Love Drugged (19 page)

“Mimi, give her a chance,” I said. “Maybe she’s changed.”

She shrugged. “Maybe she’s perfect for you.”

“At least she’s friendly, unlike some people.”

Wes wasn’t going to get involved. He was sort of hunched over. I thought he was taking off his shoes, but when he straightened up, he was holding a cigarette.

“What, you’re smoking now?”

He showed me his lighter: SPANKS FOR NOT SMOKING! “You want one?”

“Put that out, Wes. You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

He laughed and swatted at my ass.

“Seriously,” I said, “you are defective.”

Off in their own little world, Ivan and Anella seemed delighted by the entire experience. They eagerly traded their tennis shoes for brown-and-red leather rentals. They played with the hand-dryers and took prolonged interest in selecting the right bowling balls. With childlike enthusiasm, they surveyed the dozens of options—heavy blacks, lighter reds, iridescent greens, metallic purples—like it was the ice-cream counter at Baskin-Robbins.

Mimi was the best bowler among us. It was like she
bossed
the ball from her hand straight to the pins; there was no arguing with her strength and aim. Now I understood why she had wanted to set up a bowling night. She was generous with advice for Ivan and the girls, but to Wes and me, she barked out commands as usual: “Wes, go get us some soda. Jamie, you do the scoring.”

Obediently, I took my place in the captain’s seat. I knew how to score. The problem was, I couldn’t really see the pins.

“Hey, Anella,” I said. “Come here and score with me.”

“What an invitation!” Anella said, fanning her face theatrically, and everybody laughed. “Don’t be jealous,” she said to Celia.

“Oh, I’m not.” Celia draped her arm around me and sat on my knee.

I showed Anella how to do the scoring. When it was my turn to bowl, I stood at the line, squinting. The white pins shimmered at the end of the lane like ghosts. At least I knew which general direction to throw the ball. Praying the limb spasms wouldn’t interfere, I took a breath, stepped forward, and threw. My arm felt okay, straight. Three seconds later, I heard a crack of impact.

A miracle!

But at the end of the lane, the pins still shimmered, unchanged. As I turned toward my friends, my left arm flew out like a wild noodle. “How’d I do?” I said, before anyone could comment on my arm.

“You have a few more to take down,” Ivan said helpfully. “You got one.”

I pumped my fist. “Watch and learn.”

“He needs glasses,” Celia said to someone. “I’ve been telling him that for weeks. When we were in Mexico, he couldn’t read street signs.”

“I told you. My Spanish sucks.”

“You don’t need to speak Spanish to know
Avenida San Diego
from
Avenida San Miguel
.”

“No
hablo Español
.” I put my fingers in my ears. “
No entiendo nada
.”

My green metallic ball appeared and I took it to the bowling line. I tried to concentrate, to focus. I drew back, laid it down, and waited …
Gutter!

“Awww,” Mimi said loudly. “Next!”

I took my seat. In the lane next to ours, some college guys were bowling and partying, drinking pitchers of beer. Fraternity brothers, maybe. They were tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and tight pullovers that showed off their bodies. I suppressed a smile. Not long ago I would have watched these guys, scrutinized them up and down. I would have imagined them with their shirts off, powerless against my own curiosity. But the fact was, I didn’t care about them now. They only caught my attention because—this time—they wouldn’t
hold
my attention.

The drug works. The treatment is working!

The bowling alley was packed. Even with blurry vision, I could see that. We were lucky to have gotten a lane. The management was blasting songs from the 1980s: Beastie Boys, Guns N’ Roses, Journey. The loud music, along with the crashing of balls against pins, made my ears ring. I sipped my Coke and waited for my turn to bowl.

That’s when I noticed. Two lanes away, someone was staring. In the middle of this complete chaos, a solitary figure stood absolutely still, his gaze locked on me. I thought of the Hitchcock film
Strangers on a Train
, the famous scene at the tennis tournament when the hero, Guy, looks up in the stands, at all the hundreds of faces turning back and forth, following the tennis ball. Only one face is frozen, staring right at Guy—the psychotic killer Bruno.

In this case, it was just as bad. Paul Tremons.

I almost dropped my Coke.

His companions were laughing and clowning around, but Crazy Paul kept staring. As if he’d been waiting for me to notice him. Like a lunatic, he smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

I turned back to my friends.

