a lot of emotion I wasn’t prepared for. “People choose to use drugs. Even if addiction is a so-called disease for some people, they’re the ones who chose to tempt fate by trying drugs in the first place.”
“That’s facile. They—”
“Once they’re addicts, they lie, they cheat, they swindle, they steal. They’re not victims. Should the entire world make it easier for them to do drugs? Heroin is illegal for a reason. People who use don’t have an illness. They’re committing a crime.”
I was so taken aback I didn’t have words for a few seconds.
“Obviously,” I managed to say, “I don’t entirely agree.”
She looked away. “Obviously.”
“I’m still going on Thursday night.”
Her chin came up. “Whatever you need to do.”
“Thank you.” I felt sick inside when she walked away. I felt like I’d messed up. She didn’t have to see things the same way I did. She was still my boss, and I still loved my job.
I felt awful after talking to her.
I spent the rest of the day trying not to simmer with resentment.
When I left, Suzanne didn’t say goodbye, and it stung.
Outside, the world appeared apocalyptically orange. The air quality stank, literally. I worried about my folks since they weren’t getting any younger. We were safe from the fires but not the effects of poor air quality and ash that came down like snow.
I decided to stop by Comix and Games to see how they were doing, which led to another dilemma—I still hadn’t mentioned that I’d seen Tug again.
It’s not that I didn’t think they could handle the news. It wouldn’t crush them or anything. Kids had been coming and going from our shop since the beginning, and not every story had a happy ending.
My parents had a way of being present for all of them, welcoming them warmly within the confines of the game store, involving themselves in a kid’s life. But that involvement stopped at the door. My parents had decent boundaries. I should have learned better how they did that because mine tended to be way more permeable than theirs were.
Outside the shop, the parking lot held a few cars. There were four bikes locked to the bike rack. The door that usually stuck a little during humid weather opened easily. The bell on the other side jiggled merrily, announcing my arrival.
“Luke,” Mom called from behind the register. “What a treat. Honey? Luke’s here.”
Dad was probably in the back reading, and if so, he wouldn’t hear a jet engine powering up.
“Hey, Mom.” I slipped behind the counter and kissed her cheek. Her wild auburn hair got in my face when she hugged me, and the sweet, powdery, lemon fragrance she wore chased away the odor of smoke and exhaust. The scent of her hair always reminded me of happiness and home.
“What brings you by?” She pulled off her reading glasses. These days, they dangled from a rainbow glitter chain so she wouldn’t lose them. “Not that I won’t take a good thing at face value.”
“Just wanted to touch base. It’s been a while. It’s Tuesday. Want me to get something for dinner?” On Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, my parents kept the shop open until nine. During the week they ate at the tables in the back, leaving the register to a drafted helper for a while.
“We brought leftover meatloaf, and there’s plenty. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?”
“Sure.” Like all red-blooded American boys, I loved my mother’s meatloaf. “Do you have mashies?”
She looked down her nose at me. “Of course.”
“Yum.” She made them with roasted garlic, butter, and cream.
“I’ll just get someone to look after the till.” She motioned to one girl in a knot of young ladies sitting on the floor reading manga, who nodded and stepped behind the counter.
“I’ll give a shout if someone comes in.” The girl waved us away.
Dinnertime was slow at the shop. Things picked up as kids and parents started coming in around seven. I waved my thanks to the girl—I didn’t know anyone by name anymore, but she looked like a hundred others. Long dark hair, thin build, wearing a League of Legends t-shirt.
I worried about my parents sometimes. They were too nice, too trusting. The store didn’t make a ton of money, and they could be robbed blind while they socialized. But because socializing was basically why they owned the shop, they mostly ignored my advice.
They were too young to be hippies and too old to be hanging around playing Magic the Gathering with teens, but it worked for them. They adored the shop and everyone in it, and their affection was contagious.
The life they’d built for themselves made me envious, until I remembered I was a bibliophile who worked in a library.
Their love story… well. That made me envious all the time.
Chapter Eleven
Hope House, Day 32
Brian’s gone. We get drug tested randomly, and he must have been a very bad boy because Dr. Franklin had his parents come get him right away, no second chance, no discussion.
Why would anyone even try to get away with that shit? We all know we piss test at Roberta’s whim, and that woman is fucking psychic.
What makes some people think they can get away with anything? I was like that before, but it wasn’t about getting away with stuff. I had no fucks left to give for the consequences. My next high was gonna take me someplace else.
Dr. Franklin gave me the option of staying here for another sixty days, and I’ve decided to go through with it. Honestly, it was a no-brainer. I’m not ready to go back out there. I have no plans, no job, no future. I’m so fucking depressed some days I can’t even get out of bed except to do chores and go to meetings and finish the homework they make me do. Meds help, but the roller coaster is real.
Dr. Franklin said my brain chemistry has changed, and it could take up to a year before I feel halfway normal. My brain keeps trying to tell me I’ll never feel good again. Dr. Franklin says it’s normal for a brain to fight back when it’s deprived of its favorite thing. Fuck normal. I don’t want to be normal. I want to feel good. At least I don’t have to hide from Brian anymore. Mostly, I sleep whenever I’m not doing something I have to do.
Right now, if someone offered me dope, I’d probably use. Nothing is like H when it hits your bloodstream. The way it travels through your body and hits your brainstem and just… makes everything go away—and not to a farm where I have to take antidepressants to sleep and balance my moods. Not to a place where I have to worry about privileged assfucks like Brian.
I’m not supposed to imagine how H would make me feel anymore. I’m supposed to remember how sick it made me. How weak.
I’m supposed to remember the revolting things I did to get it.
I’m supposed to notice how okay things are without it, write down the things I like, and count my “blessings.”