Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [94]
“I should go,” I say when we finish the smoke. He nods, kisses me on the nose, pulls himself up off the couch, and takes my hand to lead me out through the kitchen.
“Thanks for a great night,” I say as he walks me to the door. What am I supposed to say—Thanks for drumming throughout dinner and inviting me to your Michael Jackson-esque slumber party?
25
“I need to talk to you,” Justin whispers in my ear as he walks behind me in the middle of a Pledges meeting.
“There you are!” I yell, getting dirty looks from a few people standing around me.
For the past three days, I’ve been throwing myself into a manic schedule of round-the-clock shopping and working out to distract myself from the fact that Adam still hasn’t called, and peppering Stephanie and Justin with constant he’s-going-to-call-right? messages, none of which Justin has returned. It occurred to me after the third unreturned message that I essentially haven’t seen or talked to him in the past month and a half. “Where the hell have you been?” I ask him.
An emaciated man with a shaved head and tattoos covering every bit of visible skin glowers, and so Justin grabs my hand and starts to lead me out the front door of the meeting. As we pass people, I feel the weight of their stares on me. It’s strange because before the column and all the hype, I’d have sworn up and down that I could never receive too much attention. But I hadn’t been prepared for what comes with it. I feel like I hear whispering now wherever I go and I’m not sure if it’s real or coke has left me permanently paranoid. I’ll walk by two girls and swear that I hear one of them mention “Party Girl” or the word column or something, and then I’ll feel them dissect everything about me. Are they criticizing what I’m wearing, deciding that I should be more put-together? Are they accusing me of not really being sober, speculating that a girl who goes by the moniker of Party Girl and lounges in champagne-soaked magazine shots couldn’t possibly be clean? Pledges has taught me that what people think of me is none of my business, but I guess I wasn’t really prepared to have to remind myself of that so many times a day.
“Ick,” I say to Justin, as we make it outside and I light two cigarettes.
“What?” he asks as I hand him one of the smokes.
“The way people look at me now is annoying,” I say, wishing that he noticed this without my having to point it out to him.
“Oh, Amelia,” he says, flicking his cigarette ash to the ground. “Most people are just thinking about themselves. I think you’re too in your head and just being a typical self-absorbed addict.”
For some reason, I want to take my lit cigarette and mash it into his face—or at least onto his hand, where it wouldn’t cause as notable a scar. While the whole world seems to have jumped up to speed and is treating me like I’m worthy of being celebrated, Justin has barely seemed to notice. And suddenly I hate him for this. I’ve always really liked friends agreeing with what I’m saying, and if they disagree or don’t seem to want to indulge in the conversation, I feel like they’ve broken some unspoken contract we have about always backing each other up. In recovery, people get away with this so much—by saying things like “I’m not going to cosign your bullshit” or accusing someone of being too “in their head” or self-absorbed—and I suddenly feel myself as much annoyed with the Pledges world as I am with Justin.
“Whatever,” I say, not even looking at Justin. “They’re probably just jealous.” I pause, and then, “Did you get my messages? Do you understand that I’ve basically been heartbroken?”
Justin takes a drag off his cigarette and nods as he exhales. “Look, I’ve got to tell you something,” he says after a beat.
“Shoot.” He’s still bugging me but I’m willing to let it go—something that wouldn’t have even been a remote possibility before the program.
He tosses his cigarette to the ground and