I sat down at the kitchen table the next morning with a bowl of cereal, but nausea ate at my stomach and I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything.

James left early for work, and my mom sat down beside me.

“I’m on the verge of calling your father and telling him that he needs to fucking take you,” she whispered, her face holding the same blank expression as mine.

“Why?” I asked, though I knew very well why. “I don’t want to live with that guy.”

“I won’t, because that isn’t very fair to you. But… God, you remind me of him too much. You’re too similar.” She looked almost more of a mess than I looked that morning, with crazy, tangled hair and purple-black eye bags.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stirring my cereal absentmindedly as the sugary flakes melted into the milk. “Can’t help it, though, it’s genetics.”

“Bad choices aren’t genetic.”

“Sure, they are.” I sighed, rubbing my forehead with one hand. “Do you have any aspirin? Or something? I’m sick.”

My mother didn’t say anything for an endlessly long amount of time. Eons had passed before she asked, so quietly I almost didn’t hear her: “What drugs are you doing, Elena?”

“Nothin’ bad.”

“Can you tell me exactly what, though? Please?” She paused, and then: “I need to know.”

“Alcohol, and pot.” I stared at a bit of sugar and carbs and calories drowning in pure white milk, face emotionless. Not thinking, not really feeling, again.

“It’s more than that and we both know it.”

“Benzodiazephines.”

“Oh, dear God.” She looked just about ready to clutch her heart and faint. “Oh, God, Elena. Those are so terrible…”

“Not really.” I jumped up and headed to my bedroom. I heard her sigh shakily as I slammed the door shut.

As soon as my mom left for work, I made a bee-line to the phone. No messages. The worry kicked up again, so I called Underground, although I knew that no one would answer since it was about eight in the morning, and no one would be totally awake before ten. I left another message and then called Tracy, but she didn’t answer.

So, I searched the medicine cabinet thoroughly for anything, but my search came up fruitless. I’d taken the last of the Valium that Wyatt had given me the night before, just to get to sleep, since I’d taken on the circadian rhythm of an insomniac.

Frantically, I dug through every drawer in the house. I called Underground again, and then Demi, and then Speed, but no one would answer their goddamn phones.

Around nine, I curled up in bed, with my blanket over my head, and tried desperately to be able to sleep. I ended up passing out while I listened to Mad Season.

“Elena!” I heard my mom holler, too early in the morning, from the living room. I guess I’d slept all day and all night, woke up early the next day.

I rubbed my eyes, just barely awake, and staggered into the living room, still in my pajamas. “What?”

“Phone. Wyatt called you.”

“Oh.” I wandered over to the phone and picked it up, dialling the number sleepily.

“Hey, Layne, sorry I was so fucked when you called the other day, I was just hangin’ out with Ray, you know?”

“Oh, yeah…” I remembered the whirlwind of anxiety, not so fondly. “I was fucked, too, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, and, sorry, I can’t come to Pleasant Grove at the moment. Busy workin’, you know? I wish I could, man, but…”

“Oh, man.” My heart felt like breaking; I missed him. “That sucks, but… At least you’ve got work, right? Music.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s going great. Hopefully, hopefully I’ll get a chance to see ya soon.”

“Yeah… Hopefully,” I murmured, trying to smile.

“Hey, listen, me and the guys are writin’ an album. I dunno when it’s gonna be a real thing but when it is, I’m gonna mail it to you. Or, hopefully, give it to you in person, right?”

“Oh, really?” I forced the enthusiasm in my voice, but it was there in my heart. “You’re gonna be a rockstar!”

“Yeah, and if all goes well then we might do this tour thing around Canada. Susan says we’re gonna be the next big thing or whatever.”

“Who’s Susan?” I asked, but I was still smiling. A tour sounded big, and fantastic. Imagine, I thought fondly, imagine dating a rockstar?

“Oh, she’s our manager. She’s cool, you’d like her. She’s really rootin’ for our stuff, you know.”

“Cool, that’s cool.”

We talked for a while about music, about the band and all that. Then, someone else at Underground had to use the phone, so we said goodbye and he hung up.

I began stumbling back to my room, when my mom said, “Elena?”

“Yeah?” I turned to face her, pulling the blonde curls from my tired eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh, yeah.” I hurried back to my room, but couldn’t get back to sleep after too many hours of laying in bed, as the sun shone in through the blinds.