"Remember? You pleaded it down. And quite impressively, I might add. Now I know why you earn the big bucks." I peer at her from the corner of my eye just as the shock of my words transform her face from concern to outrage, rearranging her features in a way I've never seen.
And even though I know I should feel bad, ashamed, guilty, and worse-the fact is, it's not like I asked her to litigate. It's not like I asked her to plead extenuating circumstances. Claiming that my drinking on school grounds was clearly mitigated by the gravity of my situation, the huge toll of losing my entire family.
And even though she said it in good faith, even though she truly believes it to be true, that doesn't mean that it is true.
Because the truth is, I wish she hadn't said anything. I wish she'd just let them expel me.
The moment they caught me in front of my locker, the buzz faded and the day's events came rushing right back like a preview for a movie I'd rather not see. Pausing on the frame where I forgot to make Stacia delete that photo, and playing it over and over again. Then later, in the office, when I learned that it was actually Honor's phone that was used, that Stacia had gone home sick with an unfortunate bout of "food poisoning" (though not before arranging for Honor to share the photo, along with her «concerns» to Principal Buckley), well, I have to admit, that even though I was in big trouble, I mean, big, huge, you can be sure this will go on your permanent record kind of trouble, there was still this small part of me that admired her. This part that shook its tiny head and thought: Bravo! Well done!
Because despite the trouble I'm facing, not only with the school, but Sabine too, Stacia not only made good on her promise to destroy me, but she managed to bag one hundred dollars and the afternoon off for her troubles. And that is seriously admirable.
At least in a calculating, sadistic, sinister kind of way.
And yet, thanks to Stacia, Honor, and Principal Buckley's coordinated efforts, I don't have to go to school tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Which means I'll get the whole house to myself, all day, every day, allowing me plenty of privacy to continue my drinking and build up my tolerance, while Sabine's busy at work.
Because now that I've found my path to peace, nobody's gonna stand in my way.
"How long has this been going on?" Sabine asks, unsure how to approach me, how to handle me. "Do I have to hide all the alcohol? Do I need to ground you?" She shakes her head.
"Ever, I'm speaking to you! What happened back there? What is going on with you? Would you like for me to arrange for you to speak with someone? Because I know this great counselor who specializes in grief therapy…»
I can feel her looking at me, can actually feel the concern emanating off her face, but I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. There's no way I can explain, no way I can unload the whole sordid truth about auras and visions and sp" Jts and immortal ex-boyfriends. Because even though she hired a psychic for the party, she did it as a joke, a lark, a spooky bit of good clean fun.. Sabine is left-brained, organized, compartmentalized, operating on pure black-and-white logic and avoiding all gray. And if I was ever dumb enough to confide in her, to reveal the real secrets of my life, she'd do more than just arrange for me to speak with someone. She'd have me committed.
Just like she promised, Sabine hides all the alcohol before she heads back to work, but I just wait till she's gone, then slink downstairs and head for the pantry, retrieving all the bottles of vodka left over from the Halloween party, the ones she shoved in the back and forgot all about. And after I haul 'em up to my room, I plop down on my bed, thrilled by the prospect of three full weeks without any school. Twenty-one long glorious days all sprawled out before me like food before an overfed cat. One week for my pleaded-down suspension, and two for the conveniently scheduled winter break. And I plan to make the most of every single moment, spending each long lazy day in a vodka-fueled haze.
I lean back against the pillows and unscrew the cap, determined to pace myself by limiting each sip, allowing the alcohol to trail all the way down my throat and into my bloodstream before taking another. No guzzling, no gulping, no chugging allowed. Just a slow and steady stream until my head starts to clear and the whole world grows brighter. Sinking down into a much happier place. A world without memories. A home without loss.
A life where I only see what I'm supposed to.
Twenty-Nine
On the morning of December 21, I make my way downstairs. And despite being dizzy, bleary eyed, and completely hungover, I put on a pretty good show of brewing coffee and making breakfast, wanting Sabine to leave for work convinced all is well, so I can return to my room and sink back into my liquid haze.