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  HOW TO GROW AN ADDICT

  HOW TO GROW AN ADDICT

  A NOVEL J. A. WRIGHT

  Copyright © 2015 by J.A. Wright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-991-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015939986

  Cover Photo credit: Henry Hargreaves and Caitlin Levin

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS EITHER ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR ’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  To those

  who trudge the road to happy destiny,

  so they don’t have

  to drown in a sea of despair.

  PROLOGUE

  I still can’t figure it out. How the therapist persuaded me to stay in rehab. Maybe it was her smile or the way she motioned for me to sit down, or perhaps it was the way she put her hand on my shoulder when she introduced me to the group. Most likely it happened when I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek after I lied to the group about my black eyes and broken nose.

  I sat and listened to the others talk about the trouble they were in, the kinds of drugs they used, what they drank, and how they liked to party because I felt I owed her something for making her cry. I also felt like she wanted me to talk, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t like them. I didn’t drink or take pills so I could party all night. I used alcohol and drugs to help me feel okay, to calm me down, to shut off the voice in my head that told me I was nothing. That’s what drugs and alcohol did for me. But I wasn’t about to tell that to them.

  I was going to get up and run when I heard one of the guys say, “Hey Teach, how many sad shit stories am I supposed to tell you before you sign my court paper and let me out of here?”

  “As many as you got,” she replied. “And if you’re thinking some judge is the reason you’re here, you’re dead wrong. Drugs and booze are why you’re here, why you’re all here, and I happen to know a lot about both. I also know things will run a lot smoother if you understand your treatment plan doesn’t include me hearing about your favorite color, your astrological sign, or the TV shows you like to watch. What I want you to talk about are your secrets. How about we start with the three that got you here? Everyone has at least three.”

  Only three things? I thought to myself. I have way more than three.

  I’d never heard a woman talk like her, and I’d never considered that just three things could be responsible for all the trouble I was in. She was scary, but kind of nice. And I was curious. So I stayed.

  CHAPTER 1

  I know a lot about trouble. Mostly about causing it and not much about staying out of it. It all started when I was seven and began taking things. At first it was just money and candy, but as I got older, and better at stealing, I began to take things just for the sake of taking things. I tried to be careful about what I took and who I took it from, and I hardly ever got caught. But every once in a while I made a mistake and took something that caused a problem. Like the time I took my brother Robbie’s backpack from the players’ bench and he had to walk home in the rain from baseball practice because the bus driver wouldn’t let him ride without paying. A few days later he came down with a bad cold and almost died from an asthma attack. I wasn’t there to witness the attack, but I heard about it for years. Mom got all choked up every time she told the story of how Robbie was suffocating right in front of her, and she couldn’t find his inhaler because some school bully had stolen his backpack. She never knew it was me who took it. Because after I got the money out I threw the backpack in a dumpster.

  I didn’t mean for Robbie to get sick; I just wanted to buy a cherry Slurpee on the way home from school, and I didn’t have any money. Robbie always had money because Dad gave him some almost every day. Dad never gave me money, said a little kid didn’t need any, and the one time I got mad about it and told him it was unfair he said, “Men need to have a bit of money on them in case they get a chance to buy a girl a drink.”

  I thought that was a stupid answer and asked Robbie if he would share his money with me, but he just laughed and said, “You heard what Dad said.” I decided from then on to help myself. At first it felt wrong, but once I got started it was hard to stop, and pretty soon I was taking money from Dad’s wallet or Robbie’s gym bag at least once a week. After a while I began to feel good about it. Mainly because it was unfair that Robbie got money and I didn’t. Not only that, I hated that he didn’t have any chores except mowing the lawn on Saturdays and sometimes helping Mom in the garden. I seemed to have lots of chores, including washing the breakfast dishes, emptying the dishwasher, and starting loads of laundry—all of which had to be done before I left for school. Once, after I read The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking, I made a nametag for myself that said “House Slave” and wore it until Dad noticed and made me take it off. “You’re about as far away from being a ‘house slave’ as you are from being a ‘house genius,’” he said.

  We all knew the only “genius” in our family was Robbie. Not only was he smart, he also, as he got older, got better looking and popular. He became a goody-goody, the type of person who could do everything really well. He dressed well, spoke well, wrote well, and looked better than most people. I used to wonder how he got that way and if it would happen to me too.

  When I was about five I loved him more than I loved anyone else, and I think he loved me too. Even though he was eight years older than me, he was my best friend. He took care of me and taught me how to do things like make toast, tie my shoelaces, tell time, ride a bike, and hit a tennis ball. He even cut the manufacturer tags out of my shirts and pants because they scratched me. I didn’t just like him; I wanted to be him. I used to sit at the bottom of our front porch stairs and wait for him to get home from school to play catch, or to make macaroni and cheese and watch TV with me. When I was finally old enough to go to school, Robbie walked me to Bradford Elementary every day. It was about four blocks out of his way to his junior high, and sometimes his friends would walk behind us and tease him about being my babysitter, but he didn’t seem to care. He wanted to make sure I got to school okay. And I know Mom appreciated it because I’d heard her tell people how helpful he was. I thought Robbie and I would live together forever, and he often told me he’d never leave me alone with Dem.

