Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [62]
“I like the look of Mustache,” Justin whispers to me as people shuffle in for group. We’re in full-on sponsor shopping mode and he’s tilting his head in the direction of a good-looking, lean guy with an ironic handlebar mustache. Mustache looks like he’s a little on the depressed side, but I smile at Justin enthusiastically.
“Just promise me you won’t let his facial hair philosophies influence you,” I whisper and Justin shakes his head and crosses his heart. Although Justin could shave the hair on his head into a mustache shape and still look hot, his permanent five o’clock shadow is too much of a gift to the female race to be messed with.
A pixieish girl with short brown hair sits down next to Mustache and I immediately decide that she’s going to be my sponsor. And then I’m just as quickly stricken with the fear that she’s not going to be available or is going to say no because she doesn’t like the look of me or because Vera and Robin and all the other girls are going to also ask her and she’s going to be overwhelmed. But I also know that’s unlikely. Although Tommy has hammered home how important it is that we all get sponsors, most of the people here don’t seem to be in that much of a hurry.
I watch Pixie Girl throughout the meeting. She doesn’t share but she smiles a lot, and when the meeting is over I rush up to her and ask her to be my sponsor. She nods and smiles. “By the way,” she says, as she gives me a hug, “my name is Rachel, drug of choice heroin. And I have five and a half years.”
“And I’m Amelia,” I say, shaking her hand even though we’ve just hugged. “Cocaine fiend. Twenty-one days.” This kind of introduction is standard around rehab. Since almost no one comes in just for alcohol abuse anymore—we only have Stan, the guy I met on my first day—identifying yourself by your drug of choice and how long you’re sober can help clarify a lot. You can kind of tell what drugs people do sometimes—the meth people are jittery and blink a lot, the cokeheads tend to have the kind of manic energy that makes them seem like they’re still on it, and the junkies tend to be mellow and live in Silver-lake or Los Feliz—but we all mix well together, even if our drugs didn’t.
“Well, Miss Amelia, cocaine fiend,” she says. “Do you believe that drugs and alcohol have made your life unmanageable?”
“I know they did,” I reply. I partially hate myself for sounding like such a sycophant, but also love how good it feels to not always be so defiant.
“We’re going to get along just fine,” she says, and she smiles as she walks away.
16
The day I’m getting out, I decide to check the messages on my machine. Everyone else has been calling their voicemail somewhat obsessively, but I’ve been doing a decent job of acting like I didn’t actually exist before I came to Pledges. We talk a lot about how we’re being reborn here in Culver City, but I’ve taken that even further by deciding that everything that happened before wasn’t really my life. Even though I’ve gone over everything in group and in post-group smoke-athons, when I talk about the girl who did coke all day at work or Special K with strangers and passed out besides Dumpsters, I feel like I’m actually talking about someone else—a troubled girl I once knew, but not me. Here in rehab, I’ve been learning that I’m not much like who I thought I was—I’m more nervous and thoughtful than I am bitchy and fabulous—and I’m starting to see that I’m also reliable and considerate, and do actually care about other people. Thinking about my behavior with Stephanie and Brian and everyone else makes me shudder, but Tommy and Rachel keep telling me not to regret the past, and that I can deal with all of that when I’m ready.
But on my last day, I know that acclimation back into my life will feel less overwhelming if I deal with my messages, or even the fact that there might not be any messages, ahead of time. So even though the receiver for the pay phone feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds,