Love Drugged Page 8

  “They didn’t pay for the giraffe,” I said. “Is it okay anyway?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Little extras like that keep them coming back for more.”

  “Don’t go overboard,” my mother called from the living room.

  I wrapped a wedding present, using the thickest gloss-white paper and the same gold-threaded ribbon, and then a retirement gift: golf-course paper with the green ribbon with little white balls on it. Standard.

  Next was a large package to wrap, a birthday present for a high school boy. I searched through the paper, looking for something we’d used before. It should have been easy to choose—I was a teenage boy myself—but I always got stuck on these orders. My instincts were wrong. The papers I liked were, according to my parents, either too childish or too pretty for an older boy. In the past they had forced me to re-wrap some of the gifts for boys, and I got lectured about wasting paper.

  Tonight nothing could spoil my mood. I wanted to sing.

  Got me a smile on my face

  A desk drawer full of pills …

  I happily set the package aside and moved on to the next order, something easy—a house-warming gift: pale green paper with green ferns, navy blue silk ribbon. Classic and homey.

  Romance, I knew, unlike friendship, required some money. I didn’t have any. I’d never held a job besides household chores, which, in my parents’ view, didn’t merit anything more than the food and shelter they provided. In the past, whenever I wanted to buy something—games, books, or music—my parents simply considered the request and either paid for it or didn’t. But in their view, I was too young to date.

  He was too young to date

  Too poor to care …

  I finished with the house-warming gift and stepped away from the table. I glanced over my shoulder at the cash box. My parents were in and out of the door, attending to customers.

  It was wrong to steal. I knew that. At the same time, I’d done so much work for my parents lately. Plus, the gift-wrapping angle was my idea to begin with. Didn’t I deserve some compensation? Was I expected to go through life asking for payment? Weren’t child labor laws designed to help hardworking kids like me?

  Humming with nonchalance, I took three steps to the sideboard and lifted the metal lid of the cash box. I barely glanced at what was in there—just pulled out two ten-dollar bills, closed the lid without making a sound, and went back to the wrapping table. I folded the bills and slipped them into my pocket. Fifteen seconds total, from initial impulse to completion.

  I was already acting like Wes, and I hadn’t even taken a pill yet.

  It would have been crazy to beat myself up about it. It was only twenty bucks. Still, my heart drummed under my T-shirt and I had to steady myself on the back of a chair.

  Two petty thefts in one day. I was becoming a pro.

  In my bedroom, the red light of my cell phone was flashing. Celia had left a message, asking me to call her right away. Her tone was cautious, all business. I wondered if Dr. Gamez had mentioned something to her about the stolen pills. What were the chances?

  A little nervously, I dialed her number.

  She answered in a fake voice: “Good evening, Ann Accordion speaking.”

  “Excuse me, Ann, I’m looking for Amanda Lynn.”

  “So,” she said gamely. “You’re having coffee with my dad now?”

  “Don’t be jealous. We talked about you the whole time. About Perfect Miss You.”

  She laughed. “What a delicious pleasure for you both.”

  “It was a pleasure.”

  “My dad likes you a lot. Funny, I don’t see it.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, weird. We spent half our dinner tonight talking about you.”

  Not about missing pills, I hope.

  I remained calm. “I … I like your dad. He’s smart. Refined. I don’t know any other men like him.”

  “Congratulations, he’s your number one fan. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Is this why you called? To let me know I have Dr. Dad’s seal of approval?”

  “Not really,” she said, her voice almost shy. “I missed you, nerd. Do I need an excuse to call?”

  “Nope. Call anytime.”

  “Great. And my dad said you can come hang out at the house anytime.”

  “Cool. He must trust you. And trust me.”

  And he hasn’t missed the pills.

  “I assured him that you and I are just friends.”

  Pause. Long pause.

  “Right, just friends,” I repeated, grateful for the clarification. “Okay …”

  “What, are you saying you’re not my friend?”

  “Celia, I’m totally your friend! Even though you seem to have a very limited taste in movies.”

