Saving Quinton

  But she completely blindsides me and looks at me with sympathy. "Everyone doesn't hate you. How could they, when it was an accident?" She stands firm and her voice is loud but it cracks. She's not even shocked. Yeah, I told her I killed some people but I didn't tell her who, yet it seems like she already knew. "I know it wasn't your fault...I read the newspaper article."

  Suddenly it makes sense that there was no shock factor for her. She already knew about my messed-up, twisted past, what happened that night. How I was responsible for two people's deaths. She probably even knows I died.

  Something about the idea of her digging up my past elicits a dark and sinister feeling inside me. It makes me furious and not I-just-need-to-get-another-hit furious. She was the only one who didn't fully know my story and now she does--now she knows what I am, down to the very last details.

  "The newspaper doesn't know jack fucking shit. Yeah, maybe the police report said it wasn't entirely my fault, but ask fucking anyone." I cup my hand over my upper arm, because I swear to God I'm feeling the pain again of when I put the tattoos there, sharp pricks, the burn, the pain I deserve--I deserve so much more. "Ryder's parents, Lexi's parents. You can even ask my father and they'll all tell you that it was my fault...he even blames me for my mother's death..." I trail off, losing my voice, as I remember all the silence between my father and me--how, growing up, I could always feel the distance between us, because every time he looked at me, he probably thought about how my mother died bringing me into this world. It makes me realize just how long I've felt this blame, just not as bluntly. "They'll all tell you I'm a piece of shit that should be fucking dead instead of everyone else." I'm on the verge of tears. But they're tears of rage more than anything and I need to find a way to get them to stop. Find a way to get Nova to stop looking at me like I'm an injured dog that she just kicked and gave more pain to. Find a way for her to stop pitying me and get on the same page as everyone else.

  I know what I do next is so fucked up there are no words to describe it, yet I can't find the will to care inside my junkie body, which only sees life from delusional angles created by substances that let me see things how I want to. So I reach into my pocket and take out a plastic bag.

  "You want to see how alike we are?" I say, opening the bag, watching her and her reaction. "You want to see what you're trying to save?"

  She tries to remain calm, but I catch the flicker of fear in her eyes and I think, There you go. Be afraid. Finally. I dip my finger into the powder, coating it with just enough to give me a bump, and then I put my finger up to my nose. I expect her to look away, but she doesn't. Her gaze is relentless, confused, disgusted, curious. All sorts of messed-up shit. And it should be enough for me to put the stuff away, because I've obviously gotten my point across, but now that it's out, I want it. So I breathe it in like it's heaven, or a make-believe version anyway. Once it crashes against the back of my throat, it makes hurting Nova the slightest bit easier, and when she walks away, I feel twistedly satisfied, like I accomplished something, when I didn't. I haven't accomplished anything in a very long time. But the thing is, it doesn't matter. None of this does. And when I walk back to my place--because I'm sure she's going to leave my sorry ass--I'll take hit after hit and barely remember or feel anything at all. At least not in a way that matters.

  Nova

  I have to walk away while we're on the roof because it's too hard to watch and he follows me down, staying a ways behind. I think he thinks I'm going to leave him because as soon as we step outside, he starts off toward this back area that leads to a stretch of desert, instead of toward my car.

  "Where are you going?" I call out, taking my keys out of my pocket.

  He stops just short of where the asphalt shifts to dirt and glances over his shoulder at me. "I thought I was walking home."

  I shake my head, backing up to the car. "Quinton, I can give you a ride."

  A puzzled look crosses his face. "Even after what I did--even after I yelled at you? Even after what I just said...?" He trails off, like his emotions are getting the best of him again.

  I need to make sure to do my best to keep him calm, because he seems pretty irrational right now and with drugs in his system, things could get ugly--even more than they are. "Nothing you said on the roof affects our relationship. Things are still the same. Although I wish they were different--better. Now would you please get in the car? It's hot as heck out here and I don't want you walking in the heat."

