Drugs, Alcohol, Substance Abuse
He opens his hand, and there's this little plastic bag of powder. White powder. He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a short straw. "Voila," he says. "Care for a toot?"
I stare at the cocaine, and while part of my brain wants to say, "No, jerk, get out," another voice inside me is saying, "Why not?"
It's around three o'clock when I hear the jingle of the bell attached to the door. I am moving boxes in the storeroom. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I walk through the doorway to the front of the store. At first, I think I'm seeing things. A ghost is coming toward the counter. It's running toward me: a skeleton covered in jaundiced skin. Quick and spastic, it has started talking before I realize it's my brother. Still, I can't stop staring at this weird and jerky marionette. There are deep hollows where his cheeks used to be and his arms—dangling from the sleeves of his T-shirt—are freakishly thin. A ripe odor makes me take a step back when he comes up close.
My life used to be a glass pitcher of white, pure, clean, delicious milk just bubbling over with goddamn wholesomeness. My entire life. My whole family was shiny and perfect, snipped right out of the stereotype catalogue: Mom, Dad, me, Chelsea, and our loyal dog, Glob...
I'm seventeen now, and that's all gone. Seventeen doesn't sound old. But it is. Trust me.
