Part 12 (1/2)

”She doesn't get high because of you. The girl gets high because it's one of her very few defenses against a world that has shown her nothing but pain, and she's frightened to let it go. Just as she uses her anger as a s.h.i.+eld, she wraps herself in a world where no one can hurt her again.” Robin narrowed her eyes at me. ”Do you understand? Sometimes we are all victims of our natural instinct to avoid pain and suffering. She's cutting it off at the pa.s.s. A pre-emptive strike, if you will.”

I made up my mind right there. I was going to help her let it go. I was going to fill her time with figuring things out with me, as an alternative to doing drugs. I was going to dedicate myself to saving her from my mother's fate. Sophie didn't need drugs to cope. I could help her.

She wasn't a fictional girl. Sophie was real and she meant more to me than anything else in my life. This battle, like the battle to get her to admit she'd been abused by her mother, was going to be one of those defining battles of a long war. The war was to save Sophie. And each little battle won would pave the way to lasting victory.

Even if we'd never be anything more than friends, even if she didn't want to be my friend anymore, I was going to save her. She was worth it.

I hadn't had s.e.x in nine days and it was about killing me.

All I could feel throughout the day was the delicious leftover sensation of Elliott's body underneath me. But he c.o.c.k-blocked himself. What guy does that?

I hadn't meant to get so high, but I'd snorted a line before lunch, and then smoked pot with Jason. That brought down my cocaine high, so I snorted a little more before going into the greenhouse.

Well, I snorted a lot more.

I ended up in the library and not Reese's cla.s.s. It was quiet in there and I found a little spot that was comfortable.

Suddenly there was Elliott and he was comfortable and felt really, really nice, but then he said something about a nurse and it didn't matter how nice he felt, I had to get away because I was afraid my mother would find out.

Of course, it was the cocaine that had me paranoid because logically, my mother wouldn't find out, and even if she did, it's not like she could do anything about it now. Besides, I'd been away from her so long, I didn't have any fresh marks.

Elliott listened to me and instead I wound up smoking enough pot behind his car to stop freaking the h.e.l.l out. Then we went to his house where I laid on his couch until Dr. Dalton knocked on his door to let him know that Wallace wanted to see him.

Dr. Dalton invited me downstairs so that he could take my blood pressure, blood sugar, and whatever the h.e.l.l else he thought about taking. He mentioned that Elliott told him I hadn't been feeling well.

I was definitely cras.h.i.+ng now, so I sat in the Dalton kitchen and let him stick my finger with a lancet and put a cuff around my upper arm while kids started filing in now that school was out.

”Your father mentioned you got a job at the grocery store.”

”Yeah.”

”Have you started?” He placed a drop of blood on the meter and waited for both the machine and me to respond.

”Yeah. Wednesday. Lots of training videos and papers to sign.” I felt like a lump. A tired lump that needed to sleep.

The meter beeped. ”Your blood sugar is elevated. Is that normal with the amount of insulin you take?”

I thought for a moment, my brain sluggish. ”I've been a little low lately, but...” He quirked his eyebrow as he waited for me. ”I can't remember if I took my insulin today or not,” I admitted.

”Does that happen a lot?”

I shook my head, wis.h.i.+ng that I hadn't said anything. ”Not usually.” I'd done a b.u.mp of c.o.ke around four this morning, so I must've missed it.

”Do you feel like your diabetes is being properly managed?”

”Sure.”

As he gave me insulin, I knew he had a million doctor questions that he'd keep asking to keep me occupied until Dr. Wallace wanted me, so I took an offensive distracting measure.

”How did you know to give Elliott a guitar?”

Dr. Dalton looked surprised. ”What do you mean?”

”He said you got him a guitar even though he'd never played, so how did you know he was going to be good at it?”

”I didn't.” His voice was low as he took in the other Screw-Up Club members milling around.

”Elliott used to bite his hands.” He frowned, his expression clouding a bit. ”Not just his fingernails. He would just bite down on the meat of his hands until he drew blood, and even then sometimes he wouldn't stop.” Dr. Dalton paused and pulled off the blood pressure cuff from my arm. ”It was clear that he did it when he was upset or particularly stressed. His hands had gotten so mangled I wondered how he could use them in his day-to-day activities.”

He backed up and crossed his arms over his chest as he got a faraway look in his eyes. ”So I bought him a guitar as a more peaceful, less painful way to channel his frustration. I lucked out because not only did it work in occupying his hands and helping with his stress and anxiety levels, he was really gifted. It has become a source of peace to him, and it seems to be a preventative measure. He can use it to help stop himself from becoming more anxious.”

d.a.m.n. It was hard to imagine Elliott even more on edge than he was now. I did my best to put that information to the side. I didn't want to think about Elliott's hands all b.l.o.o.d.y and torn up. I didn't want to imagine him being the one who did that to himself. Why would the beautiful boy upstairs do something like that?

”Let's talk, Sophie.”

I didn't have the energy to do anything but roll my eyes. ”I thought that was mandatory.”

Wallace smiled at me. ”Talking isn't mandatory, but it is helpful. We can write if you prefer, or use sign language. Or since you're a photographer, we can use pictures.”

”Are you f.u.c.king with me?” Was she saying that I was stupid?

My mind was like sludge and it did not appreciate this wicked come-down. I'd been too high at school today. Absolutely insanely high. That was something even I knew I shouldn't do again, but I was pretty sure I would anyway.

The more and more bad thoughts I had, the more and more s.h.i.+t I did. And the messed-up part was that I knew I didn't need any more after that first b.u.mp this morning, but I just wasn't high enough.

”I'm serious, Sophie.” I put my focus back on Wallace, trying to remember what the h.e.l.l we were talking about. ”Not everyone can verbalize, especially when they've been trained not to.”

”Trained?” I asked, avoiding her gaze. I wasn't high enough for this s.h.i.+t. I didn't have enough energy to get angry, since I was nothing more than a Sophie-shaped puddle of mud, flowing so slowly that I forgot what the beginning of my own internal chatter was about.

”Yes, trained. Being shown or told over and over until it's ingrained.”

”I know what the word 'train' means.”

She waited a moment before speaking again. ”I know you do.” She uncapped her bottle of water and took a sip. ”I'd like to see some of your photos some time.”

”Yeah.” She'd said that s.h.i.+t before.

”Have you given any thought to our discussion from last week?”

Sighing heavily, I said, ”I haven't screwed anyone in forever.” I ran my hands through my hair, knowing that it hadn't been all that long, but it felt like it.

”Has that been difficult for you?”

I could have lied to her, or said nothing. ”Yes,” I admitted. I wasn't quite sure when I'd made the decision to talk to her about this s.h.i.+t, but here I was just handing out information about myself.

”Why do you enjoy s.e.x?”

”Seriously?”

”Seriously.”