  “Yeah, well—when it comes to movies, there may be room for growth for both of us.” She laughed, sounding like herself again. Not cautious, not shy.

  I lay back on the bed and told her about my trip to the dentist. I exaggerated all the gory elements, the scraping and bloody gums, but left out the part about Dr. Connor’s son, the football star. Charmingly, Celia expressed zero sympathy for my pain.

  She likes me.

  And I liked her. There is no one more attractive than a person who likes you. Mr. Covici should write that on the wall of the library.

  Talking to Celia made me feel happy, relaxed. Maybe I didn’t even need Dr. Gamez’s magic pills to make me straight. Maybe being with Celia would be all it took.

  Just in case, only five feet away, my desk drawer contained any backup I would ever need.

  Twenty minutes later, I hung up and turned out the light. For the first time since I hit puberty, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  nine

  The night was endless, weightless, and suddenly I was dreaming. The dream didn’t have a beginning. No context, no setting. It wasn’t the kind of kiss I had ever experienced—no quick peck on the forehead or cheek. This was the real thing: a hot, wet, mouthy kiss. Hands on my face, pressure against my jaw. It felt amazing. I was so hungry for it, as if I’d been starving but didn’t realize it. For the first time, I felt sexually … normal, not like a freak. We rolled over, so that I was on top, and eager hands moved behind my head, pulling me down. I stayed right in it, full contact, no breathing required.

  The alarm on my clock/radio would go off in a minute—a fact that my body somehow anticipated each day. I felt myself waking, growing aware that I was only dreaming. I wanted to say, “No, Celia, keep going—I like this. Thank God … I like this!” But when I pulled my face away, I wasn’t staring at Celia. Instead, I saw Ivan, the blue-eyed junior from the First Knights. He didn’t speak, just half smiled, lifting his mouth again toward mine. It wasn’t the first time I’d dreamed about him.

  I sat up in bed as the alarm went off.

  I reached for the pills, and then stopped myself.

  Not yet. I couldn’t waste them. I only had eleven.

  An hour later, I was the last person to arrive at the club meeting. The one remaining free seat? Between Celia and Ivan, of course.

  Relax. Focus on the treats.

  Gwen, the yellow-haired senior, had laid out three glass platters covered in wax paper. Once the paper was removed, two of the platters revealed chocolate-chip cookies and brownies that Gwen had iced with yellow smiley-faces and pink butterflies. The third platter held sliced pears, apples and bananas. So many choices—some healthy, some decadent. It was all disturbingly perfect.

  The goal for the meeting was to prepare for the Valentine’s Day flower sale. Mr. Covici had already approved our message-tag design and caption: Don’t hide your hart from me! He’d photocopied the design onto bright red cardstock paper.

  Perfect Gwen’s cookies may have been smiling, but she studied the message tags with a sour expression. “What’s that poking its head around the tree? It looks like a big snake with antlers.”

  “It’s a deer,” Celia said in my defense. “Jamie dre
w it.”

  “Very clever,” Mr. Covici said. “Poets in Shakespeare’s time used the deer as a symbolic image of love’s desire. I’m delighted with it.”

  “Well, you misspelled heart,” Gwen said.

  Covici explained the heart/hart pun to the group, and I worried it was too clever.

  Ivan spoke up. “Anyway, Gwen, snakes don’t have antlers—or ears. You should have learned that fact in your science classes.” His pale blue eyes darted from Gwen to me, and he grinned.

  No wonder I’d dreamed about him. I could smell his after-shave. Spicy, fruity. I wanted to bury my face in his neck.

  What am I thinking?

  I needed to curb these thoughts—these hopeless hopes. Seeing Ivan only reminded me of what I dreaded about myself. Maybe I would need to take the pills before seeing Ivan rather than before seeing Celia.

  Mr. Covici divided the labor and put us into two teams. I was with Celia, Ivan, and Anella, who usually stayed quiet at meetings.

  “We will work with the leetle freshmen,” Anella said, with an accent identical to Ivan’s. She smiled at me. “If we must.”