  Dem was the code word we used for our parents when they were fighting, or if one of us could see Dad had been drinking. We’d warn each other with a quick Dem to let the other one know to stay away. The way Robbie said Dem was funny. It sounded like he had a mouthful of mud, and it always made me laugh. Just as funny were the times he’d write it out after he huffed on a cold glass window or used his food to spell Dem on his dinner plate.

  I had a great time hanging out with Robbie, and I got to do lots of stuff I wasn’t supposed to. Mostly things like climbing trees or shooting BB guns at the neighbor’s fence. And if I was with Robbie no one ever said a word to me about going into a PG-13 movie. I even got to see Poltergeist when I was six because Robbie
’s friend worked at the theater and let me in for free. Afterward, Robbie swore he’d never take me to another movie because I insisted on sleeping in a chair next to his bed for almost a week. That’s how long it took until the little girl with long white hair stopped appearing in my head every time I closed my eyes.

  Besides being a great brother, Robbie was especially good at baseball, probably because he was tall and thin and could run super fast. I liked to watch him play from the backstop area, just behind the umpire and catcher, because it was a good distance from Dad. Dad always stood on the left field sideline because he said the umpire, coach, and players could hear him best from there. I hated it when Robbie’s friends, or their parents, would look over at Mom or me when Dad was yelling at someone. It made me feel bad and sometimes Mom and I would leave because we were embarrassed.

  If Robbie had had his way, Dad would never have been allowed to attend any of his games. Dad thought the coach was a “moron” and that the umpire “didn’t know shit about shit,” and one time he called Robbie’s coach a “fucking pussy” and got into a fight with the umpire, who’d stopped the game and walked over to Dad.

  “You’re gonna have to shape up or leave,” he said.

  Dad grabbed him by the neck and pushed him to the ground. He was just about to kick him when Robbie’s coach ran over and told Dad to back off. Dad said a few nasty things about the umpire’s wife, and then told Mom and me to follow him to the car. I was happy we were leaving, but instead of getting in the car, Dad got a hunting knife out of the trunk and slashed the coach’s tires. He mumbled something about “showing him” as he got into the driver’s seat, and I heard Mom say, “I don’t understand why you have to ruin things for everyone.”

  I didn’t see him slap her, I only heard it and then heard Mom scream. I wanted to get out of the car and run away, but I couldn’t make myself open the car door, so I slid down onto the floor and covered my head with my sweatshirt.

  I figured out real early that it was best to stay out of Dad’s way, especially if he was mad at me. I also figured out I’d have to get real good at playing baseball if I wanted to keep hanging out with Robbie, because other than school, that’s the only thing he liked to do. So I got good at pitching—so good that Robbie let me play on his team once. I was happy about it, but the other kids weren’t, and they complained I was too little and not a boy. I thought they might change their minds if I got perfect at pitching, so I kept practicing and going to their games until they let me be a batboy and help some of the guys warm up before games. With my baseball skills and short hair, a lot of people thought I was a boy. A couple of times, when Robbie’s team was short a player and didn’t want to forfeit a game, they let me take right field, but only after I’d put on a baseball cap and one of their team shirts.

  I must have been about eight when an official-looking guy took Robbie aside after a game and told him that girls can’t play baseball. On the walk home, Robbie told me I couldn’t play or practice with them anymore. I’d have to join a girls’ softball team—a bunch of crybabies who complained about everything and got hurt a lot. I joined the Shopgood Lassies softball team because Robbie said I should, and even though most of the girls on the team weren’t very good players, we took first place in our division anyway. I pitched a couple of no-hitters my first year thanks to Robbie coming along and cheering me on. He even gave me his old baseball glove at the end of the season.

  The year Robbie started his junior year in high school something weird happened, and things changed between us after that.

  I’d gotten out of school early one day and run all the way home to see my cat, Rascal, who was pregnant and had been meowing in a strange way the night before. I was worried about going to school and leaving her alone, even though Mom said she’d be okay. That morning I’d helped Mom make a bed for Rascal out of a cardboard box and old towels. We put the box in my closet because Mom thought she’d be more comfortable there, and she wasn’t too happy about the thought of Rascal giving birth on my bed. I was late leaving for school because Rascal wasn’t interested in the box, and I had to get her out from under my bed three times before she finally stayed in the closet.

  When I got to my room after school that day I opened the closet hoping to see Rascal, but she wasn’t there. I looked under my bed to find her with five little black-and-white kittens all snuggled into her belly. They were the cutest things I’d ever seen. Rascal looked tired. She was lying on her side, and when she saw me she licked the kitten closest to her and then meowed a couple of times, as if to tell me how happy she was.

