Page 25 of Backslide
So, she brings her lips to the bong’s damp hole, trying not to think about the number of teenage mouths that have been there before. Ignoring the dank stench of the water inside, she lets this boy bring his lighter to the bowl. It blazes orange, sizzling with heat, as she inhales an enormous hit.
Too enormous. Like by a lot. So that she fears for a brief moment that her lungs might collapse. Instead she launches into a deeply unsexy coughing fit, as Sebastian looks on encouragingly.
“When you cough,” he says, “it makes the effects stronger.”
This is what it takes to make him smile?
She nods vigorously, like she is totally fine with coughing up a lung and trying to ignore the searing pressure in her chest. Also:Stronger?Is that what she wants?
And nope. Nope, it isn’t. Because within minutes what was previously dull but benign feels horribly conspicuous and awkward as she slouches against the wall and wills the high to end.
No wonder Sebastian can’t form a coherent sentence. Now that she’s high, she can’t form any sentence at all.
This isn’t at all like lounging on the banks of the Door County river. This isn’t at all like running her bare feet through the grass, asense of freedom and abandon as she stretched out and shut her eyes against the breeze.
Nope.
This feeling is more akin to being trapped in a middle seat in a miniature airplane during apocalyptic turbulence.
She is dying to turn to Sabrina and tell her what’s up—to beg for help—but her bestie is embroiled in some deep conversation with this other artsy girl, Chloe something, with lots of tongue pierces and black lipstick. And as a now socially inept human, Nellie can’t figure out how a normal person would interject.
The back of her neck flashes hot. Her heart is pounding. Full panic descending.
Are the boys in the room multiplying like bacteria? The space feels like it’s shrinking.
And, oh, no! On top of the high from the bong hit, is she getting an exponential contact high from the smoke in the room?
“Hey, I remember you!” booms a voice from above her, interrupting her spiral. She looks up to find that blond kid, Damien, standing over her, his palm outstretched.
Oh, God. Not this guy. Not now.
“What’s up,Nellie?”
He says her name like she should be impressed that he knows it.
Given no other option, she manages to unfreeze and make a feeble attempt at a pound. But she doesn’t answer audibly. Words are not an option.
His hand is sweaty.
“What’s up, dude?” he says, examining her face from above, his sharp features venturing closer to her own. “Cat got your tongue? Or whatever the fuck that expression is. Is that right? Cat got your tongue? It sounds weird now. Cat. Got. Your. Tongue.”
It does sound weird. But not as weird as Nellie is feeling. She has to get out of here. Immediately.
With Damien distracted by this linguistic brain teaser, she pushes to standing and, wobbly, chances a glance down at Sebastian. “I’ve got to…” She never bothers to finish the sentence. Instead, she tiptoes her way out of the room, careful not to trip over outstretched legs or strewn backpacks. Having thus escaped into the foyer, she scans the area for the kitchen, crosses to it, and finds it blessedly empty.
Phew. She is not saved, but this is something, at least.
She finds and fills a glass to the brim with cold water, chugs it, and then tries to catch her breath.
Okay. She is okay. She will be okay.
This will end.
Right? Oh, God. What if it never ends? What if she feels this way forever? What if the pot is laced with acid and she is eternally altered like that boy she’d heard about who thought he was a glass of orange juice and spent the rest of his life afraid he might spill?
Her gaze drifts to the window with a view of Riverside Drive—the familiar stone wall, the collage of tall trees in the park, goofy with overlapping leaves like giant green sheepdogs. All she needs to do is get herself out there in the sunlight and away from all these people. All this smoke.
But how? First thing, grab her stuff. Second, make an excuse.
