Free Betting Blind by Stephanie Guerra Page B

Forrest paid them.
    Becky was getting pretty friendly, too. You could tell she was starting to roll. She kept running her fingers through her hair, and then petting the carpet like it was a cat, and smiling at me. I wasn’t feeling anything myself, only a little buzzed from the beer.
    E wasn’t my drug. I didn’t like that fake-happy feeling, acting as if I loved the whole world—because I didn’t. I only loved a few people. Even when I was rolling, there was a little voice whispering, This is bullshit. You don’t feel this way. It’s just the drug.
    Crank was another story. I felt like myself on crank, only better. But that scared me, because they say feeling that way is the surest sign a drug can hook you. Besides, I’d seen what the stuff did to Tim’s friend Julio, who was tweaking so hard, he ripped the skin off his face because he thought there were bugs crawling underneath. Missy and me were there—it was sixth grade—and we couldn’t stop him. Tim wouldn’t let us call 9-1-1 because he didn’t want Julio getting arrested, but Julio said we should have. He had nasty scars after that.
    Becky scooted closer to me and laid her head in my lap. “Tickle my hair.”
    I started running my fingers on her scalp, and she made little moaning noises, which made me and Kyle look at each other and crack up. He gave me a look, like, All yours , but I wasn’t feeling it yet.
    Then a good song came on, with a phat beat, and I started to feel waves of sensation. But I was so weird, I kept fighting them.
    Feels so good right now—
    Bullshit.
    All these cool people, your friends—
    Won’t remember you once they’re in college.
    Nice girl, take her in a bedroom and—
    Wish it was Irina.
    Chill out, you bastard, and have fun—
    I’m a loser. I don’t belong here.
    Finally I got so sick of my own stupid brain that I stopped tickling Becky’s hair and leaned down and whispered, “I heard there’s a concert in one of these bedrooms. We should go check it out.” She giggled and stood up and took my hand, and we went upstairs, found a good room, and shut the door.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    S aturday morning, I woke up lying on carpet as thick as a mattress, under a giant wood shelf with mirrors. There were rows of shiny circles hanging over my head like spotlights, and it took me a second to realize they were upside-down glasses. I rolled over and knocked into . . . an empty bottle of maraschino cherries.
    The cherries triggered my memory. When Becky and I had come back downstairs the night before, everybody was acting like idiot candy ravers, sucking on lollipops and listening to trance music that sounded like somebody’s three-year-old got hold of a synthesizer. I wanted to get away from Becky, who kept stroking my hand, so I went bar hunting and got into some wack scotch that tasted like motor oil. Then I got hungry, so I started eating the cherries.
    After that . . . I didn’t remember.
    I scraped myself off the floor and stumbled to the living room, where some of the others were passed out. Binkies and candy wrappers and Christmas lights were everywhere, like baby elves had a party. Kyle was snoring, lollipop-colored spit trickling out of his mouth onto the white couch. The girls were lying in a heap like puppies. I tiptoed so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.
    “Hey,” said a weird voice.
    I almost jumped out of my skin.
    It was Forrest. He was wrapped in a blanket and leaning against the sliding glass door. He’d been sitting so still, I hadn’t realized he was there. His eyes were vampire red and he was holding an Orange Crush.
    “Hey,” I said. “You have fun last night?”
    “I’m still having fun.” He pulled his other hand from under the blanket and shook a pill bottle at me. It was the Oxies.
    I frowned. “How many did you do?”
    “Five or six. I don’t know. This shit is awesome. Can you get me more?” There was a hungry look on his face.
    A surge of warning jumped into my chest. “That might be