  He sniffs a few times, rubbing his nose, as he glances in the direction he was heading and then at my car. "Okay...yeah. I'll get in the car."

  A small weight lifts from my shoulders as he climbs inside, but it's back by the time we're back to his place and he hops out before I even get the car to a full stop and without saying good-bye. I hate when people don't say good-bye, yet it happens all the time and sometimes I don't see them ever again.

  I'm worried about never seeing Quinton again.

  I start to drive back to Lea's uncle's house but I can feel a meltdown coming on as I keep picturing Quinton on the roof, shoving that stuff up his nose. Finally I have to vent, get it off my chest before I explode, so I pull the car into a gas station parking lot and take out my phone. Aiming the camera at myself, I hit record.

  "I had to back off, even though I didn't want to. What I wanted to do was slap him, then steal that damn bag out of his hand and throw it off the roof. What happened was intense, but it was partially my fault. I was pushing him and I knew he was high--easily breakable. But I was so determined to make him see the real picture, the one he can't see, that I kept going. I tried to force him to admit things that clearly he can't admit--that sometimes accidents just happen. But then I let it slip out that I'd read the article about the accident and that only seemed to piss him off...and then he..." I trail off, wincing as I recollect him putting that crap up his nose like he was inhaling a piece of chocolate. "He doesn't even see what he is right now and it sucks because I've been in that place and I want to get him out of it, like I got out, yet I know that he's got to be on the same page--realize things. And I'm still not quite sure what's going to do that for him."

  I lower my head onto the steering wheel, still aiming the camera at myself. "How do you get through to someone who doesn't want you to get to them? How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved? God, he reminds me so much of Landon...and I'm worried that one of these days I'm going to show up a few minutes too late again and all I'll have left is a video." The breath gets knocked out of me as I choke on my emotions and have to pause to catch my breath. "But Quinton has to want to be saved, since he hasn't given up yet...I just don't think he can admit it yet. I need to make him somehow...need to make him realize that not everyone in the world hates and blames him like he thinks they do." My voice wobbles as I recollect how he looked when he told me that everyone blamed him for the deaths. The self-hatred burning in his eyes. "What I need is a better plan--help maybe. Because what I'm doing right now isn't working very well...I just don't know where to go to find it."

  I take a moment to gather myself before I sit up and turn the camera off. Then I drive down the road back to Lea's uncle's house, listening to "Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis," by Brand New, and the memories of the last time I listened to the song almost cause me to bawl my eyes out. It was the first time I got high and Quinton and I kissed. It was a kiss so full of emotions that were--still are--practically indescribable, and I'm pretty sure I'll never experience a kiss like that again and I'm not even sure I want to.

  By the time I get to the road that leads to the house I'm bummed out and the urge to count the mailboxes on the road is becoming uncontrollable and I give in. I make it to eight before I tell myself to shut up and be stronger, but that only makes me feel more anxious and helpless. I feel drained and Lea instantly knows something's wrong when I walk inside the house.

  "Okay, what happened?" she asks from the kitchen. She's cooking something that smells an awful lot like pancakes and it makes
my stomach grumble.

  I drop my bag on the sofa and head into the kitchen. "It was a rough day," I admit to her.

  She's standing over a griddle and there's batter on the counter, along with eggshells and a bowl. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  I plop down on one of the stools around the island, prop my elbow on the counter, and rest my chin in my hand, breathing in the scent of pancakes. "I don't know...maybe...but I already kind of talked about it to a camera."

  She flips one of the pancakes over with a spatula, steam rising in the air. "Yeah, but it might be better to talk about it with a human maybe." She smiles at me.

  I note how quiet the house is. "Where's your uncle?"

  "He went out on some business dinner or something. He called and said he'd be home late. Why?"

  "Just wondering." Honestly, I didn't want to talk about Quinton and was going to use that as an excuse, that her uncle was here and I didn't want him to hear. But I guess I can't use that excuse so I lower my head into my hands, confessing my day to her. "Quinton and I got into a fight and some stuff happened that's confusing me."

