Little Pills Read online

  ignore everyone

  until I get to school where there’s Alexis.

  ALEXIS

  meets me,

  eyes a-sparkle.

  Guess who dropped a new beat?!

  Santa Claus.

  Not till December.

  The Great Pumpkin.

  Close!

  Oh my God just tell me. Wait! No!

  Yes!

  Sizzy!?!?

  Ah-YUP!

  Candy!!

 
  She pretends to eat it.>

  We head to home base,

  our first class of the day.

  When I used to read, I used to like it.

  Now that

  reading is treason,

  I kind of despise it.

  Think Sizzy

  will ever

  play

  here?

  Nope.

  He’s

  too big

  now.

  But he’s from here.

  Doesn’t matter.

  Did you do the homework?

  Chemistry yes,

  English no.

  She raises an eyebrow at me.

  This is

  a thing

  she can

  actually,

  physically

  do.

  And I’m jealous

  about it.

  Serrrrious? She rolls the R

  which is

  from Lekker,

  another band

  we like.

  And

  is extra funny

  because

  we’re from

  Maine

  where,

  as Sizzy

  will tell you,

  “R’s get skipped like

  gym class in middle school.”

  What’s with

  you and English

  lately?

  I snarl at her and go cross-eyed.

  What’s with

  *you*

  and chemistry?

  Chemistry

  is way easier

  to make up.

  I just laugh

  at this.

  Not for me!

  THE TROUBLE TWINS

  That’s what

  they call us

  at school,

  me and Alexis V.

  What they mean

  when they say that

  is

  Alexis Valcourt & Charlotte Navarro

  smart

  smart

  smart

  trouble

  trouble

  trouble

  What they don’t know:

  How bad Alexis’s house stinks

  of cat pee,

  drunk stepdad,

  dirty dishes,

  and rotting trash.

  How she stays with me

  without warning,

  just shows up

  with her purse and a change of clothes

  or sometimes

  just a change of underwear.

  How the police come

  once or twice a month

  and take one

  or the other

  of the adults

  away.

  How Child Protective Services

  has taken

  her little sister away

  twice.

  My mother may never

  be home.

  My stepfather may never

  get out of bed.

  But at least they’re not

  drunk and high and

  beating on each other

  and throwing

  my kid sister

  down

  the

  stairs

  for wanting dinner.

  LUNCH

  Hallway fights are usually planned.

  But lunchroom fights just happen.

  Once a month we have one,

  and it’s usually a bad one.

  It’s seldom juniors,

  sometimes seniors,

  usually sophomores,

  or it’s freshmen.

  Alexis can’t stand fighting.

  She tries to get the attention

  of whoever is about to brawl.

  It doesn’t work all

  the time.

  Sometimes she ends up in the middle,

  then I have to save her.

  Sometimes it’s me that’s brawling.

  She’s learned not to try to save me.

  NOT MY SISTER

  It’s Alexis who points her out.

  Did your sister cut her hair?

  But then the girl

  turns around.

  Oh that’s not your sister.

  I thought it was

  because

  she’s wearing your clothes.

  And she is!

  I mean it’s Maine,

  everyone wears L.L. Bean boots.

  And flannels.

  But her T-shirt has a cartoon crow wearing a crown,

  and the pants are flared jeans

  with a “vintage” checkerboard pattern.

  Hand-painted,

  I know,

  in a studio near Portland

  called Bones and Soda.

  No one in this school dresses like that.

  Except me.

  And now,

  Mia.

  DETENTION

  Fighting gets you in detention,

  sometimes even suspension,

  it doesn’t matter if you’re smart.

  There’s an art

  to getting out of trouble

  Alexis knows it.

  I do not.

  Same kids every week:

  fights, late, mouthy streak.

  Bad students, troublemakers,

  risk-takers.

  We are all always in trouble.

  We may be smart but

  we can’t be taught.

  But today

  there’s someone

  *different.*

  A boy I don’t know but wish I did.

  Really wish I did.

  This is the boy

  I think about in the bathroom.

  This is the boy

  I gloss my lips for.

  This is the boy

  I haven’t admitted to liking.

  Not even to Alexis.