Go away. Go away. Don’t come over here.

Anella brought me back to the game. “You’re up next, Jamie.”

My chest thumped in full panic mode. It didn’t seem fair. I had done everything I could—avoided him, stopped going online. I had the pills. But I was never going to escape those old mistakes as long as this one freak still knew my secret.

Celia jabbed me in the rib. “What’s wrong? Shoes too tight?”

“Nope.” I stood and put my drink into the cup holder. “Just concentrating on my game.” I reached for the green ball and moved to the bowling line, conscious that Crazy Paul was probably still watching me.

Steady hands, steady hands.

I took two steps forward and threw the ball. It careened to the right gutter as if pulled by an invisible string. My wrist was out of wack.

From the sidelines, Wesley offered characteristic support: “Dude, you suck at this.”

“Keep your wrist straight!” Mimi snapped. “Your shoulders are crooked.”

“Honestly, I don’t care,” I said. “But thanks.” When the ball emerged from the chute, I grabbed it and returned to the line.

Still watching me, freakazoid?

I steadied my shoulders and concentrated on my aim.

Damn limp wrist.

I took a breath and threw. My wrist turned. Another gutter.

“Awww,” Mimi called. “Next!”

“I have to pee,” I announced, as if it was an excuse for my pathetic performance. I needed to get away before Paul approached all my friends.

I navigated through the crowd, around people who were taller and clearly happier than me at that moment. The weaving made me dizzy. To my relief, the bathroom was nearly empty, just one tall guy talking angrily on his cell phone: “Do you believe that shit? Or do you believe the words of the man who loves you?”

There were four urinals, all in a row. No partitions. I stood at the one in the corner, breathing deeply, and hoped no one would come in when I was peeing. I wished the cell-phone user would leave. I really needed to pee.

In any case, I was glad to have the chance to think for a second. I had to believe Crazy Paul would not mess with my friends. Would he be stupid enough to let on that we knew each other?

Indignant Cell-Phone Guy said, “You take some time tonight to think about who matters to you. I don’t need this drama.” He ended the call. I could hear him at the sink, the sound of a spray—two quick squirts. When he left the bathroom, I was alone.

There had to be an unspoken code. You don’t “out” a person without his permission.

Especially if he’s made such an effort to be straight!

“Jamie?”

I turned my head.

And yes, here was Crazy Paul, three feet away. Full focus. I had forgotten about the oily forehead, the close-set, pale gray eyes.

I zipped and flushed. “Oh, hi. I wondered if that was you back there.”

Seriously? You followed me into a bathroom?

He smiled. “I waved, but you didn’t seem to recognize me.”

“I’m not wearing glasses tonight.” That was the truth, at least.

“You wear glasses? Funny, I’ve never seen you in them.”

“That’s because I don’t wear them.” It was like talking to a five-year-old nuisance. “But, you know, I could be getting some soon.”

“Okay,” he said, studying my face. “Yeah, I can see you in glasses. You’ve got the kind of face that would look good in glasses. Not everybody looks good in glasses.”

Every time he said the word
glasses,
I thought my head would explode. Since when was Crazy Paul the expert on what looked good on my face?

Why am I even talking to you?

I stepped around him to use the sink.

He folded his arms, getting comfortable. “Hey, I’m so jealous. Those guys in the lane next to you are hot! No wonder your game’s a little bit off tonight.”

“Um, I hadn’t really noticed.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Don’t act like we’re the same.

He wasn’t backing down. “How’s life? Besides the eyesight and the bowling, I mean.”

“Everything’s great, thanks.”

“So, I’ve got to ask—is one of those girls your girlfriend?”

None of your damn business.

I nodded, washing my hands. “Something like that.”

Go away, Crazy.

“Things getting serious with you two?”

“Yup.”

“That’s … grand,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Hey, in case you hadn’t heard, we started a gay-straight alliance at Maxwell back in January. We’ve got nine members. Not bad for a new club. It’s fun—in fact, that’s who I’m here with tonight.”

“Cool.” I glanced at the door and wondered how long it would take for Wesley to come looking for me.

He moved a little, as if blocking the exit. “You should come to a meeting sometime.”

