Clean

by Juno Dawson

  He’s coked up. So blatantly coked up.

  How the hell did he get coke?

  His sister.

  His sister brought him drugs.

  Clever little bitch. Both of them.

  I wonder if she smuggled them inside her hijab. That’s actually pretty ingenious.

  ‘Saif!’ I say. I’m about a second away from asking him what he’s got when the words stall on my tongue.

  ‘What?’ he says, blinking like a psycho with hayfever. He’s coming up.

  ‘I . . . nothing. I mean, it’s Kendall’s turn anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, and then I’m gonna win. Then we should do Monopoly. Aw man, I am so down for Monopoly. Can I be the top hat? Fancy-ass motherfucking playa in a top hat. Yas!’

  I say nothing. As with Sasha, I don’t know if anyone else – least of all Marcus – has noticed, and I don’t wanna grass him up. I’m not a grass, period, but second of all, a wicked little part of me wants some.

  It’s all kicking off in my head.

  Good Lexi (in white, angel wings): you’re clean now, you don’t do drugs. That would be bad.

  Bad Lexi (in red latex corset and devil horns): fuck it, a tiny bit of coke isn’t gonna do any harm, is it? It’ll make Monopoly way more fun.

  Good Lexi: you’ve come this far.

  Bad Lexi: yes, and you can therefore do it again. And coke isn’t heroin, anyway.

  Good Lexi: what were the last three weeks for if you can’t resist coke the first time you see some? Are you that weak?

  Bad Lexi: probably.

  Good Lexi: and you literally just promised Nikolai this morning.

  Bad Lexi: how would he ever know? It’s not his X-Men power to know when I’ve done blow.

  Good Lexi: and what about the others? What if there’s a demented gold rush for Saif’s gak and everyone falls off the wagon? What if Brady falls off the wagon?

  I look over and see Brady laughing at something Guy is saying. I know, just know that Brady – with all his polite, concise answers in Group – would think less of me if he knew I’d done coke.

  Fuck me hard. Am I that co-dependent? Kurt likes me more when I’m high so I do drugs, Brady likes me less so I don’t. It’s a good job I’m in therapy, right? As Bad Me grumpily gives up the fight, Good Me feels a little glow of smug satisfaction. I can’t be that addicted, can I?

  After we’ve had hot chocolate and marshmallows – which I can’t even pretend to hate – we head off to bed. Brady, Guy, Sasha and Kendall are all upstairs, while Ruby, Saif and I are on the ground floor in the ‘villas’. I think we have the more expensive rooms.

  This means I have a chance to get Saif by himself once we’ve bid Ruby goodnight. By this point, I’m actually quite tired and have no desire to be wide awake and chatting utter nonsense. I was always quite practical with my coke or speed – I knew exactly how much I’d need to stay awake for the duration I wanted. ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘What’s up?’ He’s coming down now, twitchy and rubbing his nose a lot.

  ‘How did you get it in?’ I ask. This feels illicit. I want to fold myself into his secret, show him how cool I am for not ratting him out. Then, if my resolve breaks, I know he’ll trust me.

  ‘Get what in? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Balls. I forgot he’d be in the paranoid stage. Only in this case, he’s absolutely right to be. He leans against his villa door, trying – and failing – to look casual.

  ‘Come on, Saif . . . you can’t play a player.’

  His face changes, like a sudden storm rolling in. His thick brows meet in the middle. ‘Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but keep your mouth shut, yeah? Or I’ll shut it for you, bitch.’ He spits the words in my face.

  Wow. I actually have to stop myself from reacting. I don’t back up, holding my ground. Cokeheads are truly the worst. A snarl on his lips, he turns and barges into his room. I take my time to blink. ‘OK,’ I call after him. ‘Whatever. Rude much?’

  Screw him. I guess it’s his money, his rehab, his waste of time. I ruffle my hair and slope off down the corridor, hoping he doesn’t think I was shaken.

  The next day starts with the arrival of a jumbo-size, ultra-heavy-flow period. It looks like the last scene in a slasher movie down there. With everything going on, it didn’t even occur to me that I’ve unwittingly come off the pill. This is my first period in about a year. No wonder I nearly had a little boo-hoo when Saif shouted at me.

