Placebo Junkies (9 page)

This is how well Dylan knows me: he shows up with a stack of books instead of a bouquet of flowers.

Flowers are just so
biological,
the way they fade and wilt and die. It's the last thing a guinea pig like me needs more of—further evidence of the mortality all around us. Books, on the other hand, are the perfect gift: tidy little packets of fantasy and escape. From pulp to Poe, I love them all.

I love that Dylan gets that about me.

He takes one look at my bruises, or at least the inch-thick concealer that's covering my bruises, and insists that I get in bed to recuperate. He brings me tea, keeping a wary eye out for Charlotte as he sneaks in and out of the kitchen, then drapes his arm over my shoulder and watches as I flip giddily through the pile of books.

“Here's where I have to make a confession,” he says. “I'm actually being a self-serving bastard right now. I'm a little behind in English—okay, a lot behind—and I not only have to get through one of these beasts within the next twenty-four hours, I also have to write a five-hundred-word essay brilliant enough to persuade Mrs. Krolnik not to give me an incomplete.”

I open my mouth, about to say something about the kind of teacher who would penalize a student dealing with cancer, but I remember just in time that he hasn't actually told me yet that he's out of remission. “So, which one shall we read, then?” I say instead.

“Patient's choice.”

“Okay, then. How about this?” I hold up a copy of
1984.
“We were reading it in school when I…had to leave, so I never got to finish it.” I immediately wish I'd kept my mouth shut.

“Mr. Orwell it is,” says Dylan, and for a minute I think I'm safe. But
au contraire.

“Why didn't you finish school, anyway?” Dylan asks. Of course he does. There are certain topics I do everything in my power to avoid, and now it's my own damn fault, since I'm the one who brought it up. “You like reading more than anyone else I know. I bet you got straight As.”

Idiot,
I curse myself silently. I scrunch up my face and try to look pathetic enough that he just drops it. “I've told you about it before. Let's talk about something more interesting. Or better yet, let's start the book.”

But he won't let it go. “No, you haven't.” He lifts my hair and nips playfully at my ear. “Come on, Audie. I'm just trying to know you better. You're such a woman of mystery.”

Actually, I have told him, but I always make it a point to downplay things about my past when we talk.
No big deal, nothing to see here,
that sort of thing. Gliding, sliding answers—in one ear and out the other. “It's too nice an afternoon to talk about depressing things. Let's read about totalitarian states and thought police instead.”

“Tell me,” he says, pulling me in a little closer.

Big Brother is watching,
I think, which I know isn't fair. I sigh, and try to decide which version to tell him.

There are several to choose from, and each version is technically true. It all depends on who you pick as your narrator—the social worker, who'd tell you a different version than the principal, who'd tell you a
completely
different version than I would, or one of the bit players, secondary characters with minimal insight and maximal opinions. Even my own version has changed over the years—I see it all differently now than I did back then, when it all happened.

Plus, you have to consider the audience when you tell certain kinds of stories.

I settle on a melted-down explanation—a softened combination of several different versions. “A whole bunch of things happened right around the same time. Bad luck, mostly. It just kept piling on until I couldn't really take it anymore,” I say.

He waits.

“My mom died,” I tell him, and his eyes go wide and he makes the appropriate little sounds of sympathy.

I don't tell him she'd been walking around half-dead for years, addicted to everything except life.

“And after that I didn't really have anywhere to live.”

I don't mention that I wasn't living with her at the time she died—that's kind of beside the point, isn't it? Plus, we'd been talking about giving it another try. I'd run out of options and she was trying to stay clean; for once she actually seemed like she was making an effort. Operative word:
seemed.

But mothers in Dylan's world don't take anything stronger than extra-strength Tylenol. Maybe Xanax, or an extra glass of Merlot at night if they're hard-core. So I skip ahead a few steps.

“I guess I just kind of lost it,” I say. “Grief and all that.”

I don't want to lie to him, so I just leave off the messier parts. The things that tend to scare off a nice guy like Dylan. Besides, you really had to be there to understand. Context is everything.

“I had some anger issues to deal with,” I say, hoping we can leave it at that.

“Totally understandable,” Dylan murmurs.

“But I'm okay now,” I reassure him. “I've worked through it.”

They didn't press charges. A few legal technicalities, a couple of teachers who spoke on my behalf, and a mutually agreed-upon decision that it was probably best if I just sort of moved on.

There's more, but to be honest, it's all kind of a blur. I don't think I could tell him all the details even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Nobody needs to hear that kind of stuff over and over again—least of all me. And definitely not a good, decent guy like Dylan.

I just want us to have a chance. Just because we come from different worlds doesn't mean we can't start over together.

I push away the thought of the missing money.
Later.

Fortunately, Dylan doesn't need to hear any more. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest. “God, I feel so bad for you. You've had it so rough.” He sounds genuinely sad, maybe even a little weepy, which throws me a bit. I definitely don't think of him as a weepy kind of guy.

Seriously—is the entire world on mood-altering drugs today? It's gotta be a full moon, or something.

“I told you,” I say. “I'm okay now. Besides, it could be worse. I could have cancer.” I grin, try to show him that at least I'm at the point where it's okay to have a sense of humor about it.

And, fine—let's be honest. Maybe it's a little jab. A tiny one—just a little reminder that nobody's perfect, that even
he
has things in his background he'd rather erase. It's kind of a shitty thing to do, maybe, but I just want a level playing field.

I want him to want to start over, too. With me.

Dylan doesn't take it as a jab, though. Nor as a prompt to share his own little secret. Can he really have no clue that I know he's sick again? I mean, what kind of person would I have to be, not to notice all the signs? Instead, he sits back and shakes his head, looking so damn sincere I could shake him. “No, don't do that. Don't minimize your suffering.”

Shit.
I can see exactly where this is going. We're doing the opposite of moving on. And what teenage boy talks like that? I shift my weight and turn away from him while I try to conceal my irritation. I can practically feel the conversation, the whole afternoon, sliding down into this depressing-as-hell emotional vortex, and it's the last thing on earth I want to do on a gorgeous spring day with my gorgeous (though annoyingly weepy) boyfriend.

So I take a clue from George Orwell and play my own version of thought police. I turn back to Dylan and lean over to whisper in his ear, sliding the stack of books to the floor in the process. He may not want to change the subject, but I pick the one topic that no teenage boy can resist.

A little brainwashing never hurt anyone.

Dylan is shocked, of course, but he gets over it as I whisper more details, and after a minute or two he's no longer an annoying softy on the verge of tears. I mean, it's a
total
transformation, and he doesn't object at all as I take him by the hand and pull him closer.

I'm playing Consent Form Haiku with Dougie, who for reasons unknown (and unasked) is also in urgent need of a quick cash infusion, and who therefore is also participating in this study, which we both know is going to suck big-time.

But: more pain, more gain.

The loss of a week's worth of cash was a serious setback, and the only way I can possibly claw my way back toward my Castillo Finisterre finish line is to relax my standards. No more picking and choosing—I need to enroll in every test that will have me.

“What do you think?” Dougie asks as he rearranges the lines he's torn out of his forms onto one of the logo-plastered clipboards some pharmaceutical company has scattered around the waiting room. As he pushes the clipboard over, I notice one of his tattoos—five dots between his thumb and index finger. Jailbird's Scout badge. He seems awfully young for that. Like, my-age young. Somehow I'm not surprised, though. Something about Dougie has always put me on edge. Plus, he has the rattiest white-guy dreadlocks you've ever seen, which Charlotte claims are a sure sign of questionable judgment.

“Yours is better than what I came up with,” I admit, but I show him mine anyway:

“Not bad, Audie. Not bad.” He's humoring me. We give each other space, Dougie and me. I think this might be the first time it's ever been just the two of us alone in a room. Which is funny, really, since you'd think two system kids like us might have more in common. I'd bet a hundred bucks we know some of the same people in the outside world. Which is all the more reason to avoid the topic, obviously, since it's always a shame to fuck up a fresh start.

