Life on the Level (4 page)

“Is that why you’re here?” I say, trying to be friendly. Then I wish I hadn’t. Is that not a thing I’m supposed to ask? Sky or Leti wouldn’t have this problem. They’re actually good at talking to people. It’s not that I’m bad at talking to people (only yeah, I kind of am); it’s that I have a general distrust of anyone outside of my close circle of friends.

I’ve been told it’s a shitty way to live. Even Sky and Leti have friends outside of me. But that’s just not who I am. How are you supposed to let someone into your personal space and tell them all about who you are, and how are they supposed to accept the mess that you are? The mess that I am?

Shit, River. It’s only coffee.

“No,” she tells me. “I’m Julie. I think you’re in my friend Hutch’s group. He always gets the new people.”

“How come?”

She reaches over me and fills her mug with the decaf coffee. It smells good at least.

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Right,” I say. “Well, I’ll see you.”

I take my croissant and non-mood-enhancing-coffee drink and head outside. Long picnic tables are filled with patients and smokers. I keep my head down and walk sluggishly. You know what would help me feel better?

Coffee.

There’s a brilliant tree with bright green leaves on a bit of a hill. It’s so fucking serene I could put it on a postcard. I lay out my picnic, dig out a cigarette, and start observing.

Maybe I was wrong in coming here. Am I like these people? I know I thought everyone looked happy, but that Julie looked like a child actor after all the drugs. Others scurry around like zombies. A handful look put together. Maybe the people that are happy are at the end of their trial. I can’t be like those zombies, can I be? I mean really, what’s wrong with me?

I drink, but so does everyone.

I don’t do drugs all the time, but if the moment is right, sure, I’ll do a bump or take a hit. Sometimes I’ll take molly if I’m in the right club. But I don’t need it to
live
.

I get anxious a lot, so a guy from one of my old poker games, who’s a doctor, prescribes me anything I want. But I can live without it.

Look at me, living without it!

That just leaves gambling.

I knew how to count cards before I got to junior high school. It’s easy to get caught nowadays. Everyone thinks they’re in that Matt Damon movie and shit, and messes it up for the rest of us.

Still, I can quit if I want to. I did it a little less than a year ago when my daddy died. He didn’t make me promise him or anything. He wasn’t the kind of person to regret things on his deathbed. He just held my hand and told me I was the best bet he’d ever made. Then he was gone, and I decided to quit. Quitting everything all at once was a test. I needed to prove to myself that I could do it. I went six months without sitting at a table. Hector, my dad’s old bookie and my unofficial godfather, even called to check up on me. I quit my job and lived off my last big win.

Then, I don’t know what happened. I met a bad guy, and went for one more game. None of my friends know about Kiernan, and I hope they’ll never have to. My relationship with him wasn’t my proudest moment.

I drink my decaf coffee, now cold, and shiver in the morning breeze. There’s a middle-aged woman talking to herself at a table. She scratches at the inside of her arm. Heroin.

There’s a group of kids my age who talk like they’re in Bryant Park, having a regular day. One guy, with hair parted to the side and dimples that bring all the girls to the yard, sits at the head of the picnic table. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I bet he’s someone who likes to hear himself speak. He’s probably at the end of his time here. I decide I don’t like him.

Leaves fall all around me. I look up to see a girl hanging from a branch directly over my head.

“Took you long enough to notice me.” She’s got leaves in her hands and slowly releases them.

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be on the look out for human possums,” I say. I bite my tongue. Okay, I’m going to make it a point to stop, breathe, and think about my words before I say something sarcastic or mean.

She swings her body up, grabs hold of the branch, then jumps down beside me.

“You’re the Yankee right?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Montana’s in the north you know. Also, it’s not 1846.”

“The Civil War started in 1861.”

“Thanks for the history lesson.”

“I’m in room 3D. Across the hall from you. Name’s Maddie. Let me guess—heroin and booze. Maybe with a dash of prostitution.”

“Fuck you,” I snap.

And fuck thinking before I speak.