  I was so excited about the kittens I could hardly keep my hands off of them. I wanted to tell someone the good news, so I went to the kitchen and called Mom at work, but the receptionist said she was with a customer and couldn’t come to the phone. Then I noticed Robbie’s coat and book bag on the dining room table, so I headed down to the basement to his room.

  Robbie’s door was slightly open—enough for me to see that something unusual was going on. And the closer I looked, the more I could see that something bad was happening to Robbie.

  Robbie was being murdered by a guy who was straddled over him, pushing something into his behind. I could tell from the strange sounds Robbie was making that it was bad, like the noises I imagined someone would make on their way to being dead. I ran back to the kitchen and dialed 911. I told the operator my brother was being murdered and that she should send the cops right away. Then I went to my bedroom and crawled under the bed next to Rascal and the kittens and waited for the police.

  By the time they arrived, Robbie and the guy were in the kitchen eating toast and drinking chocolate milk. I realized right away that whatever had happened between them must not have been the horrible thing I thought it was, because they were joking around and laughing.

  When the doorbell rang, I sprinted from the kitchen to the front door and told the policeman I’d made a mistake, that nothing bad had happened and that he should go away. I was whispering and holding the door slightly ajar so Robbie wouldn’t hear what was going on, but he came to the door anyway, asking the policeman why he was at our house. Both the policeman and Robbie looked at me and I felt I had no choice but to explain what I’d seen and why I called. When I got to the part about seeing a naked, sweaty guy on top of Robbie, he interrupted me and told the policeman I was imagining things and what I’d seen was a couple of guys practicing wrestling moves. I mentioned, under my breath, something about the other guy sticking something up his butt and Robbie yelled out, “She’s a retard, a fucking retard! She wouldn’t know a slick wrestling move if it hit her on the head!” The policeman must have believed Robbie, because he left without further questions.

  After the cop car drove off Robbie chased me all the way to my bedroom, shouting that I was about to regret the day I was born. I scrambled to get under my bed, but he was close behind. That’s when he noticed Rascal and her kittens. Robbie pulled me out by my feet and then reached over to Rascal. I thought he was going to pet her but instead he picked up one of her kittens, stood up, and started walking real fast down the hallway. Before I knew it, he was in the bathroom and I arrived just in time to see him drop the kitten into the toilet bowl and flush. When I started hitting him and screaming he turned around and squeezed my chin so hard I thought he would crush my mouth.

  “If you ever mention a word to anyone about what you think you saw, I’ll flush all the kittens down the toilet.”

  He had a crazy look on his face, the same face Dad got when he was pissed off, and I was scared. I couldn’t believe Robbie had turned into a monster. I was worried he’d kill the rest of the kittens, so I got a sleeping bag out of the hall closet and put it under the bed next to Rascal, planning to stay there until I was sure Robbie was done killing kittens. While I was in the closet, I helped myself to a few other things: a flashlight, a canteen, and a big hunting knife. I told Mom I wanted to sleep with Rascal and the kittens; I didn’t say anything about the hunting knife I’d
hidden under my pillow or that Robbie had turned into a crazed killer. Mom said it was okay, but I shouldn’t play with the kittens or bother Rascal too much.

  The next morning, on my way to the kitchen I heard Robbie say, “Hey Dad, yesterday I saw Randall in the park smoking.”

  I yelled out, “That’s a big fat lie, you were the one smoking.”

  Dad called me over to the table and asked me about it. I told him Robbie was the smoker, not me. He made me hand him my school bag. On the outside pocket, he found a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights and a pink Bic lighter. He looked at me and said in a low, quiet voice, “You’re nothing.”

  “Robbie put those in there, I swear to God,” I screamed.

  “Should I bother looking through the rest of your bag?” he replied.

  I didn’t know what to say so I said, “I don’t care.”

  I watched Dad unbuckle the inside pocket, reach in, and pull out a ribbon with his purple-heart medal attached to the end, the one he got for helping soldiers in Vietnam. He held it up and read out loud a word Robbie had obviously written on the ribbon with a black felt marker: “yellow.”

  Dad’s face turned red and purple at the same time and I thought veins in his neck were going to explode. I moved slowly backward until I was sitting on the living room couch. I looked over at Robbie and saw him smirk. I looked at Mom and she motioned for me to leave the room. I got up and ran to my bedroom, climbed under the bed, and moved to the very end, by the wall.

  I waited until I heard Dad’s car leave before I went out to the kitchen to talk to Mom. She said she found it hard to believe I would have cigarettes and even harder to believe I would take Dad’s Purple Heart. “Maybe you forgot you put them in there? You do that kind of thing sometimes. Besides, I can’t believe Robbie would do something like this.”