Recovery Road (8 page)

T
he night Stewart is released from Spring Meadow, I go for a long walk around my neighborhood. I picture Stewart waiting at the Carlton Greyhound station. I imagine him getting on the bus, settling into a seat, watching out the window, the long ride to his mom’s house in Centralia.

I walk down our street, past the little playground by the park. I think about other boys I’ve liked over the years. Craig Lessing, from fourth grade. Ryan Jones, in junior high, who used to sell pot behind the bowling alley. Rex Hemple, the guy I lost my virginity to in a nearby field after we drank a fifth of his father’s best whiskey.

I remember that night especially, stumbling up the street, still drunk, my clothes askew, my body not quite my own. And other nights from the Mad Dog era: getting dropped off by older boys in cars full of throbbing beats and dope smoke. Or being dumped at the bottom of the hill by pissed-off girlfriends. Or being released into my parents’ custody by the always helpful officers of the West Linn Police Department.

Tonight, though, the neighborhood is perfectly calm, perfectly quiet. I can clear my mind of everything but the image of Stewart and our future together. Whatever happens, he will always be the first boy I truly gave my heart to. Which makes him a caretaker, a holder of something. He holds me. I am his in a way he probably isn’t even aware of.

And a good thing too. Boys shouldn’t know what power they have. They would panic probably, or just mess things up. But boys are who you give yourself to. Not your parents, or your teachers, or your “future.” You give yourself to a boy.

And then you go for long walks at night and think about them and wonder what they will do to you in the end.

F
riday is the day.

I wake up early, take a long shower, dress carefully in an outfit I have been planning for weeks.

I go to school. I go to my morning classes. At lunch, I sit in the library and eat my carrots.

I go to my afternoon classes. The teachers teach. The students listen. I hear nothing, see nothing.

When school gets out, I walk the three blocks to the MAX train station and ride it downtown. I walk to the big Central Library where I’m meeting Stewart at five.

I’m wearing my favorite skirt, leggings, a cinched vintage raincoat, sunglasses. I remain in a trance until I see the actual library. That’s when my heart starts to race, my palms begin to sweat. But I must remain calm. No schoolgirl-crush behavior. I have to be worthy of Stewart.

I walk up the stone steps and sit on the bench outside. Though it is still February, there is a hint of spring in the air. Birds chirp in the trees. A row of purple flowers are trying to bloom along the sides of the building.

Library-type people walk up the stone steps. I watch a college girl getting signatures for Greenpeace. A man with a briefcase strides up the steps with purpose.

For a moment, I have trouble imagining Stewart in this scene. It’s hard to imagine him in any part of normal life. He’s too cool, too larger than life.

But then he appears. He comes striding down the street and I am shocked — like I always seem to be — by how young and carefree and innocent he appears.

Whatever plan I had, whatever dignified welcome-home speech I had prepared, is completely forgotten once he’s in sight. I leap up and run toward him. He sees me and his face lights up. I race down the steps and throw myself into his arms, as onlookers make way, grinning to themselves.

“Hey, you,” he says, lifting me off my feet.

I cannot speak.
Stewart, my love, my Lost Prince.
I hug him so long and hard my arms start to hurt. And even then, I stay like that for as long as he’ll let me.

W
e head toward the center of town. The sun is coming out a little. I smile at people on the street. I am so happy.

We stop at a Starbucks and I order us both hot chocolates, even though I think Stewart wants a normal coffee.

“Tough,” I tell him. “You’re having hot chocolate and I’m buying.”

Stewart grumbles and finds us a table. He’s being his awkward, adorable self. A foursome of high school girls totally stop talking to gawk at how gorgeous he is.

I ignore this. I bring the hot chocolate and give him his and sit.

For a moment we don’t speak. We just grin at each other.

“So what’s it like, out here in the real world?” he asks me finally.

“It sucks,” I say. “But it just got a whole lot better.”

He smiles into his cup.

We talk about stuff. His living situation. The weirdness of high school. I tell him about Trish and our day at the hospital.

At one point, he looks at my finger. He sees the ring. I see that he sees it and I smile bashfully.

I don’t say anything, though.

After Starbucks, we walk around downtown. We watch some kids skateboarding. We eat some Chinese spring rolls from a trailer. We sit on a park bench and I lean against him, holding his arm, doing nothing, basically, just getting to know each other again.

When it gets dark, Stewart suggests we go to a movie. I feel like our time is too precious for that, but if that’s what he wants…

It’ll be like movie night, I think.

