The Bitch Posse (23 page)

May 1988
Holland High School

God, what if I’m an addict?
floats across my mind as I’m chewing my sixth or seventh Xanax of the day. But that’s stupid, only old ladies get addicted to prescription drugs. I’m chewing my little white miracles now because they hit me waaaay faster that way, but man, they taste awful. I pull my hair up from my neck and suck down some drinking fountain water before the bell rings.

When I lift my head from the drinking fountain, Rennie’s standing there. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I glance around to see if there are any teachers or student spies, but mostly it’s quiet near the Ag Wing, which is why we meet here. When I look at Rennie these days, I take some extra time because I know she’s depressed about her abortion. I wouldn’t judge her, but the Pope says it’s murder. Rennie’s not Catholic or anything, but I wonder if that ever crosses her mind. Then again, what does some old
Polish guy know about Amy Linnet, Rennie Taylor, Cherry Winters? I’ve got secrets I’ll never tell Father O’Neill, secrets I keep even from my friends. For example, no one knows how much Xanax I’m taking, and what I’m thinking now is that I’m running through it so fast I’ll have to ask Mary Sue for a bigger dose, and then, maybe I’ll go see my regular doctor and ask him for a prescription too. I could work like that, alternating scripts, and then I’d have enough.

Rennie, like Mom and Dad and Mary Sue, thinks I’m taking Xanax when I’m feeling the urge to cut, what Mary Sue calls a “panic attack.” They shouldn’t put drugs like Xanax in the hands of people like me. God, I love the stuff. Xanax is keeping me Amy Linnet these days. When I feel like I’m spinning near the edge, I chew one or two and feel just fine, better than fine. So are my best friends still my best friends if they don’t know that?

When I think about that too much it makes me realize that none of us really knows what’s going on behind each other’s eyes. Even when you think you’re best friends with someone there’s stuff you can never know.

Rennie’s eyes today are blank, not sparkling, just kind of empty. But that’s better than the hollow darkness I’ve seen most of this week. “How was Paradise?” That’s all I’ll say in reference to Mr. Schafer because we are at school, after all; loose lips sink ships.

“All right.”

“Is he okay with things?”

She shrugs.

I uncap my bottle. “Do you want one? Calm you down.”

She shakes her head. “I’m really sleepy these days. If I took one of those I’d probably collapse.”

Two or three Xanax in the morning on the way to school make me feel so relaxed and happy, almost drunk. Not blotto drunk where I forget everything (which has its appeal too) but just giddy, high. Best of all, my relationship with Xanax is totally legal, even encouraged. I take
a few more during the day and at least three when I’m on my way home to face Mom and Dad.

“Are we getting together tonight?” One thing I’d like to try is Xanax and vodka. Both are so great separately I can only imagine how numbing they’d be together. “The liquor cabinet is stocked and open for business.”

“Sure.” She glances over her shoulder. “McFadden sighting, better go.” And in a breath she’s gone.

Damn, she has good eyesight. That
is
Pammie McFadden coming down the hall.

“Well, Amy Linnet, how
are
you?” breathes Pammie in a super-phony voice. She’s pissed off at me because I told her if she didn’t act like she was my friend in front of people and let me use her as an excuse, I’d spill the beans about the night last year when she got so drunk she fucked six guys from Sigma Nu the same night, one after the other. Something only I know about, something she trusts me with. I don’t like Pammie anymore, but it would hurt me to do that to her. I don’t think it was really her fault. Well, it was her fault for getting drunk but . . .

But nasty’s the only way to go with Pammie, and if she pushes me, I’ll go there. “I’m great, Pammie, looking forward to
going out to the movies
with you tonight. My mom may call.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No problem, but I have better things to do, and if she shows up at the movies I’m not gonna be there.”

“She won’t.”

Her eyes narrow. “So what’s up with Rennie Taylor these days?”

“Who wants to know?”

“No one. I’ve just heard some stuff.”

My heart stops. Mr. Schafer? “What’d you hear?”

She smirks. “That she can’t lift weights for P.E. because she had
a medical procedure.
”

Oh shit, oh no. “Where’d you . . . ?”

