Other Broken Things (3 page)

*  *  *

On my way out I see my American history teacher, Mrs. Hunt. Crap.

“Natalie, you haven't completed any of your outstanding assignments.”

A gaggle of girls passes behind me, whispering, and I'm almost positive I hear the word “lush.” I take a step closer to Mrs. Hunt and drop my voice.

“I don't know if my mom talked to you about where I've been for the last month. But I wasn't exactly in a place to be doing assignments.”

Mrs. Hunt's face is cold and unsympathetic. “Your mom did talk to me. She talked to
all
of us. And I did agree to make an exception to my homework policy for you because of your
medical
issues. But I emailed your assignments to you a few days ago. I assumed I'd have received at least one of your incompletes by now.”

She's a bitch. And has no idea what I'm going through. But I'm not about to let her know she's getting to me. So I smile sweetly and say, “Of course, Mrs. Hunt. I'll have two to you by tomorrow.”

She doesn't return my smile, just nods and heads down the hall.

I slam out the double doors and dig in my bag for my cigarettes, soft leather rubbing against my fingers as I search. We're not allowed to smoke on school property, but the minute I hit the street, I'm lighting up. Most of the smokers hang out in a courtyard by the strip mall, but I'm not friends with any of them and I'm not super interested in chatting at this point.

A car pulls up alongside me on the sidewalk and I peer in. Amy and Amanda. My “friends.”

“Are your parents still making you go to AA?” Amy says, leaning out the window. Her hair is flat-iron perfect, but I can see from her eyes that she's already pretty wasted. This is what we do. What I did. Water bottles full of booze to get us through the day.

“The court is, actually.”

Amanda snorts from beside her. Neither of them should be driving, but that's never stopped us before. Amanda even took her driving test buzzed. We all thought it was hilarious.

“It's not the same without you, Nattie,” Amy says.

I shrug. “My mom talked to all my teachers. They're paying extra attention to me. I can't pull off the stuff I used to.”

And frankly, I'm tired and don't really want to. Being with Amy and Amanda requires too much energy. They're always looking to me for entertainment and it's exhausting. I'm an awesome drunk, but since getting out of rehab, I haven't reached out to them. I've wanted to drink, but not with them. Not with anyone, really.

I never understood the alcoholics who drank alone, but watching Amy and Amanda shove each other and bust into uncontrollable snorts of laughter over nothing makes me totally get it. I want to be alone more than anything right now. The reminder of Brent's fingers and his mouth on my neck and the look on his face and the
We should talk
, it's pinging around inside my brain and all I can think about is making it go away. And not with the likes of Amy and Amanda.

“I gotta go,” I say, and smash my cigarette butt on the ground. I consider picking it up, but that's stupid. Frickin' Joe.

I turn to leave and Amy calls out, “When are you done with it all? When do we get you back?”

I shrug and don't say what I'm thinking, which is:
I don't want to go back to either of you.

*  *  *

When I get home Mom is in the midst of a cookie-baking frenzy. The kitchen is covered in racks of cookies and cookie tins. Her short blond hair is sticking straight up like she hasn't even had the chance to shower. Which, no way, nothing would keep Mom from showering. What if someone were to drop by?

I grab three of those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's kiss on top and beeline for my room. If I spend any more time in the kitchen, I'll wolf down at least a dozen of them. I'm not so great with the stopping mechanism. But I've got other plans. I have twenty minutes until I have to leave for the afternoon AA meeting and that's probably just enough time.

I lock myself in the bathroom in the hallway and pull open the medicine cabinets. Downstairs I hear Christmas music piping into all the rooms. God love techie Dad and his plan to create the perfect home for entertaining. I set aside boxes of tampons and Ace bandages until I finally find the bottle I'm looking for.

Tylenol with codeine. Thank Christ for getting my wisdom teeth out a year ago and leaving half the bottle intact. I probably would've hit this way sooner, but it's been so easy to get booze or pot from people at school. Now I don't want to bother with the hassle of that. I just need numbness for a little while. I don't have the first clue how much of this will do the trick, but after the day I've had, I'm going toe up.

