by AnonYMous
Warren: Are you really okay? You’ve been kind of weird these last few days.
Me: Weird?
Warren: Distant.
Me: Oh. I’m worried about you and trying to control my worry for you, I guess. Trying to leave you alone. But it’s not easy, Warren. I really care about you, and seeing you high or not completely in control of the situation scares me. You’re high now, right? What if you blow yourself up?
Warren, eyes flashing with anger before they softened: You’re right. I am. But I’m used to this, Bailey. I’m okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get through this. You love me, right? That’s really all that matters.
He kissed me sweetly, and my heart ached. For him. For US. The truth was that maybe loving each other isn’t all that matters. Not when we’re hurting others. Not when he really needs help, and I do too. Not when we’re in so deep that we might all end up in prison. Some things are bigger than even love can handle.
I promised I’d be back soon and left.
His car was in a student parking lot next to the senior boys’ dorms. I’d never paid attention to the exact make and model before, but tonight before I got in, I circled around it once. It was a relatively new BMW. Not exactly inconspicuous for his favorite hobbies but something with a lot of speed. I felt the power in it as I hit the gas the first time and shifted it into gear.
At a stoplight close to the center of Wiltshire, I took the folded-up newspaper out of my purse. The article about the toddler didn’t mention an actual address, but based on Mr. Callahan’s words about it and the trail we took the night I was with Drew and Warren, I could figure out a general area. Frenchtown, they’d called it. A trailer park. I drove over the bridge and Wiltshire changed over instantly from affluent and clean to poor and dingy. Fires were lit in what looked like a homeless camp.
I slowed to a stop across the street from that first house where Drew and Warren had left me in the car to go inside and work their deals. There was a lot of activity. I could see several silhouettes in the weak window lights. But nobody came outside, and no one stopped and went in, either. I took the car out of park and turned on the street closest to the house, following its backside half a block. The house seemed to go on forever, like over the years, people had haphazardly thrown a new house together behind it, then another behind that one. It was clearly broken up into quite a few apartments, with several mailboxes at each oddly placed entrance. All the houses around it were the same, even if they weren’t as big. These were all apartments, not well kept, and I had to wonder what these people paid to live there. Probably some slumlord fleecing them for every penny.
At the next stop sign, I took a minute to get my bearings and look around. I didn’t have to look far. One more block and there was a crumbling brick wall with a sign on it that, in its heyday, would have looked nice. Now it was missing a few letters and slightly crooked. It read: FRENCHTOWN CIRCLE. The trailer park.
I drove forward slowly. It didn’t take me long to find the house I wanted to see. A little white thing that looked barely big enough for one person, let alone a family. I glanced from my newspaper to it, then back again. It was a match. Like before, I pulled to a stop across the street from it and turned off my lights. There were people inside. I could see someone’s head through the front window, the closely shaved head of a man. The TV was on. Some show about cops, of all things. A woman walked through the room and sat by the man, her head on his shoulder.
So these were the parents of the toddler, sitting there like their world wasn’t over, like their child wasn’t at someone else’s house because they couldn’t get it together to take care of him themselves. These were the people I was cooking drugs for. The people I was enabling. The people I was making sicker. The parents I’D distracted from their son.
I glanced down the street. It was a flat street, but it was dark and muddy. Farther down the road was a tree line and, beyond that, if I had the map right in my head, the river. If the child hadn’t been carried off by some devious stranger or hit by a car before that tree line, he might have gone in there and not been found in time. He might have even made it to the river. He wouldn’t have meant to fall in, or maybe he would have wanted to play in the water, not understanding the insidious current beneath the surface.
I looked away from the tree line and wiped tears from my eyes. Back inside the trailer, smoke was rising in small, opaque tufts. The man moved, and the reflection of the TV caught the glass bulb just right. I started shaking from pure rage. I wanted to burst into that house and scream at them. Instead, I put Warren’s beautiful car in drive and pulled away, still shaking violently. I shook all the way home.
