Bottled Up (8 page)

There were a few stupid signs hanging on the wall. No Smoking (no smoking what?); In Case of Fire Follow These Instructions (yeah, get the hell out as fast as you can); and We Appreciate the Referrals of Your Family and Friends (thanks for letting us make even more money off your problems).

There was a kid about Mikey's age sitting next to his mother. She was flipping through
People
magazine and he was making shooting sounds with his action figure.

Another boy who looked about six walked in with two smaller kids crying and fighting behind him. A woman came in with them, carrying a bag that took up half the room. It was too crowded in there. I was getting ready to walk out when the counselor came from down the hall.

“Pip?” she asked, smiling at me.

What a genius. I was the only sixteen-year-old guy standing there.

She was wearing this long skirt down to her ankles, a big blouse with flowers all sewn into it, and about eight million beads around her neck. She had four earrings in each ear. Her hair was all short and spiked and looked as if she never combed the gel out of it.

I'd guessed that Claire Butler was going to be like any other school counselor or teacher I'd ever met. Older than my mother, ugly, and with a voice that could cut glass with some
you'd better straighten up
speech. But she was kind of young and didn't look like anybody I'd ever seen in an office anywhere.

But she was still a counselor. She was still on Giraldi's side. She was one of them and she wasn't getting a piece of me.

She sort of waved her hand for me to follow her, so I did. Her office was even smaller than the waiting room. I sat down on some low green chair, feeling like my butt was on the ground. I pushed back with my feet until the chair hit the wall behind me. I didn't want to be too close to her, but no matter where I sat, I would be.

“Where'd you get this chair?” I asked. “A garage sale for circus midgets?”

Her desk was against the wall with her chair facing it. She turned the chair to face me instead, and sat down. But she couldn't sit still. Her chair had wheels, and she kept swiveling back and forth on it. I felt like asking her if she was on speed or something.

“You coming in for a landing?” I said instead.

“Am I making you dizzy?”

“Not really. I got other people for that.”

She smiled. “So, Pip. Welcome. It's nice to meet you. How about we start with you telling me why you're here.”

“I had an appointment,” I said.

I looked around her office at all the dumb stuff she had. There were a few you-can-do-it kind of posters on the wall, some little statues, and one of those plastic framed prayers you could get at any Hallmark store:
God grant me the serenity . . .

She was probably some religious freak who was going to bang a tambourine and tell me how Jesus saves and drugs kill.

“I know that Mr. Giraldi wanted you to begin counseling,” she said. “But I want to know why you decided to come.”

“He blackmailed me. He said if I didn't come he was going to have me killed.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“So here's what I was thinking. You tell him I'm coming. I stay alive, and you get an hour off without having to counsel anybody. You could read a book—do your nails.”

“That wouldn't work.”

“Why not?”

“It comes out to more than one hour a week. One time you come in on your own, and two times a week you're here in group.”

“What the hell is group?”

“A bunch of high school guys come in. We all talk—bounce some ideas around. They're trying to change some things in their lives.”

“I wouldn't fit in with your group.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not trying to change anything.”

“Your life is fine.”

“My life sucks. I'm just not looking to change it.”

“Because you don't know how.”

“Because I don't see the point.”

“Your life sucks but you want it to stay that way?”

“Nothing's going to change in my life because I sit here bitchin' to you about it. I know that much.”

“Then you know a lot. You're right. Bitching doesn't change anything. You do.”

I looked around for a clock and couldn't find one.

“My time up yet?”

“No. Why? You in a hurry?”

“I already told you. I don't want to be here.”

“So leave.”

“I can't.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I can't. If I don't come when you tell me to, I get expelled.”

“So then you
want
to be here.”

I was really starting to think she was on something.

“I
have
to be here.”

“Let's get something straight. You don't have to be here. You're responsible for your own choices, including any choices you made that got you in this predicament. If you want to stay in school you have to come here. So, whether or not it's your first choice of how you spend your time, you do want to come here.”

“Is my time up?”

“What do
you
think you want, Pip?” She stopped rocking the chair and waited for me to answer.

“I want to get out of here.”

“What else? What do you really want in life?”

I took a cigarette out of my pack and put it between my lips.

I was waiting for her to tell me I couldn't smoke. She didn't say anything. I guess she knew I wasn't going to light it.

“So what do you want, Pip?”

“Nothin'.”

“Maybe you just don't know what you want.”

“Maybe you just don't listen. I told you I want to get out of here.”

“Are you committed to the counseling or not?”

“I have no choice.”

“You have nothing but choices.”

What I really wanted was a joint. If she let me light up right there, I could have stayed without giving too much of a crap. The whole thing was making my head spin.

“So let's talk about the drug part.”

How did she know what I was thinking?

