Paper Stars

11

Charlotte Hollins
Before---4 years ago
East Hills High School, Junior Year
December
Lizzy and I head over to her trashy apartment. She and her boyfriend, James, live in the shitty side of East Hills. The apartment has ripped wallpaper and water stained ceilings, with carpet that smells like cigarette smoke. There's a broken and musty couch in the middle of the living room, and empty Chinese takeout boxes litter the floor among the empty pizza boxes and McDonald's bags.
"James isn't home?" I ask.
Lizzy picks a box of cigarettes up off the couch and sits down, lighting it. "He didn't come home last night. He's probably crashed in some alleyway. He bought a shit-ton of LSD a couple of days ago." She takes a drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke, a smile spreading her lips to expose her teeth. "That or he decided to ditch me permanently this time."
She jokes about it, but it's happened before. James shows up after days of absence smelling like some other girl's perfume. Lizzy never says anything about it and James never addresses it. I'm pretty sure she just stays with him out of necessity. It's not like she has anywhere else to go.
Lizzy waves her cigarette in the direction of their bedroom. "He re-hid the stuff under the mattress. He thinks I'm the one who's been stealing from it." She takes another long drag of the cigarette. When she removes it, I see her black lipstick imprinted on the end of the roll. "You know, Charlie, there are other dealers besides Alejandro."
I scoff. "Not any cheap ones. Aunt Joan is getting better at hiding her purse."
"Here's an idea: get a job, bitch." She laughs and I roll my eyes. "No seriously," Lizzy continues, reaching one hand beneath the couch cushions to search for the TV remote. "You could always be a dealer. I know a guy who could hook you up." She retrieves the remote from beneath the cushions and turns the TV on to some cheesy sitcom.
I shrug. "Yeah. Maybe. I'll be in your room, if you need me."
"Doubt it," she calls after me. I shoot her a middle finger and then shut the door behind me. The rest of the apartment looks like a palace compared to Lizzy and James' room. Dirty clothes are strewn so thickly over the floor that you can only see a few patches of the carpet. Cigarette butts litter the floor amongst the used condoms and empty bags that used to hold pot or coke or whatever. I tip toe around the mess and gingerly lift the mattress, revealing three 2 lb bags of coke. Bingo.
I remove the first bag and clear a space on the top of Lizzy's dresser. My hands are shaking so violently that it's hard to pour the coke in straight lines, but I manage. I pick up a wrapper from the floor and roll it, lighting the end. I go up and down the lines of coke and breath it in. It feels like breathing heaven into your lungs. My tremors calm and I feel a soothing blanket engulf me. My body has never felt so at peace. I'm aware of everything and nothing all at once. My mind is finally silent. It's pure nirvana.
A single thought explodes my trance.
Emma.
I glance up at the clock. It's 6:50. Emma's concert is at 7:00. I promised, I promised I would there. I can't break this promise. I can't let her down again. Not again. Not again. Not again. I can't, I won't.
I stumble to my feet, using the edge of the bed as a crutch to stand up. Which way is up? I don't know anymore. I grab ahold of the wall and follow it to the door, afraid that if I let go the room will play a trick on me and flip upside down. My fingers slide over the doorknob and after several attempts manage to push it open.
"Lizzy!" I call out, my speech sounding foreign and fuzzy to my own ears. "Lizzy, I need your car!"
I make my way over to the couch. The TV is blaring Scrubs re-runs. Lizzy is passed out, a dim cigarette posed between her lips. Her eyeliner is smeared and streaked down her cheeks. She's been crying.
I shake her shoulder; she doesn't wake up.
Her purse is sitting on the ground by the couch. I pick it up and rifle through it before I finally find a ring of keys. I make a fist around them and leave the purse by Lizzy's head. She'll know when she wakes up. She'll know I had to go. She knows that I would never steal her car.
I slip on the ice outside in the parking lot twice before I learn to keep one hand on the hoods of the parked cars as I make my way to Lizzy's car. My feet are unstable and my head is still fuzzy, but I have less than 10 minutes to get to Emma's concert. I have to be there. She'll never forgive me if I don't show up.
The cold numbs my fingers and I fumble with the keys trying to unlock the doors. On the fifth try I finally get it open. I slide into the driver's seat and start the car. The engine rumbles to life and a blast of heat shoots from the vents. I messily back the car out of the parking space, denting the car door next to me in the process. My hands are clenching the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers are white. I'm terrified to drive; my vision is blurry and it's difficult to tell left from right or up from down or even red from green, but I have to be at that concert. I step on the gas and peel out of the parking lot and into the street. Cars honk at me as I drive past them. I blink and I realize that I'm driving in between two lanes. I quickly veer to the right, cutting off the car behind me.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard. 7:08.
I step harder on the gas.
7:10.
When I look back up from the dashboard, I'm suddenly speeding through the middle of a busy intersection. I hear a long blast from a horn, and then the crush of impact as everything shatters and I'm tumbling through the air, rolling over and over so that everything up and down has merged into one.
The tumbling stops. I'm upside down.
Broken glass litters the compartment. The windshield and the windows are shattered. The clock on the dashboard is blank.
Blood drips down my face like a tear.

***

I wake up in a hospital bed. An IV drip punctures my inner elbow and my arm is in a cast. I can feel a bandage on my head, wrapped against the throbbing section of my temple. The inside of my mouth is dry and tastes like cotton.
I blink and glance around the room, trying not to move my head too much. It's dark outside, and the clock says 10:45 pm. Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny are standing by the door talking to a police officer. I hear snippets of their conversation.
Stolen car.
Press charges.
Rehab.
Uncle Kenny casts a look towards me and his sad eyes brighten slightly. "She's awake."
In seconds, Aunt Joan is at my bedside, clutching my cold hand and brushing stray hairs away from my eyes. Her makeup is smudged and her eyes are puffy and red. "You're going to be fine," she says in a low voice, more to herself than to me. "You're going to be just fine."
The police officer approaches the bed, a small notepad in his hands. His tag on his shirt says Officer Rios. "Charlotte, I'm going to have to ask you a couple of questions."
Aunt Joan starts protesting. "Officer, she just woke up, if you could just—"
"Joan," Uncle Kenny says, his arms crossed and his eyes staring at the floor. "Let the man do his job."
Officer Rios positions his pen on the paper. "Charlotte, when you arrived at the hospital we found traces of cocaine in your system. Were you under the influence of drugs when you stole Elizabeth Stevenson's car?"
Uncle Kenny is still staring at the floor, his fingers clenched on his arms.
I swallow. "Yes," I say in a dry, cracked voice.
"And were you aware while doing so that your actions would endanger other drivers on the road?"
"Yes."
"Are you a consistent user of drugs?"
"Yes."
Aunt Joan won't look at me anymore. She's removed her hand from my arm.
"How long have you been using?"
I think for a second. "About a year."
"Who did you purchase your substances from?"
I list off the dealers that I know. The officer twitches when I say 'Alejandro Rios.'
He closes his notepad. "You will not be facing charges for the stolen car, and the driver of the other vehicle involved in the crash will not be pressing charges, on the condition that you admit to rehab for at least a three month stay and attend support groups for a month after your discharge. Do you submit to these terms?"
"Yes," I mutter.
Officer Rios thanks us for our time and leaves the room. As he leaves, I see Emma standing in the doorway, wearing her black skirt and white blouse orchestra uniform. Her golden brown hair is curled and pinned back. She stares at me, but she doesn't look sad. Her eyes are hard and her face is guarded. She looks angry.
"Emma—" I call out, but she turns and walks away before I can say anything. I don't even know what I would've said. An apology is worthless by now.