Free Thicker Than Water by Kelly Fiore Page B

the lawn.
    I moved to smother the glow with my foot, but the damp air beat me to it. The butt was dead, the house wasquiet, and I walked into the basement, feeling nothing but possibility.
    It took less than three minutes for Jason to respond to my text message, and less than two for me to make it to my car. As I pulled into his neighborhood, I could see the silhouettes of McMansions lining the street. I forgot that Jason’s dad was some kind of real estate tycoon. The image of greasy-ass Jason and expensive Egyptian cotton sheets felt like a paradox of epic proportions.
    â€œJason’s in the basement, sweetie,” his mom said with a warm, fresh-baked smile. I swallowed hard. In what world was it fair that a douche like Jason got a mom like that?
    The house was enormous and the open floor plan somehow divided it into levels that were more than separate—like there was a floor that was absent between them. As I descended the stairs, I smelled the same sort of waste, the same reek of human landfill, that Cyrus had polluted our house with. I wondered what Jason’s mom thought he was burning down here.
    Jason was sitting in front of a massive TV, but it wasn’t brand-new. It was one of those big ones that took up more space than a couch. Call of Duty and its video game massacres moved across the screen like snapshots.
    â€œJason.”
    He looked up at me, and his stoned eyes widened like hungry mouths.
    â€œYou made it here quick, girl. You got something for me?” he asked.
    I nodded. I imagined that the Ziploc of pills in my pocket was thumping in time with my heartbeat.
    â€œAnd?”
    For a split second, the Jason in front of me transformed. He was in fifth grade again, trying to remember the capital of Wisconsin in the State Capital Bee. When I whispered “Madison,” he never said thank you. Later, when I forgot the capital of Washington, he was busy biting a hangnail.
    â€œYou got something for me?” he repeated slowly, like I was still too stupid to conduct business. I handed over the bag.
    â€œSixty a pill, right?” he murmured.
    â€œYeah. There’s five pills in that bag.”
    â€œNo shit, I can count.”
    He got up and headed into another room. From where I was standing, I could see the side of a dehumidifier and a half-full basket of dirty laundry. I started to tally the seconds in my head, but each one felt thick and musty like the air. The higher the numbers, the heavier I felt.
    Jason’s hand, gripping a wad of cash, reentered the room; the rest of him followed. I just stared at the money. He looked at my expression and smirked.
    â€œI threw in an extra ten.” He handed me the money and I flipped through it clumsily.
    What I thought: You really can count .
    What I said: “Let me know when you’re ready for more.”

JUNE
                                                 PRESENT DAY
9
    THE THING THAT’S WEIRD ABOUT A TREADMILL IS THE USELESSNESS of it, the fact that you’re going nowhere fast. (Insert jail metaphor here.) According to Dr. Barnes, exercise is a healthy way of venting frustrations or anger. The way I see it, unless I’m throwing dumbbells at a plate-glass window, working out isn’t going to relieve anything festering inside me.
    Still, I decide to use the Behavioral Therapy gym equipment this morning. I like the idea of feeling exhausted by something other than my therapy sessions.
    Today we have a guest speaker. I’ve heard it’s a pretty regular thing, doctors or teachers or victims coming in to make us feel like crap. I can handle most of this therapy stuff. I can sit through group, I can work with Trina, I can keep my nose clean and stay out of people’s way. I just don’t think I can listen to someone else drone on and on about what