She laughs. “Oh, relax. It’s a game. We all do it. Isn’t that what you’re doing? Trying to figure out the level of fucked up everyone is here?”

She’s got me there. Still, I’d like to think I don’t look like a doped up hooker.

“Do me,” she says, standing with her hands at her hips like a department store mannequin.

Dirty Chucks, leggings ruined with bleach, and a Seattle Seahawks jersey. Her hair is stringy and can’t make up its mind between blonde and brown. She’s not traditionally pretty, but she’s got confidence to bottle and sell.

“Meth,” I say.

“As if,” she scoffs.

I shrug. Be nice, I remind myself. You don’t have any friends. You don’t have to make friends, but ninety days is a long time if you make enemies.

“Fine,” she says, grumbling. “I was kidding about you. I just hate when you leggy bleach blondes show up here. It distracts all the boys from the rest of us.”

“First of all,” I say between long sips of decaf, “I happen to be a natural blonde, sorry to disappoint. Second, what boys? I thought dating was against the rules.”

She cocks an eyebrow and smirks with her full mouth. “Who said anything about dating? Besides, it’s only against the rules if you get caught.”

Somehow I don’t think that’s how it works, but I just shrug and keep my thoughts to myself.

“So, Maddie from 3D. How long have you been here?”

“’Bout a month. My dad wanted me to get away from my boyfriend. If he wanted that he should’ve sent me somewhere far away, like New York or Vermont. Not somewhere Billy could drive to in six hours.”

“Six hours? I could fly to Florida in six hours.”

“Well aren’t you fucking fancy. Miss Empire State can fly wherever she feels like.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I shove the rock-hard croissant into my mouth to give myself some thinking time. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I can or can’t do. I’ve got eighty-nine days left.”

“What counselor did they give you?”

Maddie seems a lot friendlier after I give her one of my cigarettes.

“I don’t remember. Anyone to avoid?”

“Well, Helen’s a drag. She likes to talk about your past and what led you here. Ransom’s cool. He used to play professional football, then killed his best friend while driving drunk. Went off the map for, like, fifteen years, then became a counselor. He’s also our sports activity guy. Likes to think we can work out our problems by sweating. But, that’s not my kind of sweating.”

“Okay.”

“Then there’s Hutch.”

“Sounds like furniture.”

“God, wait ‘til you see him. Everyone wants him. I don’t even care about half the things he talks about. I just want to look at him, you know? He’s just got one of those faces, like that’s what they used to model Hercules after. Oooh baby! We have a pool going to see if he has a girlfriend.”

“He won’t say?”

She shakes her head. “I think he’s just doing it to play hard to get.”

I laugh. “How big is the pool?”

“I put in a carton of cigarettes.”

I bet I could win that pool, even if I haven’t seen what Hutch looks like.

“You want in?”

Yes
. My heart skips a beat. “Nah, I’m good.”

“There’s a few temp counselors that come in and out, but those are the three regulars. Don’t sessions start at ten?”

“What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

I jump to my feet and dust grass and dirt off my ass. “Thanks,” I mutter drily. She knew what time it was. Then for my own benefit, I add,
“Bitch,”
under my breath.

Right. Just like high school, but with fewer drugs.

I race past the woman talking to herself, and the table holding hands and praying. I slosh cold coffee all over the front of my shirt. There’s nothing I can do about the leaves in my hair or the crumbs that decide to cling to my face.

I find the room Helen pointed to. The door is open and it says “Chris Hutcherson” on the plaque. The glass is that wavy kind that lets you see blurry shapes from the other side.

There are two people in the room. I can make out two male voices talking. I don’t hear my name. For some reason, my heart races.

“That stuff never happens to me,” one guy says.

“Me neither…” the other guy says. “It was—I can’t even describe it.”

I clear the last croissant crumbs from my mouth, then open the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, barging in.

I freeze, and let go of the doorknob. The door slams behind me. I think I can actually feel my heart falling right out of my ass.

It’s him. It’s him. It’s him.

If I close my eyes, I can picture him kissing me. If I close my eyes, I can still remember what he feels like. The only thing I wouldn’t be able to remember is his name.

