The next Monday, at school, Demi found me during lunch, where I sat alone in the cafeteria, silently loathing everybody like I did every lunch hour.

She sat down across from me and said, “Hey, Layne.”

“Oh, hi, Demi.”

“You don’t got any friends, either, I guess…” She let out a sigh. “That’s fine, we can just be friends.”

“Wait, actually?” My heart popped up in excitement, the thought of a new friend having gotten so foreign to me that it seemed impossible, especially in a place like Pleasant Grove High School.

“Yeah, I mean, neither of us have a friend and you’re cooler than all these fuckin’ losers who live around here.”

That was the end of our conversation and we ate lunch together in utter silence. But it was nice. The possibility of a friend, who didn’t live hours away? Thank God, I thought I’d’ve died from the isolation.

Demi and I sat together during lunch everyday, talking quietly about nothing much. Then, on Saturday, which was the first of March, I saw her again at T.T.T (which stood for Troubled Teens Therapy), and she invited me to a party that would be held on the following Friday. James was waiting in the parking lot for me and I told her that I’d “think about it” because I knew I couldn’t get in any more trouble.

That Saturday after therapy, I called Wyatt, and we talked for over an hour, about music, and our lives, and everything. He told me about The Paranoid’s success in gigs and songwriting, I told him about my birthday, therapy, my new friend Demi.

Friday came, and, after my parents went to bed at ten, I crept out of the house in my leather jacket, torn jeans, and red lipstick. A bad idea? Maybe. But, I thought, maybe having friends will make it all okay.

Demi’s house was a ten-minute walk away, the chilling night wind biting at my face while I walked. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jacket, fidgeting my fingers.

I knocked on the weathered, white front door in total darkness, but I could hear the bass pounding from inside. I knocked twice, and Demi opened the door, her face scowling as it always was.

“Hey, Layne, you made it!” She ushered me inside and into the den, a large, mess-laden room in the basement with a bathroom leading and spare bedroom leading off it. Teenagers- some of whom I recognized from school, and T.T.T- lounged around on various chairs and couches, chugging on mickeys of Absolut Vodka with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

A TV silently played cartoons while a stereo blasted Hammerbox. Various drinks coolers lay around, some left open, holding jackpots of every kind of alcohol.

“Want a drink?” Demi passed me a bottle of something, before sitting down on the floor near the couch, her boyfriend, Van, beside her.

I sat down near her, cross-legged, and began anxiously guzzling down my drink. Me and a blond-haired skater named Tyler struck up a conversation about Kurt Cobain, and we both got drunker by the minute.

I giggled like a maniac, held up my left hand to eagerly show off the stitches. “Look! Look, I cut off my finger on my birthday. Isn’t that cool, isn’t it?”

“Holy shit!” Tyler burst out in laughter, amazed. “Really? You did that?”

“Yeah! Yeah, you bet I did!”

Next thing I know, someone brought out a beer bong and sweet alcohol was flowing down my throat. Cheers exploded and then, it was Demi’s turn. She bent over  a trash can and began to vomit afterwards, eyes wild.

I was stupid drunk again, and next thing I know, I was sitting on the bed of the spare bedroom with Demi and another girl named Tracy, on codeine. While Green River oozed from the speakers, we sprawled out on the queen-sized bed and talked about nothing important.

At about two in the morning, people started to disappear from Demi’s house, filtering out to wilder parties that were happening out of town. I told her, “I gotta get home, man,” and scurried away, throwing up in my neighbor’s trash can on the way.

I climbed back in through my open bedroom window, surprisingly not making a sound. I slid the window closed, shivering, and stripped off all my clothing. I pulled on a gray sweatshirt and a pair of underwear, then curled up underneath my covers, exhausted and high out of my mind.

I woke up a couple of hours later at around five in the morning, just to stumble into the bathroom to vomit, take some aspirin, then lay awake in my bed for about half an hour, thinking pensively. Codeine had made everything- like, everything- go away, and I’d cruised through life, nearly nodding out with sunglasses slipping down my nose. Tracy and Demi and I had talked for over an hour about really nothing, nothing that mattered or made sense. In that moment, I felt empty again.

I watched the sun rise up over the horizon, then pulled my blinds shut and drifted back to sleep.

The rest of March went similarly, boring except for on Friday nights. On Saturdays, I’d go to T.T.T, which I didn’t mind seeing as I really didn’t have to do anything, and most Fridays I’d sneak out to some party with Demi. Most days, after school, Demi and Tracy and I would sit in Demi’s basement and get stoned and take any pills we could get ahold of through various people from various other towns. All my afternoons were free since I’d quit my job after stitches in the hand made it impossible to wash dishes. 

Wyatt had come into Pleasant Grove twice that month, and we spent those days in Pleasant Grove Community Park, talking incessantly to each other, about everything. We could talk about anything.

On the first of April, a Tuesday, I was vacantly watching TV in the living room that afternoon. I’d taken a couple Valium on my way home from school, and the time had flown by as I gaped at whatever was on TV.

My mom came home early, wearily sat down beside me on the couch. “Layne,” she said, sullen,

It took me a long moment to respond, and all I could manage was, “Uh… Yeah?”

“Are you on drugs, Elena?”

The flat, simple question surprised me so much that I sat bolt upright, dragged my eyes away from the TV, looked at her and stuttered with a one-word exclamation, “What?”

“Are you?”

“No,” I lied, scowling. My eyes returned to the TV, my posture went back to a slouch deep into the cushions. “You’re just paranoid, Mom.”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead, and leaned back into the headrest. “I know you are. I know you’re lying to me.”

“Why are you always thinkin’ I’m on drugs? I’m not.” Deny, deny, deny.

“Because I know you, and I know what you’re like. And,” she added with a dismal frown, “I know your father.”

“I’m not like him.” I kept my glassy eyes fixated on the TV screen. “He’s a total loser. He’s a junkie. Stop being paranoid, Mom.”

My mom just looked at me sadly for a moment. “Okay, then.”

Later that day, at dinner, she asked me that question again: “Are you on drugs, Elena?”

“No,” I lied again, suddenly very interested in my spaghetti.

“I know you are, Elena. Just admit it.” She sniffled, wiping her nose.

I shook my head, said with a blank expression, “I told you I’m not like him. You’re being fuckin’ paranoid.”

James sighed loudly. “Therapy hasn’t done anything for you, has it? You’ve just medicated yourself at this point.”

“No, I fucking haven’t. Can you shut up?” I rolled my eyes. “Neither of you know what you’re talking about, man…”

“This is pointless,” my mom said to James. “This is so pointless.”

“Yeah,” I broke in with a scowl. “‘Cause I’m not on drugs.”