Recovery Road Read Free

me.
    “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I answer.
    “Why not?”
    “I dunno. Must be my sparkling personality.”
    “I was trying to remember if I’d ever had sex with someone when I wasn’t drunk,” says Trish. “I don’t think I have.”
    “I know I haven’t.”
    “I wonder what it feels like,” says Trish.
    “Probably pretty good,” I say. “The way people go on about it.”
    “I can’t imagine doing anything straight,” says Trish, her face illuminated for a moment by the burn of her cigarette. “I’ll probably just kill myself. I tried that once.”
    “Yeah, how did that go?”
    “I fucked it up. Like everything else.”
    “I’ll probably start beating the crap out of people.”
    “Really?” says Trish. “You beat people up?”
    “Sometimes,” I say. “When I’m drunk. I’m sorta famous for it.”
    “Really?” says Trish. “You, like,
punch
them? With your fist?”
    “Yup.”
    “That’s awesome. That’s so strong.”
    “It’s a great way to meet police officers.”
    Trish thinks for a moment. “I would love to beat people up. How did you learn to do that?”
    “I got really, really drunk and then it just came to me.”

6
    M ost nights in bed, I Iie awake and squirm and stare at the bottom of Angela’s bunk. I think:
God, I would love a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Or a vodka cranberry. Or a Vicodin. Or a bong hit.
    Other nights I’m more calm. I lie blinking in the darkness and wonder what will happen to me. Will I finish high school? Will I get a job? Will I ever get married? Have I already ruined any chance at having a normal life?
    Then one night I’m half asleep and I feel my bunk move. It’s Trish.
    “Can I get in with you?” she whispers in the dark.
    I’m not a big sleeping-with-other-people person. Especially girls. I’m sort of not into it at all. But Trish is crying. She must have talked to the girl she almost killed. There are tears running down her face.
    “Okay,” I say.
    She gets in and I scoot over. We lie there. It’s kinda weird. She can tell I don’t want to cuddle or anything, so she scoots over and turns her back to me, faces away. I kind of lie on my side too, like spooning but not really touching.
    We lie like that and you can tell she’s trying not to cry, but she can’t help it. The bed shakes as she sobs.
    “Are you okay?” I finally whisper to her.
    She nods, but doesn’t answer. I stare at the back of her head. She’s had it much worse than me. She paralyzed her best friend.
    I rub her back a little and she finally falls asleep. I fall asleep too.
    Then we both wake up the next morning, when Angela accidentally kicks Trish in the head.

7
    S o tell me more about this nickname,” says Cynthia in her office.
    “What’s there to tell?” I say. “They called me Mad Dog. Mad Dog Maddie.”
    “And why did they call you that?”
    “Why do you think?”
    “Because you were aggressive and hostile toward other people?” she asks.
    “That would be why. Yes.”
    “Why were you like that?”
    “Did you ever go to high school?”
    “Yes.”
    “And did you notice most of the people are assholes?”
    “I thought most of the people were just people.”
    “Well, at my high school, they’re mostly assholes.”
    Cynthia nods. “What about the girls? Did you have any female friends?”
    “Did you not hear what I just said? The people there were
assholes.”
    She writes something in her notebook. I hate it when she does that.
    “Did you ever fight with boys?” she asks.
    “Sometimes.”
    “What did it feel like, hitting people, trying to hurt them?”
    “Honestly?”
    “Of course.”
    “It was fun,” I say.
    “Why was it fun?”
    “It just was. It was exciting. It was a rush.”
    “So it was almost like another drug, added to the ones you were already on?”
    I shrug. “I guess.”
    “So you weren’t actually angry at these people?”
    “Of course I was angry at them.”
    “But it wasn’t really anything they did. It was