But it’s two in the morning now. I think I’m going to take a Percocet to calm myself down and knock myself out. And I think I’m finally understanding that I’m not mad at the parents of the toddler.
I’m mad at myself.
April 21
I went into the lab last night with one mission only: to convince Warren to stop. Stop it all.
The whole walk there, I felt like I was going to throw up, I was so nervous. Conversations not even half as important as this had ended badly, with him lashing out in anger or shutting me out, and there were about a billion ways talking to him could go wrong. Not the least of which was him thinking I was being disloyal to the Club and what kind of consequences that could have. The collateral was majorly on my mind.
He greeted me with a passionate kiss and I could tell he was really excited about something, and that made my heart sink and my stomach twist into a knot. I could also tell it was Adderall in his system, not Percocet. He told me, proudly, that he’d gotten the new recipe down to an art. He promised it would change our workflow a lot, but for the better.
I let him show me every change he’d made in every step of the process, only vaguely noting how it would change the product and cut down on time and some of our more expensive ingredients. He was so proud. Even a week ago I would have been proud too. Now all I felt was sick. I asked him if we could talk for a minute and watched a parade of emotions cross his face (anger, suspicion, curiosity, resentment) before he said we could.
Me: I read the other night about a mother and father who were so high they hadn’t noticed that their baby was wandering around in the freezing cold for almost an hour.
Warren: Heroin?
Me: Meth. And here, Warren. In Wiltshire.
Warren: Let me guess. East side? Perhaps even Hodgkins Park? Or Frenchtown?
Me: Frenchtown.
Warren, shaking his head: That’s terrible. It probably happens more than we know.
Me: But doesn’t it bother you?
Warren: Of course. It’s sad.
Me: Warren, it’s more than sad. And it’s our fault.
Warren, with a slight laugh: No, Bailey. It’s not our fault. These people . . . they’d sell their souls for another hit. You know that. They practically do. My brother would have sold my mother into a trafficking ring to get more heroin. He was out of his mind. Addicts are the most selfish people on the planet, trust me.
Me, before I could stop myself: And what does that make you?
The light in Warren’s eyes went out, then his gaze became a cold, black stare. Fear shot through me, but I shoved it aside, more determined than scared. He HAD to see. He HAD to understand.
Warren squeezed his eyes shut. I watched as he balled up his fist, raised it, and sent it down with a crack on the lab table. A glass beaker fell on its side.
Warren: What does it make YOU, Bailey? We can’t help anybody. All we can do is keep them safe.
Me: You keep saying that, but that’s not all we can do, Warren. We can take ourselves out of the equation.
Warren: You want to stop making.
Me: I want us to stop being responsible for children being left out in the cold and people being too addicted to care about their lives! And I want you to stop taking pills. I want ME to stop taking pills.
Warren: Have you tried? (I shook my head no. I
hadn’t tried yet. It was part of my plan, but I couldn’t convince myself, every day between second and third periods and every day after school or whenever, that I didn’t HAVE to take them. That I didn’t need them. Warren snorted at me.) If you tried, you’d know.
Me: I can. I will.
Warren: And how many Percocets do you have left?
Me: I’ve only taken a few. I’m fine.
Warren: But what did it feel like?
Me: Good. I mean, I got calm. Sleepy. I slept.
Warren: You need the sleep. It does feel good, doesn’t it? But you know you can stop.
Me: Yes.
Warren: I know I can too. So what’s the harm?
Me: It isn’t right. None of this is right. You should feel worse about this. You lost a brother to this, Warren. How do you not feel anything?
Warren pulled me into his arms then, his body pressing heavily against mine. His weight and warmth felt so reassuring because he wanted me close, but also because it felt human. He was human, not like a soulless, unfeeling robot.
