Nibbling on chips, trying not to dwell on how boxed in I feel, I blow out a deep breath and look for Joe. He sits in the driver’s seat of the RV, reading a book, and occasionally looks up at me through his blond lashes. He jerks his head toward the door with a question on his raised eyebrows. I’m not leaving. He won’t either. No matter what I say, he won’t let me do this without him being some kind of “trip sitter.”
Dad would kill me if he knew what I’m about to do. But hey, I warned him. Skydiving gives me the rush I need. It makes me special and unique in the regular world. Without jumping out of airplanes, I’m . . . average, and average isn’t where I want to be on life’s curve. I’d seriously rather be dead than the walking dead. Besides, this is where it started. I figure if I can come in here and face down my fear, it’ll stop haunting me.
There is a small group of us trying LSD for the first time. Avery’s face is more white than normal, and I wonder why she’s here. It’s one thing if you’re trying to prove something to yourself, a non-thing if you’re trying to prove something to everyone else. I avoid her greedy, attention-seeking eyes. Half the time I don’t know what Avery wants. Our relationship has never been an easy one. The last time we fought, it devolved into petty insults, the kind sisters sling at each other. I told her she was a phony. She laughed and accused me of being a hypocrite. She said she saw through me?—?that I acted like a big hotshot as a cover-up for feeling really small. She said I was the phony. We didn’t talk for a spell. Since then we’ve been peaceful, but I feel prickly as a cactus around her.
The faces of the people in the motor home are not unlike those of a group of first-time jumpers. Masks of excitement overlaid upon fear. Anxiety is exposed by fidgety fingers and increased rates of speech. It shows in the eyes, for sure: a little more rounded than normal, with hollowed pupils that look like newly dug holes.
I’ve become convinced that no one can truly hide their fear.
I pat my own fear on the head. Down, boy.
Mauricio hands each of us a tiny, colorful paper square. “The blotter paper goes under your tongue,” Dom whispers. I tilt my head like duh, but I had no idea. I slip the square in my mouth, wondering if it will dissolve or what. Dom and I take seats at either end of the couch, facing each other, wiggling our bare toes together. He starts video recording on his phone. Joe sits with his book propped up to his nose and tries to pretend he’s not watching me like a bug under glass. I wink and wait to feel abnormal.
Mauricio approaches with a bowl in his hands. It’s full of small folded notepapers. I wonder if I’m supposed to put one in my mouth, but we’re instructed to put them in a pocket. “Read it when you need something to think about,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Sometimes it’s good to have a distraction if you’re wandering down a bad street in your brain.”
“Wait, isn’t LSD supposed to bliss me out?” I ask, stuffing the paper into my pocket.
“Depends.” Mauricio moves on to the next person.
“That’s not an answer. Depends on what?”
Joe leans forward and taps my temple. “Probably on where your head’s at to begin with.”
I don’t reply, because I’m thinking my head hasn’t been Sanity Street and I haven’t confided that to anyone but Joe. I’m already up shit creek. I don’t need to sink my raft by telling everyone that I’m seeing someone who isn’t there.
We’re all sitting around talking and clowning, trying to act normal but watching one another closely like there’s a booby prize for who will be the first to act tweaked. People are tossing around theories about who might have owned this RV. It’s a terrorist plot?—?millions of RVs stored all over America will roll out like a giant bus army and attack us. It was abandoned by a family whose kid was killed by a stranger when they went camping, so they just wanted to walk away from it and the awful memories it holds. Maybe it was owned by a stinking-rich family who just uses stuff, then discards it. Maybe they’ll never come get it, and we can raffle it off in a contest . . .
This is a strange phase where we’re posturing like we’re mellow and lighthearted, yet trying to ignore the zingy bolt of nervous anticipation that’s threading around our bodies. How long does this period go on? It’s hard to tell. The laws of time are rewritten, and I feel like maybe clocks don’t even apply to us right now.
My hand slides over the edge of the couch, and my fingers brush against the Bible I know is there. It’s heavy when I slip it free, like God’s words are weightier than mere mortals’. I suppose they must be. I let the crisp papers flit by, kicking up dust that wrinkles my nose, allowing the book to come to a place where it wants to be opened. It’s always been one of my favorite things to do, let fate decide where to place its finger on a page.
James 5:14–15: Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.