“Okay,” I said quickly. “Thanks for the invite.”

He grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “You know, you don’t have
to be gay to be a member. Half the group is straight.”

It turns out, I don’t have to be gay at all.

Silence.

I stepped around him. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to
my
group. See you around.”

I bolted out of the bathroom, wondering if he would follow me. Maybe he really needed to take a leak. Doubtful.

I jogged back to our lane just in time to take my turn. Two more gutters. My concentration was shot.

I dropped into the seat next to Celia. I leaned against her and lightly rubbed her knee. “One thing I know for sure,” I said. “I’m not impressing my girl tonight.”

“Hey, who is that boy?” she whispered.

She saw him. She knows.

My heart jumped twice. “Who do you mean?”

“The one who followed you to the bathroom. I recognize him. He goes to Maxwell.”

What kind of perv follows people into the bathroom?

“Him? Yeah, he recognized me, too, but I can’t remember his name.”

Celia’s attention returned to the bowling. “Almighty crap, what is it now?”

Wesley had passed the foul line by at least ten feet. He was crouched on all fours, his skinny butt wiggling high in the air. He scurried toward us, backwards like a crab, trailed by cigarette smoke. Whatever else he was doing, he hadn’t knocked down any pins.

“He is a nut,” Celia whispered matter-of-factly.

“Only sometimes,” I said.

“Well, he may get us thrown out of here.”

I sat on my hands, hoping she was right.

twenty

My supply was limited, so I took the drug only on days when I knew I’d be spending one-on-one time with Celia. The limb spasms let up a bit, but my vision remained weak. And I needed weekends to catch up on sleep. Lucky for me, it didn’t strike anybody as strange for a teenager to spend Saturday mornings in bed with all the shades pulled down.

I heard a knock. The door opened a crack and my father poked his head in. “Got a minute?”

I sat up fast, rubbing my eyes. The alarm clock glowered 11:00.

I always felt uneasy when my father came into my bedroom. Such visits were rare. His gaze seemed to roam the neat-as-a-pin décor with suspicion, as if the tidiness might be covering up some sinister enterprise.

He leaned against the doorframe. “Get up, sleepyhead. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Yeah, like, to where?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Anywhere.”

“Just you and me?”

“Sure.”

My trouble radar sounded an alarm in my head. As I swung my legs to the floor and reached for my tennis shoes, I wondered if he would ask me outright if I’d taken money from my grandparents. If accused, I would deny it. The day after the bowling trip, I’d used the leftover money to buy Celia a simple silver bracelet with an engraved pendant that read,
“Don’t hide your hart from me.” I wrapped it using a sheet of the most elegant paper my parents had. When I presented the box to Celia, she nearly cried. I’d never seen her happier. She couldn’t stop hugging me. For the first time since Mexico, it felt like we were really back on track.

On the sidewalk, I had to hustle to keep up with my father. My legs were finally the same length as his, but his pace was quicker. Was he nervous too? At the same time, I remembered the pleasure of being out in public with him. Now and then, his hand pressed against my back as we maneuvered around lampposts and street signs. Neighbors in every direction were occupied with outdoor chores—breaking up fallen branches, sweeping driveways, acting like it took only a token of human effort to make spring arrive sooner.

Enjoying the walk, I almost forgot about the inevitable Inquisition.

Dad cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you, buddy, and I don’t want you to be defensive.”

I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “Defensive?” I asked. “About what?”

“Your mom and I are worried about you. You seem tired all the time. It’s pretty clear you haven’t been sleeping well. We can see it in your face. In your personality.”

“Who knows? Maybe I’m going through a growth spurt or something.”

“No, not a growth spurt. We think something else might be going on. And we wonder”—he paused on the sidewalk, but kept his voice even—“if maybe you’ve been experimenting with drugs. Weed, or pills, or …”

My mind entertained a paranoid thought: Was my mother
at that moment
going through my dresser drawers and bedroom bins looking for drugs? If she picked up the tank, she’d find my stash of Rehomoline. I’d be screwed.

I sighed, as if bored. “Dad, you know me better than that.”

“Well, you’re in high school now. And we don’t know the scene there …”

I forced a little laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t know
the scene
either. I’m sure there are plenty of kids using drugs at Maxwell. I just don’t ever see it.”