We go inside and get tickets. This is a real theater, though. It costs twelve bucks a ticket. Popcorn costs six dollars. I pay.

We sit and watch the previews. I cuddle up next to Stewart as best as I can, but it’s hard because the seats are stiff and plastic and there’s cup holders in the way and headrests on the seats in front of you so you can’t put your feet up.

“I haven’t been to a movie since I went with you,” I tell Stewart.

“Yeah?” he says.

“This guy wanted to go, but I wouldn’t.”

“Huh.”

“He was just a friend. Not a guy guy. Just this boy from school who I got stuck with one night.”

Stewart doesn’t say anything. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. That was stupid.

The movie starts. I barely watch it. I just try to snuggle up with Stewart as much as I can. I take deep sniffs of him, I can’t really help it.

He pats me on the head like I’m a love-starved puppy. Which is pretty much what I am.

When we leave the theater, the streets are quiet and the air is cold and still. I slip my hand around Stewart’s elbow. I want to walk him back to the bus station, but since it’s ten o’clock, he wants to put me on the MAX train and get me home to my parents.

“You’re in high school,” he says, teasing me. “You have homework.”

I let him walk me to the MAX station and the minute we get there, the train comes. I refuse to leave until he gives me a real kiss good-bye, so he does and it’s heavenly. But it’s weird too, in some way. I don’t know how to describe it. There’s a reserve on his end. Like he’s scared of me, or he thinks I’m too young. I can’t tell what it is.

The love-starved puppy thing. Maybe he doesn’t like that. Or the fact that I’ve paid for everything.

When the next train pulls up, it’s 10:30 and he insists I go. I refuse. So he picks me up and carries me onto it. He puts me down in a seat and then dashes out just as the doors are closing. I immediately run to the window and press my forehead against the glass and stare at him.

I still have his ring. I point at it, through the glass.

He grins and gestures not to worry. I blow him a kiss. He waves good-bye.

The train starts to move and I stare at him, watching him as long as I can. Then he is gone and I collapse in my seat.

I feel so happy I can barely stand it. I feel so happy I want to get high. For half a second I wonder if Jeff Weed is still downtown. Could I call Jake? Or Raj?

But then I remember who I am, what I am, what my situation is.

No,
I tell myself.
I cannot.

T
he next day at lunch, Martin Farris is waiting for me in the library for some reason. He is sitting at our usual table.

Martins got a big Taco Bell bag in front of him.

“What’s that?”

“That’s our lunch,” he says. “I have an idea.”

“What’s your idea?”

“That you come eat this with me in the cafeteria.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you can’t hide in the library every lunch period for the rest of your life.”

I look at him. “Don’t do this, Martin.”

“What?” he says. “You think it’s a good idea to never go into the cafeteria again?”

“It’s none of your business. Who cares if I go or not?”

“I do,” he says confidently. “It bugs me that you won’t eat in the cafeteria. It’s not right.”

“It’s not your problem,” I say.

“Who are you so afraid of that you can’t go in there?”

I glance up at him for a moment. “Trust me, there’s nobody in this high school that I’m afraid of.”

“Then why won’t you eat where everyone else eats?”

I have no response to these arguments and so, to shut him up, I follow him into the cafeteria.

When we first walk in I see immediately that I was right to avoid this place. It is loud and awful and full of shrieking children. We walk by a table that includes Emily Brantley and some of her crew. She sees me and says something and immediately all her friends start laughing.

Thanks, Martin.

Oh yeah, and another thing. I’m with
Martin Farris
. That helps a lot. To finally show my face in public with one of the biggest geeks in the school. This is
such
a great idea.

But then we sit and nothing particularly bad happens. Martin patiently opens the Taco Bell bag. He hands me a burrito. He takes one himself. He opens his and takes a bite. “Eat,” he commands.

I’m still sort of looking around at the other people. But I do as I’m told. I take a bite. The burrito is pretty good. I take another bite. The weird panic in my chest settles down. And nobody really notices me anyway because I’ve barely even gone to this school if you think about it. The worst of “Mad Dog Maddie” was over a year ago. Nobody remembers. Nobody cares.

And then I find myself watching the other students: infant-sized freshmen, an artistic-looking girl with round glasses, a little gang of long-haired sophomore skater boys who are totally cute.

So as people-watching goes, it’s okay. Not the greatest. But not the worst either.

A
fter school, Emily Brantley catches me in the parking lot. I’m calling my mom to pick me up and Emily swings in front of me in her black Saab.