Warren: No, Bailey, the problem is I feel too much. Isn’t it? I feel too much for my parents. For Mitch. For you. Even Drew and Katy. I’m not abandoning them. Are you? Are you going to? Are you going to abandon me?
Me: No! No. I just want you to come with me.
Warren: No, just don’t go. Don’t go in the first place. It will be fine. We’ll get through this year and we can stop everything. Okay? Just like I promised.
He kissed me before I could give him an answer, and I kissed him back, letting that be my answer because I couldn’t seem to find my voice. What I wanted to say and couldn’t was that I didn’t think we’d get through the year, not this way. And I didn’t think it would all be fine. But I don’t know how to stop or stop him or get out. I don’t know how to get off this ride I’m on, but I certainly don’t want to make anything worse. I’m trapped. All I can do is walk a tightrope right now of getting by and trying to do the least harm I can, to anyone.
So I let him kiss me until we were both so wrapped up in each other that everything else faded away.
I have to admit I don’t remember much else about last night. When he took out some Percs to calm himself down, he offered me some as well, and I took them. Every single one he offered. Not because I wanted it or even needed to, but because I needed to do something with him. To show him I was with him. To feel that connection. I do know that Warren and I held each other for a long time and that he did cry on my shoulder, shaking as he asked me over and over again not to leave him, and I promised I wouldn’t. I remember him walking me home and stopping me outside my dorm’s gate, where he held my wrists in his hands hard and told me he wouldn’t speak a word to Drew or Katy about me wanting out, since I’d promised I’d stay in.
And I remember yanking my hands away and that his voice hadn’t sounded reassuring. It sounded like a threat.
April 24
The last thing I needed today was Emily being Scary Emily.
I woke her up because she was clearly going to sleep through class, and she seriously growled at me like some kind of animal. She looked like hell, and honestly, it was the first time I’d really looked at her in a while. Her eyes seemed sunken in, rimmed in purple, almost like bruises, and her face looked gaunt. When she rolled out of bed, fumbling around for the pieces of her uniform, I could see that she’d lost a lot of weight too. Maybe Prescott was taking its toll on everyone this year.
Me: Wow, did the AV club have a party last night or what?
Emily, with a sneer: Did your snobby friends have one? You were home later than me.
Me: I had a lot of work to do. Are you okay?
Emily: I’m fine. God. What time is it?
Me: Ten till. We’ve got to get to class. And you’re welcome, for waking you up.
Emily: Just consider us even. Do we have any water?
I took a bottled water out of the package we kept under our window and tossed it to her.
Emily: Thanks. How’s the Prince of Darkness?
Me: He’s fine.
I’d be damned if I would ever tell her he was anything but fine. Or that we weren’t doing well. Or anything else for that matter. Though sometimes she acts like she’s a friend, when it comes to Warren she is 100 percent enemy. Briefly, a flash of last night appeared behind my eyes . . . Warren offering me pills, telling me to stay, me being so out of it that I barely remembered a thing. I looked down at my wrists and noticed bruising, in almost a complete circle around each.
Enemies. Sometimes they’re the last person you’d expect. Sometimes they’re people you really care about but you find yourself on opposite sides.
Emily: Glad to hear. I’m sure all his money makes it easy.
Me: I’m not with him because of the money.
Emily: Not you. I’m sure it makes it easy for HIM. He can buy himself another toy and not think about it anymore.
Me: Go talk to him about it. I’m sure that’s what you’ll do anyway.
I felt no more obligation to her and left our room, headed toward my first class. Warren was outside the building, waiting with coffee, and I swear his whole body somehow softened when we made eye contact. I pulled down my sleeves, not wanting him to see the marks he’d left. He wrapped his arms around me and I felt relief. He thanked me for talking things through with him last night, as if I’d helped him make up his mind, which was almost laughable because it was clear it had already been made up. The addiction decided that for him, and I’m beginning to think it’s going to decide everything for him. But not for me. I just need to figure it out.
