Free Death Spiral by Janie Chodosh Page A

isn’t enough oxygen in this smoke-filled pit to fill my lungs. I grab Jesse’s arm and take off through the apartment. I fly down the stairs and break into a run the second my feet hit pavement. If it weren’t for the fact I failed PE at my last school, okay got kicked out (you cannot play field hockey in combat boots, Ms. Flores!) and my cardiovascular deal is on par with about that of a sloth, I’d keep running. But my lungs are going apeshit on me, as in stop now or die—literally. I have no choice but to obey. I slump against a kiosk and double over.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Faith?” I hear Jesse say. I straighten up and catch his eye, then quickly look away.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say, stalling for time as I figure out what to tell him. Um, gee, sorry about what happened back there. Looks like there was some drug dealer or pest control guy having a seriously bad day in Melinda’s place. I had a great time, though!(Big smile!) Movie next week?
    It doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say, and I know it. Why would Jesse stick around after what just happened? I brace myself for the I-like-you-but-hanging-out-is-just-not-a-good-idea excuse. Well, that’s what I got for asking him to come with me.
    â€œHow about a coffee?” he says instead.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œCoffee—you know, hot beverage? Originated in Ethiopia around the ninth century? Filled with caffeine? Gets you through first period? I could really use one. And from the look on your face, so could you.”
    â€œRight…okay, good,” I stammer. “Coffee sounds good.”
    On the other side of the street there’s a place with metal bars across the window, a torn green awning, and a sign that says Breakfast Served All Day . Not exactly the cheeriest scene, but it’ll do. We go inside where a girl with long, greasy hair stands behind a glass-fronted bakery case displaying food that looks to have expired sometime around the time of the dinosaurs.
    While Jesse stops at the counter for coffee, I take a seat in the back corner by an ancient pinball machine and root around my pockets for a Tylenol, even though I know it’s ridiculous to think a painkiller could kill the fear and anger in my heart. All I find is Mom’s lighter, some lint, and an unwrapped piece of gum.
    I stick the gum in my mouth, and when I close my eyes, the questions start to flow. Is the Rat Catcher Melinda’s dealer? Was he Mom’s dealer, too? Did she owe him money? Did he have something to do with her death? And why’s he called the Rat Catcher?
    I run my hands over the grime of the sticky table and open my eyes. Then there’s the clinical trial. How does that fit in? What if Melinda was telling me the truth? What if she was right and it was the side effects from some drug that killed Mom? That would mean she didn’t OD.
    I stare out the window into the last light of day, thinking about the word truth . Is there even such a thing? Mom was always about to get off drugs and get better. That was her truth. In the end it was all a lie. Even if it was true that she’d gotten off drugs, she didn’t get better. She died.
    I’m lost in these thoughts when Jesse comes back with the coffees. I ignore the mug he sets in front of me. “What if Melinda’s being straight and my mother was in some clinical trial? Why didn’t she tell me? Why keep that a secret?”
    The question is rhetorical, but Jesse answers. “Maybe she didn’t want to get your hopes up, you know, in case it didn’t work.”
    â€œYeah, like maybe she’d die,” I say. “Anyway, it’s bullshit. It has to be. Melinda owed the Rat Catcher money. That’s why she looked so scared when he showed up. He’s probably her dealer. That’s the debt he was talking about—drug money.”
    Jesse doesn’t say anything. He dumps three containers of cream into his