I finish the bottle in three long swigs and chase it down with a glass of water and a thorough teeth brushing. By the time Mom calls me down to leave for the meeting, I'm already feeling the effects. I hold myself as steady as I can and walk downstairs slowly. Concern is etched on her face.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. “Exhausted. There's a lot to catch up on at school. Don't really have time for this meeting.”

Her mouth pinches. “You're going. Not negotiable. If you need more time to catch up at school, I'll talk to your teachers again.”

I wave my hand. My fingers feel swollen and fat, like they used to when I'd bare fist on the punching bag. “Not necessary.” It might be necessary, but I'm not quite lucid enough to discuss it at this time.

I pull my coat, the knit scarf, and a hat on and examine myself in the hall mirror. Tylenol aside, I look better than I have in a while. Over the past year, I'd gotten really thin and not in a smoking-hot way, more in a chemo patient way. I'd lost all my muscle tone. My therapist in rehab said it was the booze, though it could've been not entering the gym for months. I blink slowly. My cheeks are a bit flushed and I could probably retouch my makeup, but my limbs feel like they're moving through sludge so I leave it.

I follow Mom into the garage, concentrating very hard on my steps, one foot in front of the other. So hard that I don't even notice my car is parked there. Fixed.

Mom beams at me. “Early Christmas present. We know how hard you've been working the program. So we got it fixed. And the Breathalyzer is hooked up. Dad did it. It was almost like one of his tech projects.”

I snort. “Almost.”

The garage is starting to spin and I brace myself against the door of Mom's Lexus.

“You can drive yourself today,” she says.

I yawn. “If you don't mind and it doesn't mess up your cookie schedule, I'd like you to drive. I'm pretty tired and I don't want to fall asleep at the wheel.”

Her gaze narrows for just a second and I steel my face into an expressionless mask. She won't ask, I'm almost positive. She hasn't asked about anything, not since the hospital, and even then, it was all vague inquiries as to how I was feeling. Old habits die hard. She smiles at me, pure plastic, and locks down any questions she might have. “I don't mind taking you. We can listen to Christmas music in the car.”

Fucking perfect.

Shit. Damn it to hell.
Joe's at the meeting. An afternoon meeting. I thought he was a noon-on-Saturday guy. He's been sober three years. Why does he hit up more than one meeting a week? Jesus fucking Christ, I don't need this.

I slink to the back of the room when I enter, dropping myself into the same chair the Hispanic guy sat in during the first meeting. I shut my eyes for less than a minute, or three, and feel a body slide in right next to me. I don't even need to crack an eye to know it's Joe. He smells like Parliaments.

“What are you on?” he asks in a low voice.

I peel my lids open and blink at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head. “Your speech is too clear for you to be drunk. What'd you take?”

“Nothing. Fuck off.”

He leans in. “Tell me what you took or I'll tell Blake over there not to sign your card.”

Crap. I got a Boy Scout on my back now. Spectacular. “Tylenol. I had a headache.”

He shakes his head and stands up, taking a step toward Blake, who is apparently in charge of the four o'clock Wednesday meetings. I grab Joe's hand and pull him back down.

“It might've had some codeine in it.”

“Jesus, Natalie. What are you doing to yourself?”

I'm too fuzzy to get into this with him, so I decide on “Not sure why this is your business.”

He swears under his breath and settles in next to me as Blake starts the meeting. Every time I start to feel myself dozing off, Joe elbows me in the ribs. Today's meeting requires each of us to read aloud from the
Big Book
, but the words are way too blurry for me. I try to pull the “I'm just going to listen today” line, but it sounds dumb because it's not like I've been asked to share my own words, just Bill W.'s.

“Natalie can't read,” Joe says.