  It turned out that Ivan and Anella were born in the same town in Eastern Europe; their families were friends long before they came to the U.S.

  Mr. Covici gave us everything we needed—a big cardboard box (the kind copy paper came in), a stack of old magazines, construction paper, scissors, and glue sticks. “All the Valentine’s messages will go in this box,” he told us. “Make a wide slot in the top and then decorate every inch of it with construction paper and pictures. Make it look romantic and special. People, it’s Marketing 101.”

  Another cake assignment. We thumbed through the magazines, ripping out pictures of “love”—couples laughing, kissing, dancing; groups of friends with toothy smiles; newlyweds posed on a bridge. I showed this last one to Celia. “Look, here’s a movie bridge for you.”

  Celia studied it. “They look like they’re ready to jump.”

  Across the table, Anella used the construction paper to cut out the words “love,” “friends,” “kisses,” and “hugs.” She began gluing them to the sides of the box.

  “Don’t forget S-E-X,” Ivan suggested, his sly grin directed at me.

  Anella punched his arm, laughing.

  Celia said, “Yeah, sure. Send a flower, a little action is part of the deal.”

  “I will send a lot of flowers then,” Ivan said.

  Anella reached to tap my hand. “Don’t feel bad, leetle freshman. With your baby face, you may get a flower or two.”

  Celia glued a picture of two puppies to the box.

  Ivan scowled. “What do dogs have to do with love?”

  “Puppy love!” she said. “Look at them. Everybody loves puppies.”

  Anella held up a photo of two men sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant. Handsome men, wearing dark suits. It wasn’t clear if they were a romantic couple or just buddies out on the town. “Okay if I put this picture on?”

  I looked away, feeling nervous. Is this question directed to me?

  “Hey,” Ivan said, “if puppies can go on the box, we can put anything on.”

  “Sure,” Celia said. “We want to sell these things to everybody. Besides, gay boys are so romantic. They’ll buy lots of flowers.”

  Is this true? Are gay boys more romantic than straight boys? And how does Celia know?

  Now Ivan addressed me. “What do you think?”

  I shook my head, blinking. “What? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Then I whispered, “Gwen’s smiley cookies are freaking me out.”

  Gwen may have heard me. “People, my parents are donating the carnations,” she bragged loudly at the other table. “So I mean, it’s all profit for the club.”

  “Okay,” Mr. Covici said, “and thanks to the generosity of Gwen’s parents, each club member can send five carnations for free. You can buy more, of course, but the first five are free, thanks to your hard work.” He moved around the tables, giving red slips to each member. “Or, your hart work, in this case. We’ll attach these to the flowers on Valentine’s Day, when we attach the rest of the tags.”

  I took my five tags and moved to a far table to fill them out. Despite what Anella said, I was a little concerned that I wouldn’t receive flowers from anyone. So the first message I wrote was addressed to me: Hey Jamie, you rock! Love, Yourself

  Wesley and Mimi were my lunch posse, so I owed them each a flower. On Wesley’s message, I wrote, Hey slugger, sorry I won’t be joining you on the field this spring. But I will be your best athletic supporter! Thanks for being an awesome friend. (Sorry this isn’t from a chickie.) Jamie

  On Mimi’s, I wrote, I’m glad Wes introduced us. Keep on smiling! Jamie

  I hoped this subtle sarcasm might actually encourage her to smile for once.

  Obviously, I needed to send one to Celia. I didn’t want to say something romantic—too early in the game. On the other hand, I didn’t want to write that I was satisfied being only her friend. In the end, I wrote, Give me my wallet and bracelet back, you bitch! I know where you live. A.L.

  I had one message left. My pen stalled on the paper, waiting for instructions from my brain.

  The first bell rang. Everyone jumped up and raced for the door.

  I addressed the front, then opened the message tag and printed in strange, crude letters, Hey, Blue Eyes, get out of my dreams. Thanks.

  I stuffed my messages into the big box and ran for class.