“You can be honest with me about this. You know you can.”

I started to walk again. “Dad, please. I want to go to college. I’m not doing
drugs.”

We walked to Peterson Avenue and turned west. We were almost to Wolfy’s, a hot-dog place we’d been going to for years.

“Let’s grab some lunch,” he said predictably. He was trying to lighten the mood to show he wasn’t angry with me. He was too nice to engage in an actual argument with anybody.

At Wolfy’s, we ordered the usual: chili dogs and root beer. The girl who brought the food to our table was pretty. Her sleek dark hair was pinned in shoestring loops behind her head. Her uniform was tight. The moment she walked away, Dad grinned at me. “Nice looking,” he whispered.

“Dad, she’s a teenager.”

“I meant, don’t
you
think she’s nice looking?”

“Meh.”

We began to eat.

“Say, what happened to that girl you liked a few months ago?”

I chewed, forming an answer. It was tempting to tell him about Celia—just let the whole romantic story spill out. He would be pleased. But then if he shared the information with my mother, she was likely to put a quick stop to our after-school outings. I couldn’t take that chance.

“Nothing much. She’s cool.”

“You know, when I was your age, I had a lot of girlfriends. That was the best part of high school for me. Girls were the
only
good thing I had going besides baseball. I don’t think that’s unusual.”

I nodded.

“I guess what I mean is, your mom has her rule about dating, but it’s okay with me if you want to go out with someone. I wouldn’t tell.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He leaned forward and tapped the table next to my food. “And buddy, I was thinking, maybe that’s the reason you seem so tired—keeping some girl happy. Not a bad reason for a guy to lose sleep, eh?”

“Jeez, I’m
telling
you, it’s a growth spurt. No girls, no drugs. Okay?”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”

I looked back towards the counter. “The only drug I really go for is caffeine. You think they have iced coffee here?”

“Iced coffee? Are you bullshitting me?”

“Dad, it’s my new favorite thing!” I had to give him something.

Revealing this tiny fact only made me more aware of all the things I couldn’t tell him. How could I convey to my father that my life now was richer than his was, my world bigger and more interesting? It wasn’t just the trip to Mexico. For the first time in my life, I was discovering the city of Chicago beyond our boring little neighborhood. It bewildered me that my parents didn’t seek out the kinds of activities that Celia and I did, like window shopping on Michigan Avenue, prowling used bookstores in Wicker Park, or even seeing foreign movies at the Music Box on Southport Avenue, where the painted stucco walls rose around us like a Moroccan castle and the ornate ceiling twinkled with stars. At Rita’s café, I had developed a taste for warm scones with whipped cream and jam, and French bread toasted with goat cheese and herbs. I now craved all sorts of hot teas: Darjeeling, Ginseng, San Francisco Spice, Gunpowder Chinese. With Celia by my side, I had unlimited access to a world of culture, privilege, and adventure.

As much as I loved my dad, I suspected that my days of chili dogs and root beer were numbered.

It got to the point where Celia and I helped ourselves at the Bound & Ground. We invented a special coffee drink, involving steamed milk, cinnamon, and half a Hershey bar. I kept a supply of chocolate in my backpack, and Celia mixed the drinks. If I had taken a pill and felt a headache coming on, the magic coffee drink was the only thing that made me feel better.

We were still careful with Rita, though. We didn’t let her see us kissing, or even touching. In her eyes, we were best friends, just
los banditos
, and that was it.

One afternoon, Rita seemed giddy, all aflutter as she worked the register. When she got a break she came and sat with us, her gold bracelets knocking against the table. “Hey there,
banditos
,” she said. “Listen, I’m glad you’re here because I have great big exciting news. I’m moving—to Albuquerque!”

For a long moment, nobody said anything.

Rita’s face never changed. Her expression remained one of crazy joy. “I’ve met someone and I’m going. We’ve been emailing for six months, and we’ve seen each other three times. He’s a perfect gentleman. His name is Rudy, and he’s a roofer. Isn’t that funny?”

Celia looked shell-shocked as she stared at her drink. “You’re
moving?
”

“Now I know,” Rita said, “that I’ve kept it a secret, and it seems like a big step. But sometimes you have to take risks for love.”

“Amen,” I said out loud, without meaning to.