  "Like what?"

  "Like...like he did drugs in front of me."

  "Jesus, you didn't do any--"

  "Do I look high to you?" I cut her off as I raise my head back up.

  She assesses me with wariness. "No, but I'm not an expert."

  I sigh. "Well, I promise I'm not. You can even take me to get a drug test if you want to." I don't really think she will, but I say it hoping it'll make her feel better.

  She relaxes a little, turning back to the pancakes. "Well, I don't think you should go over there anymore. There's too much temptation at that house."

  "He didn't do the drugs while we were at his house," I clarify, but stupidly, because really it doesn't matter where he did them. The fact is he still did them. "And it wasn't like how you would think. He didn't do it because it was all fun and games and he wanted me to join him. He did it to piss me off so he could prove that we weren't like each other and that I don't understand him. He wasn't offering drugs to me--he wouldn't even let me take any if I asked."

  She frowns, the pan sizzling. "Are you sure about that?"

  I nod, but I'm not 100 percent sure. The Quinton that I saw today, the one at the end of the conversation, wasn't the same as the guy I first met, who always told me I should stay away from drugs. "Besides, it's not like I want to do them," I say, omitting that I have thought about it a few times because she'd probably flip out and make it a bigger deal than it is, because I haven't done anything yet. "I was just being honest with you about what happened. If I wasn't telling you this, then we'd have a problem."

  She slips the spatula under a pancake and flips it over. "I honestly don't know what to say to you because I don't understand any of this."

  "And that's fine," I say, sitting up straighter. "You don't have to say anything. Listening helps a lot."

  She turns off the heat and reaches for a plate in the cupboard. "I think you should go down to this clinic that helps people who have people in their lives that are struggling with drugs."

  "Where is it?"

  She sets the plate down on the counter and begins piling the pancakes on it with the spatula. "Down on the east side of town."

  "Okay, maybe I'll drive down there tomorrow," I tell her, figuring it can't hurt. "Do I need an appointment or something?"

  "I'll give you the information after we eat." She sets the spatula down on the counter. "Completely off the subject, but do you want me to cook some bacon and eggs with these pancakes?"

  I force a grin and just trying to be happy makes it feel almost real. "Bacon sounds good...God, it's like I have my own little housewife, cooking dinner for me."

  "That means you need to be a good little wife and go bring in the bacon." She snaps her fingers and points at the fridge. "It's in there in the bottom drawer."

  I get up from the stool and cook the bacon while she washes up the pan and bowl she used to make the pancakes. Then we sit down and eat at the table and it's so normal. By the time we're done I feel a little better and it worries me because feeling better allows me to realize just how down I was. I wonder how far is too far. How far do I allow myself to sink to get to Quinton?

  Chapter 8

  Nova

  May 20, day five of summer break

  I wake up the next morning and watch Landon's video while Lea takes a shower, because I don't want her to know I'm doing it, worried she'll worry more about me. I hate that I watch it, but I can't help it. Something about studying it makes me feel like I'm going be able to help Quinton not come to that point. Like if I watch it enough, I'll see something I didn't see before. But I still haven't figured out what that is yet.

  After I watch it, I get dressed and go down to the clinic, like I told Lea I would. I really don't know how helpful it's going to be to listen to other people talk about what they're going through trying to help addicts, but at this point I'll try anything because I feel so helpless.

  I pick up a coffee and bagel on my way there, then park my car in the closest parking garage. The building is in an area that looks almost as sketchy as Quinton's house. But I do my best to ignore that and go inside. There's a meeting going on for people who have family members and friends who are drug addicts and I take a seat in the back, sipping my coffee and listening, feeling a little out of place because I barely know Quinton and everyone else seems to be related to the person they're here for.