  This is Johnnie C.

  He sees me and I freeze.

  I look down,

  he looks away,

  as if to shrug,

  as if to say,

  Alright I’ll let you be

  alone.

  But that’s not what I want.

  I still can’t move.

  It’s like I’m caught.

  This is my chance,

  I’m about to blow it!

  And then I see him

  take something from his pocket

  where he stowed it.

  Something

  round

  and white

  and very

  small.

  And then it hits me—

  Johnnie C.

  is as scared

  as me.

  Of course he is,

  he’s never been here.

  I’m here twice a week.

  I’m the queen of detention.

  I strut right over.

  Sit right down.

  That little pill,

  no water.

  He just swallows…

  His face goes from mean to normal.

  His eyes go from normal to pinpoint,

  but also from glassy and scared

  to It’s cool, I don’t care.

  This is a thing I know,

  makes me not scared to say hello.

  I’m Charlotte, most people call me Char.

  He says, Johnnie Clark.

  Most people call me Johnnie C.

  because there are so many

  Johnnies, see?

  I smile. Yes, there are.

  A
nd we talk like this.

  Like we are friends or regular people or something.

  JOHNNIE C.

  is lean (but strong) and tall and blond.

  His hair is in his eyes.

  His eyes are brown and velvet, like a puppy.

  Johnnie C. hunts, fishes, ice fishes, and snowmobiles.

  His father owns a lobster pound.

  Johnnie’s worked at that lobster pound since junior high.

  I know

  he knows nothing

  about me.

  What are you in here for? I ask him.

  I got edgy with Mr. Davis.

  Edgy?

  I didn’t feel well. I had a flu or something.

  Mr. Davis kept asking me the same question

  over and over

  like I had the answer but wouldn’t tell him.

  Other people in the class started

  to laugh about it,

  which made me mad

  at Mr. Davis.

  Dude, drop it!

  I said I don’t know.

  Finally I told him…

  well…

  You told him where to go?

  We laugh.

  We get shushed.

  We take out books and pretend to be studying together.

  Which is impossible.

  He is in none of my classes. For one thing, he’s a senior. For

  another, he goes to CTE.

  But he thinks up a good one. He says, Library day?

  It’s the one class we might share.

  I tell him why I’m there.

  I got edgy, as you’d say,

  with Ms. Jordan.

  Real edgy.

  His pinpoint eyes go wide.

  You’re the girl who—

  Yeah.

  I’m here a lot, I admit.

  You fight a lot. I know that.

  I break up a lot of fights and end up in the middle.

  I thought that was your friend Alexandra?

  Alexis. Yeah, her, too.

  We laugh again.

  We get shushed. Threatened with another day in here.

  Wouldn’t be the worst thing.

  And Johnnie C.

  WINKS AT ME.

  I think I’ll die.

  But I don’t.

  CTE

  stands for:

  Career and Technical Education.

  Johnnie goes for construction engineering,

  which beats working

  at the lobster pound, I’ll bet.

  He’ll get out that way.

  My brother Leo went for automotive,

  meaning car repair,

  which is exactly what he’s doing

  in the army.

  But I guess he got out, too.

  In a way.

  Somehow, though,

  Maine still sends a lot of us

  to college.

  And if you don’t want college?

  They set you up for a trade.

  Maine tries to take care of its kids.

  I wanted to go to CTE,

  but Rupert said, No way.

  You’re college bound.

  You’re smart enough,

  you can get scholarships

  and you can

  get out.

  This is how you raise kids

  when you live in a mill town

  and work in a mill town

  and one day

  they start

  shutting mills

  down.

  But I didn’t argue.

  He’s probably right.

  Besides,

  CTE doesn’t offer

  a program

  in music production.

  MOST AFTERNOONS

  Mia is in my sister’s room

  when I get home.

  Which is also

  my room.

  Mia says:

  We can go somewhere else.

  Isabella says:

  We’re staying here.

  I say:

  I don’t care what you do.

  It isn’t true.

  I STAY

  in their way,

  deciding

  what I want to do.

  I figure

  I’ll just play it cool

  until Isabella blows a fuse.

  Then I get up.