“Miss Miller has a really loud voice. Don’t worry, though. I was the only one who heard.” She spreads her hands. “Wish her the best, won’t you? Oh, and don’t expect any more favors after tonight. We’re even now. I take it none of it will go any further than this.”

She’s gone in a breath of perfume. God, should I tell Rennie she knows? My hand shakes as I open my pill bottle and slowly, deliberately, chew another Xanax.

The air hums alive and the evening’s cresting. Lately the Xanax makes it kind of hard to drive because I keep getting sleepy and drifting toward the center line. It’s a miracle I made it here at all. My everloving vodka’s tucked away in my backpack, and maybe Cherry’ll bring some weed and I can do all kinds of messing around.

I think I’m getting better with the Xanax. I hardly ever feel like cutting anymore. Once I caught myself starting it and I just chewed up a couple Xanax and ran the hot water over my arm and I felt better. Tonight’ll be fun. I love experimenting.

Oh, I’m not stupid. I know mixing alcohol and pills can fuck you up. That’s why I haven’t taken any Xanax since the one I chewed outside the Ag Wing after talking to Pammie. And I’m going to drink very slowly, no more than two per hour. I’ll buy a bunch of orange juice out of the vending machine so I can mix up the vodka a little bit and drink it slower.

I don’t think I’ll tell the girls I’m trying this. Why worry them? Rennie’s been through enough shit lately, and something’s bugging Cherry too. Or maybe she’s just like me, way stressed out over Rennie and dealing with her own problems. God, was I glad to leave our house tonight. When I left it wasn’t even six and already Mom was nodding like it was hard to keep her neck straight, asking me questions that I’ve heard a million times before and answer patiently (Did you study for finals?
I already took them.
When can we shop for your prom dress?
Brandon’s not into it, I’m probably not going.)
By tomorrow she’ll have forgotten both her questions and my answers.

I pull open the door of the Student Union, shove some quarters in the vending machine, and buy three orange juices, which I tuck into my bag. Just before I walk into the cafeteria I chew up four Xanax, wince, and slurp down some water from the drinking fountain.

Maybe Brandon and I will actually get it together tonight. We always seem to get too messed up to do anything. “Hey, guys!” I wave and walk over to them. Cherry’s tucked up next to Sam but looks sad. Rennie’s smoking a cigarette, Kent’s hand pressing hers on her lap. He’s not a bad guy, kinda boring to me, but really smart, probably her type. I don’t know why she doesn’t tell Mr. Schafer to take a hike and hook up with Kent instead.

I light a cigarette from the open pack on the table. “Without further ado, the alcohol has arrived. What did you bring, Cherry?”

She heaves a big sigh. “Marian and I aren’t getting along these days. She cut me off, trying to teach me a lesson, I guess.”

And that’s a real surprise because Cherry and Marian totally get along. I can’t imagine a cooler mom than her; how great would it be to have a mom you could sit down and smoke a fatty with? But Cherry’s gaze says not to pursue it, so I just say, “Let us begone to the basement of the Psych Building, forsooth. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Rennie, that was Shakespeare.”

She gives a flat smile, and what
is
it with the Bitch Posse tonight? We’re positively blah. Then I realize what I’ve said. Shakespeare reminds her of Rob Schafer.

Damn, we should all just get really fucked up tonight. “Come on already.”

We pack up our stuff and head across the courtyard to the Psych Building, where we’ll all get drunk before we go our separate ways and hope to get laid. Well, all except Rennie. She’s “faithful” to her faithless Mr. Schafer, and she’s not even supposed to have sex anyway for
two weeks. I’m dying to ask her what he said about that. I sidle up to her as we’re walking and whisper, “How’d he take it? The no sex thing, the bleeding?”

She stares at me icily and says through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

We all definitely need to get drunk. I wish I had more than just a fifth of vodka.

When we get there I gulp a little OJ from the top of the first bottle and dump in some Smirnoff. “Amy Linnet mixing drinks? What, are you reformed now?” says Cherry.