I shoot half-assed daggers at him with my eyes, but he lifts a shoulder and reads my part for me. When the book has gone around the room and Blake has given everyone a chance to comment—there are only two other people in the room besides us, a woman who looks like a soccer mom and one of the black dudes who isn't Calvin—we circle up, hold hands, and recite the Lord's Prayer again. Joe's hand feels rough and my fingers tingle at the touch. Tylenol with codeine is pretty awesome, as it turns out.

Joe drops my hand before we even finish saying “It works if you work it . . . sober” and steers me back into the corner. I pull out my court card to give to Blake, but Joe snatches it and tells Blake he'll take care of it. When the room completely clears, I turn on him.

“You better sign that. I need it or I'll have to do more community service.”

“What community service are you doing?”

I look at my feet. They're kind of swirly and distracting and I forget Joe's question until he tips my chin up with his two fingers and repeats himself.

“Oh. I thought I'd volunteer to wrap presents at the bookstore. The proceeds go to this children's literacy thing.”

He shakes his head. “No. You're not wrapping presents. That's rich-people community service.”

“Fuck off. I can do any kind of community service I want.”

He sighs. “Jesus. No wonder you're such a mess. Do you always get what you want?”

“That's legit community service.”

Joe's eyes are dark brown, which is weird because his hair is blond. His eyes are pretty, I think, and his lashes are super long, and I sort of wonder how old he is. He has wrinkles, but not like my dad.

“What are you looking at?” he says. Crap. Okay, Tylenol with codeine is maybe not so awesome.

“How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

I stick my tongue out and he actually laughs at me. “Seriously, Joe. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Dude. That's old. That's like me. Times two. Plus . . . four.”

He snorts. “Good math, tiger. Now, just so you know, the judge isn't going to let you get away with wrapping presents as community service. Trust me on this one. I tried every BS trick in the book. They're not forgiving on DUIs.”

Huh. So it's not quite the same as our school service project then. Those are so bullshit that last year one of the kids passed out flyers for his dad's photography studio and the school counted it as community service.

“What do you suggest?”

“Work the pancake breakfasts here on Sundays.”

I squinch my face up. “I don't think so. This place smells and I can only imagine what it's like when you add pancakes and bacon to that mix.”

“Such a princess.”

“Bite me.”

“Natalie . . . ,” he starts, and I can already hear the paternalistic concern. Which, no.

“What are you even doing here, Joe? You're
sober
. For three frickin' years. Surely you've memorized the steps by now. Gotten right with the Lord. Given it up to your higher power. Taken your fearless moral inventory and laid all your shit bare to some other poor soul.”

“Well, look at that, haven't had so much codeine that you can't mouth off still.”

“Honestly. What do you want?” The room is getting clearer now and I'm kind of pissed at how much Joe is interfering with my buzz. I have an uncontrollable urge to uppercut him, but my hands don't want to make fists quite yet.

“You're a brat. You don't know the first thing about this program. Plus you showed up here high. I'm not signing your card.”

I snatch it from him and move to leave. I don't need this crap. I'll have to go to the six thirty a.m. meeting tomorrow to make up for it, but whatever. I'm done listening to Joe.

“Natalie,” he calls as I stomp out.

“What?” I glare and almost expect him to laugh in my face, but instead his gaze softens.

“You think I haven't been there? You think I haven't done everything I could to make it all go away? Tylenol with codeine? That's nothing. Try nail polish remover. There's alcohol in that, you know. Cough syrup. Mouth wash. Windex, for Christ's sake. You think you're badass. You're what, seventeen? You have no idea how low you can sink from this disease. You're lucky you caught it so early.”

I'm stunned silent. I can't imagine. Windex? Surely that could kill you.

“I'm not your problem,” I whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. Still.” He approaches me slowly, tugging his wallet from his back pocket. He slips out a card. “That's me. Cell phone's on the back. Call if you need help. There's a woman's group at St. Paul's Church on Friday nights. You can probably find a sponsor there. Until then, call me if you start thinking Tylenol's a good idea again.”