“Hey, Rehab Girl, wanna ride?” she calls out. She’s wearing a Hurley baseball cap that once belonged to Raj.

“No, thanks. My mom is coming.”

“Call her back,” she says. “Tell her you got a ride. I need to ask you something.”

I don’t know what Emily wants with me. But I’m a little curious to find out. Also, my mom has a cooking class and won’t be here for a half hour.

I get in the car with Emily. She takes off, flying over the speed bumps and then rocketing out of the parking lot. “Wanna get a slice of pizza?” she says.

“Not really,” I say, hanging on for dear life.

“I do. Do you mind?”

“I guess not.”

We bounce into the parking lot of Hot Lips Pizza down the street. There are other people from Evergreen there. Emily Brantley is notorious at our high school for partying, for being
hot, and for hooking up with people. So the other kids take notice when we walk in.

Emily gets a slice of pepperoni and we sit in the prized corner booth that miraculously opens up as soon as we need it.

Emily slides in and takes a big bite of her pizza.

“So,” she says.

“So what?” I ask, sitting there, watching her.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine, Emily. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“No, actually. Why are you being so touchy?”

“Maybe because you and your friends were laughing at me today in the cafeteria?”

“What are you talking about? We weren’t laughing at you. Don’t be so paranoid.”

It occurs to me that I’m not actually sure they were laughing at me.

“I wanted to ask you something,” says Emily. “About my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I do. She’s a freshman. And she’s having problems.”

I wasn’t expecting this. “I’m hardly the person to talk to about that,” I say, watching a gang of Evergreen boys huddled around an arcade game.

“It’s not school problems she’s having. It’s party problems. She’s a party girl. And not in a good way. She got so drunk last weekend she passed out in Raleigh Park. The police found her.”

That’s weird. The first time I ever got really drunk, I passed out in Raleigh Park. And the police found me.

“My parents are freaking out. Obviously. Other people are like, she’s fine, she just doesn’t know how to drink. But she
does
know how to drink. That’s what’s so scary. She could drink you or me under the table.”

I doubt that, but I say nothing.

“She hangs out with Bryce Handler. That’s another problem. She’s totally hot. She gets whatever she wants. Especially from guys.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ashley. I doubt you know her. She’s making a name for herself, though. That’s for sure.” Emily leans a little closer. “People think I’m bad? She’s like me
times ten
.”

“That’s a lot,” I say.

Emily takes a bite of her pizza. “I just thought you might have some advice.”

“You could send her to rehab,” I offer. “There was a girl at my place who was fifteen.”

“I think my parents want to send her to one of those boot camp things. Tough love, or whatever. Are those better, do you think?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “None of it works, unless the person wants to change.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell my mother. Ashley isn’t exactly at that stage. The thing about her is, she’ll do whatever will piss the most people off. She’s kind of a drama person.”

“Aren’t we all,” I say. “Aren’t we all.”

I
haven’t heard from Trish since the hospital, and then she calls. She just wants to say hi, see how I’m doing. I’m fine, I tell her. She scared me pretty good at the hospital, but I have to admit, it’s a relief to hear her voice.

We talk about random things. She’s been looking for guys online. She meets them in coffee shops. She tried to sign up for eHarmony but they rejected her because of her lack of Christian values “and basically because I’m a total whore,” she tells me.

She makes it all into a big joke, how pathetic she is, how nobody wants her, except bald forty-year-old guys who are married.…

She doesn’t sound good.

So I agree to go shopping with her, and on Friday we go to Nordstrom downtown. This doesn’t make me feel any better about her mental state. She buys these bizarre shoes that cost too much and then buys a bunch of cheesy lingerie. Then, as we’re leaving, she can’t find her wallet, which is no surprise, since she’s totally crazed when she’s shopping and pays no attention to anything.

We have to go back to the counter where she paid, but the saleslady doesn’t have it. So then we go into the dressing room to see if it fell out there but we can’t find it. So then we report it to the manager and make a big scene and it becomes this big search for the missing wallet. The whole Nordstrom staff is looking for it and then Trish suddenly gets all panicked and I have to hustle her away.

We go to Metro Café, and I get us tea and we sit at the big table in the back. I try to calm her down by going through all the crap she bought. That’s when I find her wallet in the bottom of one of her shopping bags. I throw it onto the table in front of her and she starts laughing like a crazy person.

All of which freaks me out. And the really scary thing is: She’s still pretty much my best friend.

What that says about me, I do not know.