  Awkward. God, now I’m the girl who shat the bed and then bled all over it. If I’m not careful, they’ll have me in adult diapers. I strip the bed and make a little ball of sheets by the door. I’ll explain to Joyce or one of the other women nurses. I already clocked some tampons in the little cupboard under the sink, thank Christ.

  Breakfast – egg white omelette and hot water and lemon – is followed by therapy. I’m pretty much over it now. The novelty has worn off and I think Goldstein, curse him, is actually good. He’s chipping away at me and I don’t like it. I slump in and find Goldstein already waiting. ‘Good morning, Lexi. How are you today?’

  ‘I’m on my period. It’s distressing. You wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘No, no I wouldn’t and I won’t pretend to. We’ll go easy on you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’ve talked a lot about your family. Can we talk about your schooling?’

  I bristle and I’m pretty sure he notices. Oh, who am I kidding, of course he notices. He notices everything.

  ‘Sure, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, it’s something you don’t seem comfortable talking about. Why is that?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with comfort. It’s just boring. I went to school. Now I don’t.’

  He looks at me over the rim of his glasses and I wonder if he was ever young. He seems like the sort of person who was born with a beard. Geography-teacher chic.

  ‘You were an exceptional student.’

  I shrug. ‘Was I?’

  ‘Don’t be modest. I asked St Agnes for your reports.’

  I swallow. ‘Yeah? I bet that made for a riveting read.’

  ‘It was enlightening. You won an award for your writing?’

  ‘I was like twelve.’

  ‘Still. You beat thousands of other writers. You got to meet royalty. You must be very talented.’

  I remember that day well. The prize-giving was held at Kensington Palace. Princess Kate shook my hand and everything. I curtseyed, cute as a cupcake. It was a lovely, sun-washed July day and, at the time, I was very proud. Admitting that now feels like I’m letting him win. ‘You can meet royalty at any bar in Chelsea any night of the week.’

  ‘You do realise you’re deflecting praise?’

  ‘I’m British.’

  ‘If I were a therapist, I’d argue that on some level you don’t feel you’re worthy of praise.’

  ‘For writing some dumb story and winning a prize?’

  ‘It’s not just that, Lexi. You were a straight-A student until you turned sixteen. Then what? You just dropped out of school. Why?’

  Tears sting my eyes. Antonella’s face fills my head – her silky black hair, her smile, her dimples. In all the darkness, there’s a glimmer – a single match lighting at the bottom of a mineshaft. And then it blows out.

  ‘I was just over it. You know?’

  After the session, I’m allowed my allotted phone time. I have a text message from Nikolai: I saw Kurt. He’s fine. You can stop worrying. N x

  I call him at once. He answers right away. ‘Hey. You OK?’

  ‘Nikolai.’ I punch out each syllable. ‘You can’t just say “I saw Kurt”. Where was he? How did he look?’

  ‘He looked like a hipster douchebag. So, pretty normal.’

  ‘Ha ha. Where did you see him?’

  ‘Tabby was invited to some gallery opening in a shipping container in Shoreditch. I figured he’d be there.’

  That sounds fairly accurate. ‘And he was?’

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, he was there. With that inbred pug Flossy Blenheim.’

  My grip tightens on my phone, almost crushing it in my palm. ‘What? He was with Flossy, or he was with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were there together.’

  I can feel myself about to Hulk out. I swallow hard. ‘Was he high?’

  ‘It was an opening. Everyone was on coke.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Jesus, Lex. Yes, I did a line.’

  ‘Great. So you’re allowed drugs, Kurt’s allowed drugs, everyone’s allowed drugs but me. That’s just peachy.’

  ‘Grow up, Lexi. I didn’t nearly OD on junk, did I?’

  ‘This is bullshit!’ I snap and hang up on him. I know I should wait before I call Kurt, I’m going to sound like a cracked-out fishwife but I can’t wait twenty-four hours to calm down.