“Mr. Giraldi said he thinks you have a pretty hefty habit—that that's why you sleep in class and get into the trouble that you do.”

“Maybe you should just talk to him. Sounds like you think he knows everything.”

“Well, you're not giving up much here.
You
tell me. How big is your habit?”

“I don't do drugs. I'm a health nut.”

“Right, and herbs are an integral part of your diet.” She swiveled in the chair a few times. “If you can get honest from the beginning, we won't have to waste a lot of time. We can get right to helping you out.”

“You think I'm lying?” I took the butt out of my mouth.

“I can tell you're stoned right now.” She said this with a straight face. “Your pupils are so dilated, I could throw a Frisbee through one eye and watch it fly out the other.”

I pulled my lips into my mouth, trying real hard not to smile.

“You smell like a giant burning stick of reefer.”

“How do you know what reefer smells like?” I asked her.

“Aha,” she said with her eyebrows going up.

“‘Aha' what?”

“That's a trick question.”

“You ever smoke weed or not?”

“If I tell you I have, you'll point to me and say,
See? I can do it too. You turned out fine.
If I say I never smoked it, you'll tell me I don't understand you.”

I put my cigarette back in the pack. “I don't really care anyway,” I said.

“Good. I'd rather talk about you. Ever try to go a day without it?”

“Without what?”

“Come on, Pip. I can smell the pot. Hell, the birds outside who got a whiff of you are still enjoying their buzz.”

“Is my time up?”

“Almost. But if you're going along with counseling, you need to be back tomorrow at four o'clock for group.”

“Who's in this group?”

“Four guys, fifteen to seventeen years old.”

“No girls?”

“I have a separate group for the girls. I don't need you all distracting each other.”

“What do you do in group?”

“Talk—mostly about what they're trying to change and what's hard about doing it.”

“So what do
they
want?”

“You'll have to ask
them.
” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a Dixie cup. “How about a urine sample?” she asked, handing me the cup.

“No, thanks. I just had a soda.”

“The bathroom is right next door.”

“Why do I have to do this?”

“Anyone receiving counseling here is subject to periodic drug testing. It helps us obtain information that would otherwise be avoided or lied about.”

“What?”

“If you don't pee in the cup, you can't come here.”

I opened her office door and started to walk to the bathroom.

“You should get a clock in your office,” I told her. “So a guy knows how much time he has left to get tortured.”

“You could wear a watch,” she said.

Bitch.

“Thanks for the eats,” I said to Johnny.

We were sitting in one of the booths at Mia Pizza Amore. I'd caught up with him at the Site after seeing the counselor. He was hungry. I was hungry. We both hate eating at home. So we split a pie.

“No problem. I made a lot of money today.”

“You started selling?”

“Hell, yeah. You need to get in on this. I can't keep up. An hour after my first buyer walked away I had almost every jock, cheerleader, and pothead bugging me for weed.”

We tossed our garbage into the pail and went outside. It was already dark and getting cool out. I lit a cigarette and handed my last one to Johnny.

“I got two bags in my jacket right now with your name on them,” he said. “One is for you to sell, the other is all yours to smoke.”

“That's a lot of grass.”

“I got two full bottles of ecstasy you can sell too if you want. And in a couple of days there's a bag of coke coming my way. We sell that and the weed, you'll have enough money to take your little brother to Disneyland.”

He took off his jacket and shook it onto my shoulders. “Borrow this tonight,” he said. “The bags are in the pockets. Listen, if you're going to do this with me, you got to wear your own jacket or carry a backpack or something so I can pass stuff to you. This time tomorrow
you'll
be paying for our pizza.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the street with a stupid-looking grin on his face. “And tie your damn shoes. You're going to trip and drop the goods.”

“Yeah, and zip your fly,” I told him. “You're going to drop your brain.”

He grabbed his crotch, gave me the finger, then took off down the street.

I slapped the top pocket of his jacket and felt one of the bags stuffed there.

I wasn't thinking about selling.

I was thinking about smoking.

“Want to play winner?” my father asked me.

He was lying on the floor with Mikey and a checkerboard. They had a bowl of Cheez Doodles next to them. Mikey was sucking on the straw of a fruit punch juice-box. My father had a glass in his hand—big surprise.

Mikey made a muscle. “I won all six games. I'm king of checkers.”

Dad winked at me.

“Where's Mom?” I asked.

“She went to bed,” my father said. “She was pretty tired.”

“Sounds good.” I opened the refrigerator and grabbed myself a can of ginger ale. “Good night,” I said.

“Wait a second. Hang out with us a little bit.” My father got up off the floor and came over to me. “What have you been up to?”

“I had some stuff to do.”

He nodded his head as if he thought maybe I was going to tell him more than that. I didn't—just started walking to the stairs so I could get to my room.

“Let's talk about a time we can get you on the road, give you a driving lesson.”