I was so stressed thinking about it that I took my first Addy of the day before first period even started.
April 25
When Katy walked into the bathroom today and bummed an Addy, she grabbed my hand and spun me around. Even though she looked completely flawless and like she’d had a solid nine hours of sleep, she complimented ME. She told me it was totally showing how much weight I was losing (not that I was fat before, she clarified) and said I looked like a model now.
She went on, joking about how maybe it was me being in love with Warren that was making me glow from within, and I don’t know, something about talking with her while she was all bright and happy made me think it would be a good time to bring up the Club.
Me: Hey, can we talk?
Katy, applying more lipstick: Isn’t that what we’re doing?
Me: I mean seriously, though. Something’s really bothering me.
Katy: Of course, sweetie. That’s why we’re friends, isn’t it?
I told Katy as gently but matter-of-factly as I could about the articles I had seen in the local paper, about how I was worried we’d be caught but even more worried that we were contributing to the skyrocketing addiction around Wiltshire.
Katy: Well, what did you expect?
Me: I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realize we’d be making so much. Or that we’d be impacting people like this.
Katy, rolling her eyes: I know Warren talked to you about this when you joined. Users are going to use, Bailey. What sets us apart is that we are safe about it. And smarter, really.
Me: Safe or not, we’re still putting it out there. We’re the ones making it available and turning a profit on it.
Katy: Better us than anyone else.
Me: So you don’t care?
Katy: Of course I do.
She cares. At least she said so. And this is Katy, right? Fabulous Katy, who has been there so much for me this year and who is fierce and loyal and ambitious but also good. She IS good. But she’s also THE Katy Ashton, fierce and loyal and ambitious, and perhaps all of those things to a fault, who might see me as a complete traitor and has the power to destroy me.
But still. It’s Katy. I just can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to reason. That she wouldn’t see the truth.
Me, taking a shaking breath: Then we should stop.
Katy took a step backward from me, like I’d struck her. Some
underclassman girl came in and used the bathroom. Katy and I stood there silently until the girl had finished and vacated the bathroom.
Katy, whispering: You want out?
Me: No. I promised Warren I’d stay in. But . . . I thought that maybe if you wanted to stop too, we could all agree to it, so Warren would as well.
Katy, eyes steely: I don’t want out. But if you do, if you want to leave us, and betray us to anyone, you know what happens.
The collateral. I promised Katy I wouldn’t say a word.
Me: I don’t want out. Unless we all do. I’m just . . . worried. And I think we’re probably going to get discovered.
Katy: And you’re bailing before that happens.
Me: No. It’s not like that.
Katy: Sure it’s not. Are you going to rat? (I didn’t answer, and Katy grabbed my wrist, right where the bruises were that Warren had left. When I squeaked at the pain, a flash of a smile perked up Katy’s mouth, then was gone. She squeezed my wrist harder.) You can’t tell a soul, Bailey. You know that.
Me: I’m not. I promise. I don’t want to leave. I’m sorry, I’m just scared.
Katy, letting go of my wrist and patting it softly, like an apology: We all get scared, sweetie. It’s okay. But sometimes a reminder of the consequences can keep that fear in check. Know what I mean?
I knew exactly what she meant: I needed to shut up, or they were going to make me, and their way of making me would destroy my life. I would go to jail, I would never get into Harvard, I might not be able to even graduate from high school. And the pain I’d put Dad and Bex through . . .
So Warren won’t budge and Katy not only doesn’t want out, she’s ready to let me take the fall. I don’t know who else I can trust. I feel even more trapped than before.
I have a thought, though, and it’s either the smartest or the dumbest idea that I’ve ever had in my life. I have this diary. Maybe it wouldn’t count for much to the police, but if they WOULD use the collateral, at least I have my own record of events.
I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. Just a few weeks ago I would have done anything for them. Now all I can think about is how to get away and possibly how to make sure they’ll go down with me if they frame me.