Free Darling? by Heidi Jon Schmidt

automatic refusal she’d expected—he seemed hurt that she’d taken him for an easy mark. “Even if they were for you you’d have to have an adult.”
    “She’s my mother,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What do you think, I want it to get high?”
    “This much insulin could kill a person your size!”
    “Doug lets me,” she said. He had, once, after Mama called and begged him—she hated the insulin, hated leaving their apartment, even using the telephone. She quavered, she didn’t have strength for these things—Lanie was the strong one. So Doug the regular pharmacist had let her carry the insulin back, just the one time, he was very clear. And handsome, and confident—hearing his name the boy drew back. Lanie had life on her side for once; it would be easier for him to believe her, give in to her, than ferret out the lie.
    “No,” he said, suddenly, with an effort. “No.”
    Tears sprang up as if he’d slapped her. She was late already, and to be late without the insulin … Mama would be furious, she’d cry that she had no one to count on, she was alone in all the world, she asked only one little thing of Lanie and even that much Lanie couldn’t do. Then she’d get dressed in one of the suits she bought when she was job hunting and sweep down St. George Street looking so commanding people would step out of her way, pick up the prescription, and collapse in angry sobs at home. Or worse, she’d refuse to go and slip into sugar lethargy so Lane had to call the ambulance again.
    “Doug lets me,” she repeated angrily. She felt like a lost child among the high bright aisles. She wouldn’t cry though, in front of him or anyone—a pharmacist, was anything duller? She mastered herself with an iron effort, drawing herself up to dismiss him before he dismissed her, when he gave in just as surprisingly as he had balked a second before.
    “Okay,” he said, sullen. Silence had accomplished this—she of all people should have known that into a silence all fears are drawn. He looked left and right, but there was only an old woman combing the shelves for some ancient powder or liniment. “Okay, this one time.”
    She laid the bills on the counter—was he impressed she should carry so much?—thanked him stiffly, and left with the drug, the precious ingredient that must be added to Mama to keep her safe and calm. She had pulled it off, she was Lanie the magnificent, and all the way up Highland Avenue she imagined herself in the eye of a camera, starring in one happy scene after another: Lanie’s report is returned with an A; Lanie skips rope with her friends; Lanie breezes home clutching her books to her heart, stopping in the pharmacy, crossing at the light, waving to the bus driver who smiles paternally down over her … These were scenes her mother could live on, and she could invent them endlessly, it was like having a magical power.
    The arms remained crossed, to keep the bad thoughts—of Sylvie and Arlita, and clumsiness, and dirtiness, from wrecking the picture. Seeing Mr. Lathrop in the courtyard, Lanie decided to go around through the alley: he had smiled at her once, in the elevator, where most people gazed over her head as if they were blind to everything beneath their chins. She’d been bringing Casper down for his walk, and he’d said, “I used to have an English setter. They’re a nice breed—eager, affectionate—just right for a girl like you.” A girl like you? How would he know what she was like, when she herself couldn’t say? But she’d felt something glowing inside her, something that said: Look, look at me. “A … fifth grader? Unless I miss my guess … and I’ll say a good student, too, quiet, but independent, loves her doggie there” (she realized she had been stroking Casper’s head as these words fell, like blessings, on hers) “and … the Spice Girls, and … chocolate chip cookies?” Here they reached the lobby, but as he turned for the laundry room, he