  I dial his number and wait. He answers after about five rings. ‘Hey, babe. How you doin’?’ He sounds crusty, like he’s in bed, just waking up. It’s ten in the morning and it feels like I’ve been up for an eternity, which makes me even more furious.

  ‘Are you alone?’ I bark. Zero chill.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want me to break it down? Are you in bed with Flossy Blenheim having recently put your penis inside her vagina?’ I hate this. I hate that he’s turned me into Archetypal Psycho Girlfriend. Where’s Cool Girl now?

  ‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’

  ‘Kurt, I know you were with her last night.’

  ‘Yes, in that we were both at the P!nk Wa!fer launch.’

  ‘Nikolai said you were together.’

  ‘Nikolai hates my guts. Jesus, are you spying on me now, Lex?’

  I tug on my hair. It’s somehow both dry and greasy at the same time.

  ‘Lex, are you there?’

  ‘Kurt. I don’t know what’s going on. I feel like I’m wearing a blindfold and I can’t pull it off.’

  ‘I was just at a party with friends. I got shitfaced on warm chardonnay and fell asleep on the night bus.’

  I want to believe him, but it all fits, doesn’t it. Flossy: stupid, rich, dying to rebel, to get her mummy and daddy’s attention.

  And who does that remind you of?

  Is that all I am to him? A cashpoint vagina? He puts his card in and I dispense twenties. I feel sick. I don’t want to want to control him. I don’t want to care. How did I end up like this? Is this love? It feels nasty and puce.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Why am I apologising?

  ‘Lexi, you gotta trust me, babes.’

  ‘I do.’ I don’t.

  ‘You know what Flossy and that lot are like. They’re always good for a laugh.’ He means they’re always good for drugs. He’s see-through.

  After we say goodbye, I sit for a while on Goldstein’s office floor. I feel about as bad as when I first arrived. I vividly picture inhaling a joint and the cloudiness that would follow, the haze, how smudged my edges would be. I want to feel pastel again. Millennial pink. I feel too well defined.

  Saif. Saif has coke. But coke isn’t what I want. The last thing I want is to be more alert. I want to zone all the way out.

  Flossy Blenheim? Jesus, even I’d hit Xenia Blenheim, but Flossy looks part-moose. She’s got the posh-girl teeth. I can’t not see them together. I know every inch of Kurt’s body. The tattoos, the way they ripple over his skin. His scar where a dealer stabbed him to the left of his armpit.

  I picture his lithe hips sinking between Flossy’s legs and I blaze with anger, like my skin’s burning off, just leaving rage and sinew.

  Well, he’s not the only desirable one. I look at the clock and see we still have thirty minutes until Group.

  And that’s plenty of time.

  I check no one’s about and breeze upstairs. I’m powered by anger. Anger and hormones. I’m on the blob, so I won’t fuck him, but there’s plenty of other things we can do.

  If Kurt can be bad, so can I. I’m every bit as bad as he is. Two wrongs don’t make a right – they make us even.

  I steamroller down the hallway, creating a tailwind as I go. I stop outside his door. Do I really want to do this? Yes, yes I do. The other night on the terrace, I felt something and I’ve never been wrong before. He wants it too.

  I knock on the door.

  I don’t look great, but my teeth are clean.

  He opens the door. ‘Hey, Lex. You OK? Am I late for Group?’ Brady’s wearing Abercrombie and Fitch sweats and a wife-beater. ‘I can’t find my Lakers cap anywhere. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. It’s a bit trashed. Lemme just do a sweep for dirty underwear.’ Well, if he cares enough about that, he obviously cares what I think. ‘I think we’re good, come in.’

  I slink into his room. I follow him closely. The room smells boyish, musky.

  ‘What’s up?’ he says.

  I stay close. I’m right under his nose. ‘I just needed to know,’ I say. ‘The other night?’

  He looks sheepish. I move closer, so our hips are almost touching. He still does nothing. I reach up and cup his cheek with my hand. He swallows, but doesn’t move. Christ, he’s making this harder than it needs to be. I instigate. I press my lips to his and for a moment he freezes like a statue and then he comes to life. He grabs my head and sucks me into a vortex of a kiss. It’s powerful, stronger than I thought it would be.

