I dial the code and listen:
“Mim, it’s . . .” Throat clear. “It’s me. I mean, it’s Dad.” Sigh. “Mim, where are you? We’re all sort of freaked here.” Short pause. “Principal Schwartz says you’ve been skipping school. If you’re worried we’re mad, we’re . . .” Long pause. In the background, I hear Kathy say something. Dad responds. He must have covered the phone, because I can’t make out any of it. “Listen,” he says, sighing again. “About the other night. I hate the way that conversation ended. You have to understand, no matter what happened between me and your mom, I’ll—”
I snap the phone shut. If Dad wants to discuss the BREAKING NEWS, he’s gonna have to find me first. Though I wouldn’t put it past Kathy to call the cops, which could seriously complicate things. Maybe if I just let them know I’m okay, without telling them what I’m doing . . .
I think through the phrasing first, then open the Internet browser on my phone. The thing is ancient, and while Wi-Fi is possible, it certainly isn’t cheap. Though right now, that only serves as extra incentive. After a few seconds, I’m connected. I open my Facebook profile and update my status: “Not dead. Not abducted. (Though aliens are, as always, welcome.) You’ll hear from me when you hear from me.”
I reread the wording a few times, press Post, then chuck the phone in my bag. After a quick shower, I pull on a clean tee and underwear, cursing myself for not bringing another pair of pants. I slip on the same hoodie and bloodstained jeans, then take a closer look at Arlene’s box. The brass lock, the reddish wood, all of it is in fine condition, wholly unaffected by the crash. I have no idea why I picked it up, except . . . leaving it there, in the middle of everything, just didn’t seem right. It obviously meant a lot to Arlene, but it’s not like I can get it to her nephew, the preposterous swimmer turned successful gas station operator Ahab. I don’t even know the guy’s last name. Or Arlene’s, for that matter.
Pushing back the Arlene-shaped knot in my throat, I tuck the box away and pull out my bottle of Abilitol. Like a Siren, it tempts me with whispered promises of the ever-elusive Normal Life. If I were home right now, this would be Dad’s shining moment, the one in which he eagerly explains the pill’s function. He always used the same tone when he talked meds, a slick salesman-slash-drug-dealer-slash-nerdy-dad combo. “It balances the serotonin levels, Mim. It’ll adjust your brain chemicals. Dopamine and that sort of thing. It just evens everything out so you can live a normal life.” I always expected him to end those speeches with “Everybody’s doin’ it, man!” Peer pressure is one thing, but when your dad’s the pusher, it’s something else entirely.
The bottle stares up at me now as only a bottle of prescription meds can do, redefining the art of seduction. I stare right back . . .
Mary Malone—Aripapilazone
10MG—TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH DAILY
Refills: No
Qty: 45
Dr. B. Wilson
And the memories tumble: Antoine knocks over ink splotches, knocks over Bach, knocks over Tell me what you see here, Mary, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .
I tip a single pink pill into my palm and hold it up to my good eye. Small. Strong. Tempting. “One ring to rule them all,” I whisper, immediately regretting it. Sometimes, things are more embarrassing when you’re alone. I guess when no one’s around to hear your stupidity, you’re forced to bear the brunt of it.
I grab my new pair of shears from the dresser, and, in the spirit of Utopian mutiny, cut the pill in half. I’d expected the thing to shatter, but it doesn’t. It’s a clean cut, right down the middle. I grab my water bottle, swallow one half of the pill, and toss the other in the trash.
All packed up, I sit by the window and pull my mother’s sixth letter from my pocket. Softened by sweat and rain, the ink is faded a bit, though not beyond recognition.
Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.
Back on the bus, I’d been too worked up to notice the missing apostrophe. I picture Mom writing this, impetuous and angry. She’d have to be to make this kind of— The phone rings.
I look at the receiver.
It rings again.
And again.
Surely not. I cross the room and pull the phone from its cradle, daring this to be the call I think it is. “Hello?”
“Yez, hi—dis ees your vake-up coll.”
Click.
There are times when I absolutely, 110 percent, without a doubt, have to laugh at a thing. ’Cause if I don’t, that same thing will make me go stark-raving bananas.
I hang up the phone and laugh until I cry.
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