“Exactly, honey,” Rita told me. “You can’t stick to the sidelines or always try to play it safe. Someday you kids will understand.”

Celia reached for Rita’s forearm. “I don’t want you to go.”

Rita chided her. “Don’t you want your Tía Rita to have some love in her life? Hey, look at me. I’m not such an old lady, Celia.”

“I know,” she said. Now she was almost crying.

I asked, “What about the café?”

She shrugged, a little defensive. “Selling it, closing it. Don’t know yet.”

How ironic, I thought painfully, that she would abandon a successful business like the Bound & Ground while my parents would cling forever to the sinking ship of their doomed enterprise.

Rita seemed at peace with her plans. “This was fun while it lasted,” she said, looking around. “But you know what? This place is cute, and I’ve put a lot of time into it. I’m proud of it. But at the end of the day, an adorable little café can’t love me the way a man can.”

“I’ll miss you so much,” Celia said.

“It’ll be hard for all of us at first,” Rita said gently. “But, Celia, you’re at the age when you can jump on an airplane and come see me anytime. Come for a nice long visit in the summer, and we’ll shoot snakes in the desert.”

Celia sniffled. “That’ll be fun, I guess.”

“You’ll come too, Jamie, okay?”

I nodded to be polite, even though the notion of snake shooting seemed cruel and scary. I’d never held a gun in my hands, except for Dr. Gamez’s handgun in Mexico.

“Now listen, Celia, I haven’t told your dad yet. He won’t be pleased.”

“He’ll miss you.”

She waved away the notion. “Get serious. Your dad won’t give a tough taco that I’m going. But he’ll be annoyed that I’m closing the café, after all the time and money he’s invested. I can deal with him, though.”

When Rita got up to attend to customers, I patted Celia’s hand. I wanted to put my arm around her, but feared Rita might see. We sat in silence for several minutes, letting the news soak in.

Finally, Celia wiped away her tears with a paper napkin. “Oh, what the hell,” she said. “Speaking of taking risks for love, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“You’ve met a roofer named Rudy, too?”

Finally, I got my wish; she smiled. “Be serious.”

I made the universal gesture for buttoning the lip.

“Thank you. Okay, James, I wanted to say, this thing we’ve got going? It totally rocks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Now listen a second. I love being with you. I love the quiet, thoughtful way you have. I like how well you listen. You’re so cute, and you’re a great kisser, and smart, and you’re fun to cuddle with. You have been
a perfect gentleman
, as Rita would say.”

I blinked, making sure to smile. “At this point, it sounds like you’re going to dump me … for a snake shooter.”

She ignored me. “So I wanted to say, you know, that it’s fine with me that we’re taking things slow—physically. Like you, I want my first time to be with someone I trust. Someone I care about.”

Now it was clear. This was a rehearsed speech, with an agenda. Suddenly I felt anxious. I waited a moment before speaking. “We agree on that.”

“The thing is, I do trust you and care about you. Completely.”

“I feel the same way.”

“And when I think about why you haven’t been very aggressive with me, in the physical sense, I wonder if maybe it’s because you’re scared of what might happen.”

This seemed like a prompt. “That’s putting it mildly.”

She nodded. “Right. Sex is a big deal. A huge deal, with real consequences. It’s the biggest deal.”

“Right.”

“Well, I wanted you to know—I mean, the thing is …” She gulped, as if she was more nervous than me. “I don’t want you to judge me or anything after I tell you this.”

“Trust me, Celia. Just say it.”

“Okay, here goes.” She took a breath, leaned close, and whispered, “I’m on the Pill.”

I wanted to say,
Is that all? That was one of the first things I ever knew about you!
But I feared what was coming next, so I kept my mouth shut.

She gazed out the window rather than looking at me. “Yeah, so it’s something my dad wanted me to do as soon as I hit puberty. Obviously he would prefer that I don’t have sex when I’m so young. But he also doesn’t want a pregnancy to disrupt any plans I have for college or a career.”

“Celia, I don’t think differently about you because you’re on the Pill.”

“The thing is, it’s a
safety measure
. It makes the idea of sex a little less scary, right?”

I nodded. “Less scary, yes.”

She stared, as if waiting for a different response. More enthusiasm perhaps.

A smidgen of enthusiasm?