  Just when I start to purr, he stops.

  ‘Lexi, I can’t.’ He pulls away.

  I blink. ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘I . . . I just can’t.’

  Well, this is awkward. ‘Oh. OK. I thought I . . . I felt something the other night and . . . you know what? I’m sorry . . .’

  He at least has the good grace to look mortified. He gives me a squeeze on the arm and very gently plants a kiss on my forehead. ‘Lexi, it’s not you . . .’

  I frown. ‘You’re gay? Cos that’s cool . . .’

  ‘No! I’m not gay. I’m a sex addict.’

  I was not expecting that. ‘What? Are you kidding?’

  He drops down on the edge of his bed. ‘No. I wish I were. I did tell you there wasn’t a drug I hadn’t got into.’

  I sit next to him, close. ‘Brady, I’m not sure sex is a drug. You can’t get addicted to sexahol.’ I can see the outline of his semi through his joggers. ‘And if you’re a sex addict, I’m more than happy to help you out with that.’ I put a hand on his thigh, but he stands brushing it off.

  ‘Lexi, stop. I’m not kidding. I’m in recovery. Abstinence is abstinence. You can get addicted to anything that reinforces a pattern of behaviour.’

  I let it sink in. ‘So . . . no sex?’

  ‘Not right now, no.’

  ‘Wow. Can you have a wank?’

  He laughs and, damn him, it’s sexy as hell. ‘Nope. Could you just have a “little bit” of heroin and stay clean?’ I don’t tell him how much I would love a little bit of heroin. ‘It’s all-or-nothing with me. I’ve done ‘‘all’’ and it didn’t end well.’ He pauses. ‘It didn’t end well at all.’

  What does that mean? He’s obviously not going to share further. Awkward silence fills the room like a gas. ‘This is really embarrassing,’ I say, getting up off the bed.

  ‘No. It’s not, if we don’t let it be.’

  ‘Can we just pretend this never happened?’ I start to back out of the room. ‘I guess I was imagining things.’ I collide with the door, erasing the last shred of dignity I had.

  Brady follows me and takes my hand, gently pulling me back. ‘Lexi, wait. We’re cool and you’re not imagining things. I wanted to kiss you on the terrace. I want to kiss you now. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the second I saw you.’ My heart swells. I thought I was coming up here because I was pissed at Kurt, but . . . I like what he’s saying. ‘But I can’t. I really can’t.’

  I’m not ready for how disappointed I feel. It’s like a slap. I don’t know what to think. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry �
� I won’t say anything. About anything.’

  ‘It’s cool. The others – except Saif – know about my sex addiction from Group before you arrived.’

  Huh. I’m irrationally furious at Kendall and Ruby for saying nothing, but it’s not like I’ve mentioned my feelings for Brady, so . . . wait, I have feelings for Brady? I’m actually shocked at the notion strolling into my head so casually.

  ‘Give me a sec to get changed and we can walk to Group together.’

  I wait in the corridor and I’m shaky. The adrenaline, no longer needed, rattles my bones. Nothing is making sense. I feel almost relieved he rejected me. Not because I don’t want him, but because I really do.

  And that’s problematic.

  ‘It’s never one thing,’ Brady says in Group. I wonder if he feels the need to explain himself after what just happened. ‘You know, I’d go sober for a while . . . say that I won’t do it again, but then – just when you let your guard down – you hit the Fuck-It Button. You tell yourself, “oh, it’s so-and-so’s birthday and it’s just this one last time”.’

  Rain pelts against the windows.

  ‘You have it all to look forward to: the ritual. You kind of plan it out . . . you’ll have some drinks, some party, some dope, some girl. You’re high so you tell yourself it was this magical special night and you’ve fallen in love. It’s all the same chemicals in your head. You go for more drinks; you do another line. Because I was always drunk or high when I met a girl, I couldn’t ever tell the difference between love and drugs, if there even is one. It’s all euphoria, right? Totally co-dependent for a few intense weeks and then we’d break up – screaming rows, throwing shit, slapping, biting, spitting. I’d get out and get sober. Tell myself never again, ready for it to start all over.’