I mean, what're we going to do—plan a reunion? Ha! It's a laughable
and
a redundant idea, since for people like us the system usually sucks you back in and hosts the reunion for you, compliments of the state, no RSVP required.

I go back to flipping through the stack of paper on my clipboard in search of better lines. I'm feeling a little competitive, I'll admit. I tear out a few phrases here and there, but nothing poetic really jumps out at me. Why do these forms have to be so fucking long? It's not like anyone actually reads them. Blah blah blah, I hereby acknowledge. Mumble, mumble, mumble, I agree not to hold responsible. Hardly lyrical or quoteworthy.

Just tell me where to sign. Again and again and again.

I check my phone. I empty my mind. I wait.

Sometimes there are good days here. Easy, bloodless, paperwork days. No stitches, no probes, no pricks. Days that seem bizarrely normal, like the brown paper bag you're clutching in your hand might actually contain a sandwich and an apple instead of a leaking, stinking stool sample.
Just another day at the office!

Sometimes there are bad days. Scalpel and retractor days. Large-bore-needle days. Hazy, blurry, time-gone-lost days.

But you know what? Fuck it.

It's a waste of time, stressing about irreversible this and incurable that, thirty-one flavors of gut-scrambling side effects. That's for people whose unpuckered, scarless skin has places to go, for people with reasonable expectations of beach vacations and pool parties in the not-too-distant future, people who have a reason for not wanting to look like a walking autopsy in their swimsuits. It's for people who daydream about strapless wedding dresses, for people who can worry enough about the days ahead to bother with things like flossing and exfoliating.

It's for people who have a very different future than mine.

I know—maudlin much? It's just that Dylan isn't answering my texts, and his silence is making everything else harder to deal with.

How'd your teacher like my, oops, I mean, YOUR essay?

Then:
Where r u? Everything ok?

That sounds normal, right? I'm aware that I sometimes fail to consider how my words and actions might seem to someone on the outside. Because of this, I don't mind that Dylan has never introduced me to his family. I get it. I really do.

I'm just on edge right now because of the money. Everything feels more urgent, even something as stupid as an unanswered text.

I look at my watch and instruct myself not to send any more messages for at least three hours. I remind myself not to push him. I know he loves me, and that's enough.

He probably lost his cell phone again. Poor guy is always forgetting where he left it. It's the chemo. That shit seriously messes with your brain cells—I'd probably forget my own name if I'd been through half of what Dylan has.

Focus on the money, I tell myself, and the rest will work itself out. Concentrate on the achievable goal. I just need to dig a little deeper, work a little faster. Tighten the old belt, as they say.

I have plenty of experience eschewing material possessions. Lifestyle-induced asceticism, you could say. As far back as I can remember, things of any resale value used to come and go while I slept, as if carted off in the night by marauding herds of Craigslist goblins:

My first bike—secondhand, probably stolen, then stolen in turn from me. Karma's a bitch, learns six-year-old Audie.

The widescreen TV from the living room—an overambitious Christmas gift gone by New Year's. Santa's a flake, learns eight-year-old Audie.

Dad's tool set—bail money trumps home improvement, learns nine-year-old Audie.

A watch, a stack of DVDs, my winter coat, Granddad's coin collection—when the dealer comes a-knockin', your possessions start a-walkin', learns Audie on too many occasions to count.

You learn not to care. You learn not to get attached. Okay, so you also learn to hide and sneak and steal—I'm not pretending to be Gandhi with tits here—but my point is that when you're used to having things taken from you, you learn to get over it and get on with it.

The problem is, it takes more energy every time.

And right now it's harder than usual to shrug off the loss and start over because this time it isn't just about me. This time it's about Dylan and the trip. It's about us, and our chance to do something amazing together.

Money, I can do without. Dylan's happiness, I cannot.

I check my phone again. Two hours and forty-two minutes to go before texting him again. I'll make it casual.
Hey! Coming over tonight?
Something like that. Two hours, forty-one minutes.

It's a relief when they finally call my name, even though I know this is going to hurt.

“Good luck,” Dougie says as I stand up. He yawns as I walk by, and as he stretches, his shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of more of his tattoos. I definitely don't like the tale they tell.