  Mia asks:

  Where are you going?

  My sister asks:

  Who cares?

  I just say:

  Away.

  I LEAVE

  Go to Leo’s room.

  I keep

  some pills

  in here.

  He had

  some of

  his own.

  I leave

  them

  alone.

  His

  are not real

  Oxy.

  At least

  they might

  not be.

  His script

  ran out.

  There were

  none around.

  He headed

  for Main

  Street

  in town.

  Street drugs

  kill.

  I take one

  of mine

  (of Gramma’s)

  and wait.

  Lie on his bed

  until that state

  of relaxing hits me

  and I’m away…

  …except today

  it’s been

  20 minutes and

  hey,

  I still feel the same!

  Well, dinner was big.

  and I’ve been really uptight.

  Maybe that’s why it’s not working right.

  Probably I need more tonight because

  I’m really stressed…

  it’s Friday tomorrow and there are no tests.

  And my homework is done.

  So why not take a second one?

  I do.

  RUMORS

  There was a librarian

  who swallowed a pill.

  I don’t know why

  she swallowed a pill.

  Guess she was ill.

  There was a librarian

  who swallowed some liquor.

  (Oxy is fine, but with liquor it’s quicker.)

  She swallowed the liquor

  to wash down the pill.

  But I don’t know why

  she swallowed the pill.

  Guess she was ill.

  There was a librarian

  who smoked some weed.

  She smoked the weed

  to chase the liquor.

  (Oxy is fine, but with liquor it’s quicker.)

  She swallowed the liquor

  to wash down the pill.

  But I don’t know why

  she swallowed the pill.

  Guess she was ill.

  There was a librarian

  who rode the white horse…

  There was a librarian

  who rode the white horse…

  she’s dead,

  of course.

  LIES

  All that stuff they say

  about Mrs. Schiller

  isn’t true.

  Obvy!

  Liberians

  don’t do

  heroin.

  BUT

  there are

  quieter stories,

  too.

  About

  operations

  and pain prescriptions

  and overdoses

  and ambulances

  that came

  too late

  to be useful

  and so,

  the funeral.

  A GOOD EXCUSE

  I don’t think

  those

  are true

  either.

  Not

  deep

  down.

  And Alexis says

  Mrs. Schiller

  just left town.

  Moved

  somewhe
re warm

  and safe

  down south.

  But

  those rumors

  were

  a good

  excuse

  for

  self-pity

  and self-medication

  and memorials

  and dedications

  that soothed

  right away.

  Shooed away

  the sadness

  and so,

  the habit.

  THE HABIT

  Brown bottle,

  see-through.

  White wrapper

  tells you

  the contents

  and

  how many

  and

  how often.

  Six pills,

  nine days.

  Then

  they were

  gone.

  I went to school,

  I carried on.

  I went to Gramma’s

  to help her clean

  and

  cook with her

  and

  mow her lawn.

  Brown bottles,

  in a row.

  I’d forgotten,

  but I know,

  Gramma doesn’t

  take them

  but

  she bought them.

  No,

  I didn’t

  steal them.

  I wouldn’t

  steal

  from Gramma.

  I asked her:

  Why don’t you take these?

  They make me drowsy,

  fog my head.

  I only take them

  if I can’t sleep.

  I asked her:

  Why do you have so many?

  They send them

  in the mail.

  I don’t know

  how to

  stop

  them coming.

  Maybe

  one day

  I’ll decide

  I’m done.

  Ready to go.

  I’m eighty-three

  you know!

  Maybe

  one day

  I’ll just take

  all

  those

  little

  pills.

  I said

  I didn’t think

  that was

  a good idea.

  And that maybe

  I should

  get them out

  of her house

  so she wasn’t

  tempted.

  And she said:

  Okay.

  180-some pills—

  nine months’ worth!

  It was like

  Christmas came early.

  I left Gramma’s

  with all

  those bottles,

  to keep

  her

  safe,

  and keep

  me

  happy.

  HAPPY

  means different things

  for each of us.

  For Alexis,

  it means

  good grades

  and a scholarship

  to a music school.

  It means

  getting away from her mom

  and stepdad

  and taking

  her little sister, too.