  I listen for a while to people expressing how they're feeling, how sad, how hurt, upset, heartbroken they are. A lot of them are parents and keep talking about how it feels like they've lost a child, like drugs have killed them. One man in particular with brown hair and brownish eyes that sort of remind me of Quinton's starts talking. Even though I know it's not Quinton's dad up there, I could easily picture him being that person. It makes me wonder if Quinton's dad feels like this--like he's lost a child. He has to.

  But according to Quinton, at least from what he said yesterday, his father blames him for the deaths that happened in the car accident. But I don't--can't believe this. It has to be something he created inside his head. I wonder if Quinton ever actually talked to his father about any of this--if his father even knows where he is.

  It gives me an idea, but it's going to be a hard idea to pull off because it's going to require me getting a phone number for Quinton's dad. And I doubt he'll give it to me.

  Although I think I might know someone who will, if I can work it right. So after the meeting ends, I drive over to Quinton's apartment. The sun is blaring down and the temperature has to be pushing 120 degrees. It's so hot that I don't even want to get out of the car, but part of that might be me avoiding going inside.

  After a few minutes pass by, I force myself to get out and into the heat, keeping my sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the brightness. The apartment area is quiet as usual as I make my way across the vacant parking lot and up the stairway. That guy Bernie, who was passed out the first time I was here, is back at the table outside his door, awake this time and rolling a joint right out in the open, which reveals just how blase this place is about drugs and makes me wonder what the hell goes on behind all the closed doors.

  "Hey, sweetie," he says to me as he checks me over with his bloodshot eyes. He's not wearing a shirt and his thin chest is tinted red from the sun. "Where'd you wander over from?"

  I have a black tank top on and denim shorts and his appreciating gaze makes me feel very vulnerable and exposed so I hurry, wrapping my arms around myself.

  "Hey, if you're lost I can help you find your way home," he calls out with a chuckle. "I'm pretty sure the place you're looking for is my bedroom."

  "Creep pervert," I mutter, rushing past closed door after closed door, only breathing freely when I'm standing in front of Quinton's. As I lift my hand to knock, I keep my fingers crossed that Dylan's not the one who answers it, since he's about as creepy as that Bernie guy.

  Thankf
ully, after three knocks, Tristan opens the door, barefoot and with a cigarette in his mouth. His blond hair is a little ruffled, like he just woke up, and his gray T-shirt and jeans have holes in them. "Hey," he says, seeming a little uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the filthy living room with a nervous look on his face. "Quinton's not here right now and he's not supposed to be back until really late."

  "Actually I'm here to talk to you," I tell him, trying to shrug off the fact that it seems like Tristan's covering for Quinton and that Quinton might even be here but avoiding me.

  His nervousness turns to befuddlement as he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. "Why?"

  "Because I need to ask you something." I nervously peer over at the Bernie guy, who's watching us as he smokes a joint, and then look back at Tristan. "Look, can we go somewhere and talk?"

  He gives me a look that's sort of harsh for the Tristan I used to know. "Just talk to me here."

  I suck in a slow breath through my nose, counting down backward in my head, telling myself to stay calm. "I'd rather talk to you somewhere more private."

  He stares at me with this bored expression like I'm annoying the crap out of him, so it surprises me when he says, "Okay."

  He flicks his cigarette over my shoulder and over the railing, and then he goes back into the house. He leaves the door cracked just enough that I can hear him talking to someone and it sounds an awful lot like Quinton. When he opens the door again, he has an old pair of sneakers in his hand and he steps out, shutting the door behind him.

  He pauses to put the shoes on, glancing up at me as he ties one of the laces. "You know, despite what he'll say later on, it's going to hurt Quinton that you came here to see me," he tells me, fastening the lace and standing up straight.

  "I'm not so sure about that," I say as we walk across the balcony. "I think he sort of wants me to leave him alone...in fact I think you're covering for him right now."

  He glances at me with curiosity. "Do you really believe that? That it won't hurt him that you came here to see me?"