Hutcherson.

“Look who turned up,” says the second guy, who looks like a blur to me. He laughs good-naturedly, then waves goodbye. “See you on the court.”

When the other counselor leaves, and it’s just us, I feel like the room is getting smaller. Does he remember me? I mean, we were pretty drunk. Though, I remember him. How could I forget?

He clears his throat and whispers my name. “River.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. I love the way my name sounds when he says it. I bite my lower lip, holding onto my coffee cup for dear life. I start to back up, but the door is closed.

This silence drags. I can stretch it between my fingers like a rubber band. I know I need to say something but I’ve lost my words. Words, you elusive, beautiful things.

Isn’t this funny?

How fucking small is this town?

Hey, did you find my underwear?

He doesn’t seem to be doing much better. He places his fists on his desk and pushes himself forward. He has this thinking face. He downs his glass of water in several gulps. The silence gets so long I can wrap it around myself like a cocoon.

He chuckles!

He fucking chuckles. Then blows a long breath from those lips. Those full lips I admired so much.

He sits. His seat creaks and groans with his weight. Busies his fingers with papers. My file. That’s what I’ve been reduced to. He pours another glass of water, this one for me. His smile makes my heart flutter, and I wish I could reach into my chest and make it stop.

“Why are you smiling?” I ask. My voice has gone up an octave or two.

“Because,” he says, like that’s a real answer. Like it makes this less weird. Like I didn’t
run out
on him yesterday morning. “Because, I finally know your name.”

“I have to go,” I say.

I start to turn the doorknob. He practically jumps over his desk.

“Wait.”

“What?” I snap.

He shuts the door, then takes several steps away, drawing a line between our personal spaces.

“River, please, just hear me out.”

“Stop saying my name!” Why am I angry? Why is he
here
?

“I don’t know what else to call you.”

Flashback: him, grabbing my face with his strong hands.
You are so beautiful.

I brush my hair out of my face, wishing I could do something about the heat on my skin. “I don’t know. This is—this is not okay.”

He looks at me for a bit. Now that I’m getting over the shock of our reunion, I can get a better look at him with a sober brain. If beer goggles make uggos more attractive, then imagine what it’s done to someone like him. In my mind, I take into account that I lost the bet with myself. He’s not a cowboy. He’s a counselor.

He’s
my
counselor.

He messes up his hair, making him look all the more adorably rumpled.

“I’m just as shocked as you, River.”

“I’m just going to go.” I feel like a trapped mouse. “This is just too weird. I can’t be here.”

He nods, then after another painful pause goes, “You’re right.”

“Okay.” I dump my coffee in the trashcan and turn around.

He starts to reach for me. I can feel his fingers graze my elbow. He thinks better of it. Then his touch is gone.

“I shouldn’t be your counselor. That doesn’t mean you should leave. You came here to get help. I should’ve seen it when we met.”

“Why?” I ask angrily. “Because I was a drunken mess throwing herself at you? You didn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Welcome to this funny little thing called life.”

“I should’ve seen it because you looked so sad. I could see myself—I mean, I should’ve seen there was more to you. I don’t mean it in a bad way. I mean that part of me didn’t want to ask because I just needed—”

“Needed what?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets.

Don’t look at his jeans.

“I just needed to have you. I don’t do things like that normally.”

“And I do? Because I’m some raging slut.” Well, I
do
do things like that normally. They just never blow up so spectacularly in my face.

“Stop deflecting.”

“Don’t Psych 101 me.”

He smirks.

“And stop smirking.”

He licks his lips, and that just makes everything so much worse. He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against his desk. What a lucky fucking desk.

“Don’t leave because of me, please. I’ll stay out of your way. I can be professional, even if what happened between us isn’t a testament to that.”

I’m suddenly cold. I rub the goose bumps from my arms.

“This is like the let’s-be-friends speech,” I say.

He pushes his tongue against his cheek, and I can tell he wants to say something inappropriate. Maybe flirty.

“Not used to that?”