Paper Stars

17

Charlotte Hollins
Before---3 years ago
East Hills High, Senior Year
December
It feels weird to say, but after my meltdown in the library, it becomes easier to breathe. Before, I'd felt like each passing day only tightened the iron-fingered grip of grief on my throat, but all of a sudden the grip was loosening up and I don't feel so suffocated anymore. It becomes easier to focus in class, easier to walk without feeling like I'm dragging around a thousand pounds of guilt. Sometimes I still catch myself looking over my shoulder for Lizzy, but it doesn't hurt as much as it used to when I see that she isn't there.
Flet helps too, though I don't think he realizes it. After that day in the library, he's not afraid to acknowledge me more. Even if it's just a simple wave or smile in the hallway, or a two minute talk in between classes, it still feels good to know that somebody can see you. That you're not alone.
Flet keeps trying to get me to sit with him and his friends during lunch. I always say no, using the excuse that I have homework or studying to do. It's not exactly a lie, since I usually spend lunchtime in the library doing schoolwork anyways, but I still feel like I'm not telling him the truth. That I feel like if he really spends time with me, he'll find out that even though I'm clean, I'll never be the friend I used to be. Even though I'm clean, his friends will still sit and smile and laugh with me even though they're all silently judging me. No matter what grades I get or how much homework I turn in, I'll never get rid of that reputation.
Today, I go to the library for lunch again. Midterms are in two weeks, and even though every other senior is blowing them off because they've already been accepted to college, I can't afford to do that. I've applied to the Manhattan School of Music (big acceptance rate, cheaper than most music schools in New York), but if I don't get in, I still want to polish off my GPA for community college. I find a table in the library and pull out my Trigonometry textbook, plugging my earbuds in and getting to work on a series of practice problems. I look up periodically at the clock and count down the minutes to make sure that I'm not late for my next class. As I'm glancing at the clock, I see a flash of movement behind the bookshelves. A couple seconds later, a wide-eyed freshman boy scrambles out from behind the bookshelf, hastily zipping his backpack up and sending wild looks around the library, as if he's scared that somebody will see him. He locks eyes with me for a split moment and then walks even faster, disappearing out the library doors.
The answer to my unspoken question comes out from behind the bookshelves as soon as the boy leaves. Alejandro has his backpack hanging off of one shoulder, his eyes lazily scanning the room for onlookers. I quickly look down and try to look invisible, but it's already too late. I know that he's seen me.
"Charlie?" He approaches my table and slides into the seat next to me. "No way," he says, bumping my shoulder with his fist in a friendly manner. "I thought you were still locked in rehab."
I don't look up. My hands are already getting cold with sweat. "And I thought you were still locked in juvie." My voice comes out cold and sharp, but he doesn't seem to notice.
Alejandro laughs. "Nah, they couldn't keep me there long. They only caught me selling a little weed. I got out in February. You, on the other hand." He does that thing where he bumps my shoulder with his fist. I stiffen. I really just want him to leave. "Come on, how long was your rehab sentence?" He prompts.
I hesitate before answering. "Three months."
"Damn. I wouldn't have lasted that long. I only survived in juvie 'cause I got one of my boys to hook me up with a stash in there." He shrugs. "Wasn't the best I'd ever had, but it kept me going." He starts tapping the table, which only raises my anxiety. "I didn't even know you were back, Charlie. I haven't seen you in your usual spot."
Behind the dumpsters. "I don't do that anymore, Alejandro," I say curtly.
"Yeah, I can see that. Now you spend your time doing—" He lifts up my textbook to see the cover. "Math? You actually go to class now?" He laughs. "What'd they do to you in that prison, Charlie?"
I can't think of an answer.
Alejandro looks around the room, checking for a teacher or a librarian. When he finds neither, he leans closer and lowers his voice to a nearly indecipherable whisper. "I got some new shit, if you wanted to try it."
I hate myself at that moment, because every particle in my body screams 'yes!'. My heart beat starts increasing rapidly, but I keep my voice level. "I'm good, thanks." Please leave.
"Oh come on, it's good stuff," Alejandro persists. "You ever tried speed? Biggest new thing on the streets. In fact, you know what--" He unzips his backpack and retrieves a small ziplock packet with white powder in it. He quickly slips it into the pages of my textbook. "No charge, for old times sake. You were my best customer, after all."
The bell rings and Alejandro claps a hand on my shoulder. He says something to me, but I can't hear him. I can't even see him as he walks away. My entire world has become laser-point focused on the packet in my textbook. Everything else is a mushy blur.
Don'tyourememberhowgooditfelt?
The dark thoughts leak through the holes in my brain, a thick oily sludge.
Justtryit.
Itsfree,afterall
Whywouldyourejectagiftfromafriend?
The world spins out of focus.

***

The next thing I know, my head is locked between my hands and somebody is shaking my shoulders and whispering my name. My hands are pried off my skull and my shoulders are shook again. I blink, and Flet is kneeling in front of me, his expression worried. Everything is blurred but him.
"Charlie, are you all right? What happened?" His hands are on my shoulders and he directs me so that I'm facing him. "Charlie. You're shaking."
"You're here?" I ask, my tongue thick in my mouth. It feels like I've eaten spoonfulls of sawdust.
Flet taps my cheek lightly, like he's trying to get me to stay awake. "Focus, Charlie, come on. Look at me. Breathe."
I feel strange. My nose and my throat feel sore and it's impossible to think straight. Every time I start a train of thought, it gets lost and floats off.
Flet reaches forward and wipes the area beneath my nose with his finger. It comes away with white powder on it.
He looks at me, disappointment and sadness clear on his face. "Charlie..."
My hazy, dreamy world shatters.
I'm in the bathroom, collapsed in one of the stalls. On the floor beside me is the packet Alejandro gave me. Except that the packet is empty.
"No," I whisper. "No, no I didn't...I didn't..." My eyes get warm and my throat closes up. "I didn't...I didn't fucking relapse, no. I wasn't supposed to. I didn't. I can't. I...I..." My stomach churns and I sit up, leaning over the toilet to vomit. The bile burns my throat and my nose.
After I'm clear-headed enough to stand up, Flet helps me over to the sinks to get cleaned up. I wash out the inside of my mouth and wipe my face with a damp paper towel. My nose is still sore and red, and my skin looks pale and splotchy. I can still feel the bitter taste of the drug in the back of my throat.
Nadia Ganesh was the one who found me, Flet tells me. She came into the bathroom during fourth hour and found me in the corner stall, sitting against the wall with my eyes wide and dazed and white powder smeared under my nose. She went to get Flet as soon as she saw.
I'm glad that Nadia was the one who found me, and not somebody else, or else I might be sitting in the principal's office right now while Aunt Joan schedules another admission to the rehab center.
"Are you sure you don't want to tell Aunt Joan?" Flet asks. "Maybe a week of admission at rehab would be good for you. Or even just a therapy session with your doctor."
I shake my head. "They don't need to get worried again. I've been clean for almost a year, this was just an...accident."
"An accident?" He repeats. He doesn't sound so sure. I hate it when he doesn't trust me.
The bell for fifth hour rings. Outside the bathroom, I can hear doors opening and the hallway flooding with students, any of which might walk into the bathroom. Flet has already flushed the packet down the toilet, so the only trace of drugs is the red on my nose. Still, it's not a good idea for me to go back to class looking like this. Flet walks me down to the nurse's office, where I lay on a cot for the rest of the day and try to ignore the burning feeling in my throat.