  At lunch, Wesley reported that Mimi had stayed home. Ever since she began joining us for lunch, it was rare for Wes and me to get any time by ourselves. So we seized the opportunity and spent most of the lunch period as aliens transported to Earth, trying to make sense of the mysterious utensils on our trays. We cut sandwiches with spoons and sucked applesauce with a straw. Mimi would not have approved.

  “This is nice,” I said, breaking out of character.

  Wes nodded. “Ever since I started baseball conditioning I feel like I never see you.”

  “I was thinking the same thing!”

  “No homo,” he said, “but we need to make some time …you know?”

  “Totally.”

  He looked almost guilty, as if the situation had been weighing on his conscience.

  I wanted to let him off the hook. “Don’t feel bad, Wes. I’ve been busy, too.”

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Our club is having its annual fundraiser this week. Flower sale for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Flower sale, really?” He smiled, as if suppressing a laugh. He loved to tease me. “And, let’s see, you’re still doing the gift-wrapping thing at home?”

  “Wes, don’t say it.”

  “I’m not saying anything! Very manly activities—that’s all I needed to say.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I’ve also been hanging out a lot with Celia Gamez.”

  “Really?” He leaned back in his chair, as if stunned.

  “Nearly every day before school. Sometimes after school.”

  “Dude, that is awesome!”

  I smiled, feeling proud and embarrassed. I hadn’t intended to tell anybody so soon. “Sorry I haven’t mentioned anything. It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  “You are a major stud.”

  This made us both laugh.

  “Let’s be real,” I said. “It could be over by Spring Break.”

  “Well, I’m excited for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m telling you, Mimi will be … shocked.”

  “Of course.”

  “She will require photos as proof. Signed statements, DNA samples, and so on …”

  “We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Listen, as long as we’re in confession mode,” he said softly, “I have some big news of my own.”

  “Excellent. Lay it on me.”

  “I’m thinking of giving up my pills.”

  “Your Ritalin? Why?”
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  He shrugged. “I’m tired of them. They suck the energy out of me and put me in a fog. At baseball conditioning, I feel like I’m slower than everybody else. I’m sick of not feeling like me.”

  I remembered what Wesley was like pre-pills—all the negative drama. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “This is huge. Congratulations.”

  “I’m old enough. I’m ready. Baseball tryouts start the day we get back from Spring Break. I’ll stop taking them over break so I’m sharp when tryouts begin.”

  “What do your parents think?”

  “Well, that’s interesting.” He hesitated, moving his tray back and forth. “They don’t know, and I’m not telling them.”

  “Wesley, that’s crazy! You need to tell them. And your doctor.”

  “Nope. No one needs to know. And FYI, I’m not even going to tell Mimi, because she’s a loudmouth, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “What if your body has some sort of freaky reaction to going off the pills? What if you start throwing punches again?”

  “I know my own body. It’s going to be fine. No punches, no broken glass. I promise, I won’t break your fancy pastels into halves this time.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “Wes, your parents are going to notice if you stop taking the Ritalin.”

  “Duh, I’ll still pretend to take it, every morning,” he said. “I’ll pop one in my mouth on my way out the door, and then I’ll spit it out just as soon as I’m on the sidewalk. Maybe some hyper-ass squirrel will benefit from a calmer lifestyle. Miracle of modern science.”

  “I don’t know. It seems risky.” All I could think of was the old Wesley I’d known in middle school. The pastel-snapper, window-breaker, fist-thrower who’d been such a terror. But that was years ago. Maturity might have been all he needed. Plus, it didn’t seem fair to argue with him when I had a stash of secret pills in a drawer at home.

  The bell rang.

  “Trust me, it’ll be okay,” he said, standing.

  “It better be.”

  Walking to class, I kept picturing those broken pastels spread out across my desk—pastels as fractions. I wondered if that was what would happen to us as we moved through life. Would we become like fractions rather than whole numbers? Each time we started taking pills, and then stopped taking them, how different from our original selves would we become?