The nurse doesn't look at me. Not as I follow her down the hallway and into the procedure room, and not as she hands me a paper gown and tells me to put it on so it opens in the front.

The doctor who comes in doesn't look at me, either. Not as he pushes aside the paper gown, not as he swabs my thigh with brown antiseptic, and not as he injects a local anesthetic. Definitely not as he uses small, sharp scissors to cut out a tiny chunk of muscle. “You'll need to come back to have the stitches removed,” he says to my tissue sample as he walks out of the room. I've seen more of his bald spot than I have of his face.

“You're welcome,” I call out before the door closes, a little loud, a little snarky.

He freezes, then turns and edges, wide-eyed, back into the room, like he's surprised to learn that I can speak. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” Obligation fulfilled, he skitters out again.

The nurse shoves a manila envelope at me and then walks out behind the doctor.

I shuffle through the packet quickly. Wound-care instructions, extra bandages, a list of possible signs of infection.

Nothing about getting paid.

“Wait a minute!” I push through the door and chase after the nurse. “Where's the money?”

“Money?” She looks blank.

I want to shake her.
Like I let you butcher me for free, you stupid cow?
“Cash. Compensation. Cashier's check. Whatever. You know, the
money
?”

“Oh. We had to change our terms recently, and now we don't pay until you've completed all the steps. Too many subjects were dropping out before the last phase, and then we couldn't use them in the data set. So now we don't pay until after the final follow-up visit.”

I shove my hair back with both hands, tell myself to take a deep breath. “Final visit?” I ask through gritted teeth. “And when is that?”

She sighs and keeps walking, so that I have to trot after her to keep up. “It's all in the paperwork we gave you.”

Fuck.
The paperwork that lies in jagged strips of five- and seven-syllable phrases. “I, um, I think I might have lost that page. Can you check your records or something, let me know when I can come back?”

The nurse looks at me like I don't deserve to be using up the air on her planet. “I don't have that information,” she says in a bitchy, clipped voice. “You'll have to call the study coordinator's office next week. She's on vacation until Monday.”

I shred my fingernails against the flesh of my palms and look away so she can't see how she's getting to me. “Can I please have her phone number?” I say as I blink hard. And then before she can even say it: “I know it was in the paperwork you gave me. But can you give me another copy? Please?”

I keep looking away so I don't have to watch her roll her eyes at me as she huffs her disgust and slaps a new consent-form packet onto the counter. “You're welcome,” she says in a snarky echo of my own voice.

I spin around and storm off, which is not the smartest idea in the world since it makes my stitches feel like they're tearing through my skin. I'm still numb from the anesthetic, so it doesn't really hurt, but I know it will soon enough. I just want to get the hell out of there.

But when I push through the doors to the reception area, Dougie's there waiting for me. He's limping slightly, same side as me. “Well, that sucked.”

I ignore him. I can't deal with him right now.

He doesn't take the hint. He wraps his hand around my upper arm and squeezes, not so tight that it hurts, but firm enough to send a message I can't miss. “What do you say we go somewhere, Audie? Maybe take off our pants and take care of each other's wounds the old-fashioned way.” He licks the corner of his lips and tosses back his pathetic faux dreads in a way I think is supposed to be sexy.

“Get off me, Skeevy McFuckerson.” I shove him away and practically run out of the room, not even caring when I look down and see a small bloom of blood soaking its way through my pants.

I'm not surprised. I've never liked Dougie—he set off my creepdar from the first time I met him. But he's the least of my worries, and I can't get distracted. My biggest enemy right now is time—a fact I confirm by checking the contents of the envelope in my hand. The final study follow-up isn't for five weeks. Which means no cash until after Dylan's birthday, so it might as well be forever. Just thinking about it makes me almost vibrate with anger. They already have my flesh, but I'm not getting a dime for five fucking weeks. Can they really do that—change the terms like that?

I pull out my cell phone—it's a crappy, prepaid, junkie's phone—and call Dylan. I don't care that it's not time yet. I need to hear his voice. I need to hear that we're worth this.