Monday, March 25, 11:30 p.m.
Fuck that bitch, I thought, as I snorted a line off my hand in a bathroom stall as Jack? James? Jake? Whatever the fuck his name was was giving me very mediocre head. But I couldn't really justify my fuck that bitch and all the drugs and the orgasms in the world couldn't erase the fact that I had literally just sold my best friend for drugs. She had come up here to help me start this dance company that felt like it was failing even before it began, and here I was, ruining her fucking life. I was well aware that I was the fucking bitch in this situation. Not Isabelle. Not even Simone. Simone was just . . . actually I wasn't sure what her game was. Was she still in love with Isabelle? Or was she on some sort of psycho post-prison drug-fueled revenge mission? That last thought made me thrust my hips into this boy whatever-his-name-was's mouth and hope he was at least legal, and that I wasn't adding him to the list of human beings I had irreparably fucked up in the past 12 hours.