I’m still not going to mention the Xanax. It doesn’t take me long to swallow down what I would consider a double or maybe a triple screwdriver, and I open up another juice. No one blinks, hee hee, they think I’m being
good
tonight, responsible Amy, hee hee. I mix my second screwdriver and slurp it down. In an instant warm water’s rushing over my skin, and I feel amazingly, incredibly, unbe-fucking-lievably high and happy. I’ve never felt so good, not even on pot, which is just a more relaxed and giggly what-the-hell-
ever
! kind of feeling.

Rennie’s giving me a funny look. “Amy, you’re all red. What’s up with that?”

I burst out laughing because she doesn’t know, ha ha, I’m giddy and warm and happy and my knees have turned into jelly, this is great! “I took some Xanax before I started drinking, and oh, damn, I feel good!”

Cherry and Rennie exchange a worried glance. Cherry says, “How much, Amy? How many did you take?”

I burst out laughing.

Kent says, “Get the booze away from her, now.”

And I’m feeling very silly, and I pull the vodka and OJ away from his reaching hand and it splashes all over, wrecking my high, so I gulp down some more and the warm rush goes through my body again. “I
know what I’m doing, I’m drinking slow!” I’m slurring now, I can hear it, and everything, the air, my blood, my body’s humming like crickets.

Rennie grabs my arm, and Cherry grabs the other, and Kent finally gets the OJ away from me. I’m pissed off but totally sleepy all of a sudden. Rennie and Cherry drag me against the wall and Rennie says, “Damn it, Amy, what are you thinking? Where is your head?” Cherry whispers something to Rennie and she says, “I don’t know, I think so.”

Sam sits down beside me and lights a cigarette for me. “Smoke, it’ll kill some of the buzz.” I take a few smokes, but I’m awfully sleepy and everything’s blurry and I can’t hold on to the cigarette and it falls to the floor, where someone takes it away and does something with it, I don’t care. I lean against Sam.

His heart’s beating into my back. Mmm, he’s so cozy and warm, no wonder Cherry likes him so much.

I drift off into blackness.

May 2003
Highway 280, San Mateo County

Rennie’s cheeks are burning, but she’s zooming the green Beetle toward Palo Alto anyway. The cookie-cutter stucco homes of San Francisco’s Nineteenth Avenue streak by, and then the mountains tower over Highway 280, a golden haze suspended in the air over the city she’s leaving behind.

As she passes the enormous statue of Father Junipero Serra, guilt or something like it bounces through her.
This is so fucked up, Rennie, what are you doing?
She squashes down the thought, and anyway, she knows what she’s doing and why. To erase what happened with Paul and the message she picked up from the San Francisco State professor, to erase everything, all her shit.

This is what you might call a “coping strategy.”

She’s drunk with something even though she’s stone-cold sober, weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars on the right. The speedometer
reads ninety and is pressing toward ninety-five, and Paul, Paul, she’s maybe messed him up for life.

But it’s such a yummy memory, she’ll let herself savor it again, just for a second. She ran her fingers up and down his arms, lifted her head to his, tucked her fingers behind his neck, closed her eyes, and pulled him toward her. His lips brushed hers
right there in her classroom,
and the danger and sheer stupidity of it sent rushes of passion through her and a panic of thoughts,
Oh, touch me, won’t you touch me?
And she clasped his fingers, pressed them to her breast, and he squeezed her nipple, drawing it to a point for one perfect, fantastic, amazing moment . . .

But then he stiffened and pushed her away. “Ms. Taylor, we can’t, this is wrong, I can’t, I’m sorry.” He turned and walked away, and this is where the memory sours. He’ll never, never speak to her again, and all the good work she’s done for him, it’s all nothing because he can never trust her again, never see her the same way. She’ll have to face him in senior lit day after day after day until graduation, and she’ll never be able to look at him the same way either.

At that moment she felt so fucking embarrassed and high, coasting on anxiety, she couldn’t get out of her classroom fast enough. Of course she was going to solve it how she always does. As she backed out of the school parking lot, she picked up her cell phone, punched in his number, and said, “It’s Wren. I’m coming.” And Puck said, “When you get here I’ll be coming too. I can hardly wait, I’ll chill some wine.”