Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Nineteen,” he says.
“Christ,” I groan. They’ve decided to make me a goddamn babysitter. That has to be one of their most stupid ideas yet.
“I got sent here because I stole a car, sold it for parts, and then used the money to buy stuff.”
I don’t need to ask what stuff he’s talking about. There’re only three things guys like him buy: alcohol, drugs, and video games. Well, four things, I guess.
“Whose car?”
“My stepdad’s.”
“Gotcha.”
“Yeah. He’s pissed. He let them charge me. Judge said I could do this or go to jail. So I chose this.”
“Good call, buddy,” I say, sitting up slowly. “What time is it?”
“Almost dinner time. They’re having tacos tonight.” He bounces his foot on the floor repeatedly. “You want to go now?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I want to go now.”
I get up and pad through the halls in socked feet. Not really supposed to do that. Supposed to wear the plastic slides that flop loudly with every step, but then again I have never much been one for the rules.
“What’s your name?” I ask the kid.
“Mark,” he says.
“I’m Luke,” I introduce myself as we line up with red plastic trays, and dinner ladies put two tacos on our plates, and then a cup of chocolate pudding to the side. The woman behind the counter looks at Mark and puts a second pudding on his tray. That’s sweet. She has motherly energy.
The dining hall is all eyes on me. That’s how it is in places like this. Everyone’s an anonymous celebrity for an hour or two at least. I keep my head down, and Mark and I take a seat at a spare table. The kid’s already decided to stick himself to me.
I take a few bites of institutional tacos. We can have anything we want at home. I could have tacos flown from Mexico if I wanted. But there’s something about tacos made this way, in a metal pan, with slightly stale shells and the wrong kind of cheese that’s kind of comforting.
Hell, maybe I did need rehab. I’m starting to feel more like myself in spite of the fact I haven’t been on drugs whatsoever. I’m clean, and I intend to stay that way.
“What are you in for?” Mark asks, his voice cracking a little with nervousness as he risks asking me a question I might take offense at.
“Bad decisions,” I tell him. I’m not going to get into any details with him, obviously. But it’s good to be friends with your roommate. Means they can cover for me when necessary. And it’s going to be necessary.
And then the cozy little charade is broken by the guy who needs to feel in control of everything all the time. Him and Aiden should get together. Aiden would fucking destroy him.
“Piss test,” Clipboard says, putting a cup down on my tray. I know intellectually it’s clean, but it agitates me that he’s interrupting a meal with that demand.
That’s going to be interesting. I’m going to test clean. And that’s going to make them think I am cheating somehow.
I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess.
“You know where to leave it,” he says. “At the nurse’s station,” he adds, in case he’s wrong.
I finish my tacos, eat the pudding, then I go and take a piss in the cup.
I drop it at the nurse’s station, then head to the common room. The television is on there. Cartoons.
I settle into an armchair and watch while a small carousel of humanity slides around me.
I could be comfortable here, in a place like this. Everything taken care of, meals provided, no real responsibility besides to yourself. It’s a place out of time, and it lulls me into a false sense of both security and indifference.
“Alright,” Clipboard says. “Think you’re funny, do you?”
I brace myself for a very stupid conversation with a very stupid man.
I just look at him. Across the room, I can see a couple of orderlies getting ready to intervene. I have a reputation. As I see it, I’ve got a few options. We can have this stupid fucking argument where he accuses me of somehow conjuring piss, and there’s a strip search and maybe they take blood, or I can cause enough of a distraction that they forget about the clean test. I go with the latter route.
I punch him.
Clipboard goes down like a sack of excrement, and I am jumped by the orderlies.
“Sedate him!”
I fight them as hard as I can, or at least, I seem to. Until there’s another one of those pricks and the world starts to swim again, and then once more I’m waking up to being a captive in a pastel room.
I sit up on the bed and put my head in my hands. My shoulders shake.
Anybody watching will think that I am crying, but the truth is I am holding back laughter. Being an addict is like being poor, or being badly dressed. It makes people look at you through just one lens. You get reduced to the addiction. And that means nobody knows that I did this to get the hell out from under Aiden’s thumb, because I have some work to do.