Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [33]
I prayed we’d do the clockwise round because my tongue felt paralytic, and a Civil Defense air-raid siren drilled into my eardrums. I heard Vince's post-adolescent voice and stopped holding my breath.
“Hey. I’m Vince and, like, my mom, she told me I had to be here or else she’d, like, figure out a way for me to be in jail, ya know. She got all whacked when she found out I was skipping school. Well, I guess I’m addicted to pot, X, whatever gets me flying. I ain’t old enough to buy alcohol.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Dude, that's funny.” Benny gave him a fake punch in his arm. “You not being able to buy drinks or go to bars and you still ended up here.”
No one else laughed, not even a stifled giggle. I wanted to award him bonus points for catching the irony of it all.
“Me? I’m Benny. My old lady, she liked that guy Elton John. Guess he's a guy. Anyway, she liked the song he wrote about Benny and his jets. So, I’m nineteen. I started using, but I told my old lady when I get here she the reason I’m here. I mean, look where she got my name.”
I knew I should listen to Benny's story—there's probably a test later. But no matter how often I swallowed, the knot in my throat wouldn’t dissolve. I had that first day of school shivering anticipation, only then I knew what I was going to say. I wished I had a script. If my contacts didn’t make me want to rip my eyes out I wouldn’t be forced to wear glasses, which at this moment slipped down my oily nose. At least the sweats camouflaged my lumpy legs, which had been acting as silos for the ice cream that had become one of my daily food groups.
“Leah?”
My child voice escaped before I had time to add years to it, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m next?”
Dr. Sanders didn’t answer. He just nodded and gripped his pen. An extra fine point. My favorite. I lusted after pens. I probably shouldn’t share that today. Someone coughed. I focused on the outer rim of Theresa's hair.
“Well, my name is Leah. I’m married. My husband's name is Carl.” Each word sounded like a stone carefully placed. I paused, knowing I’m supposed to share how I became a willing inmate. I’m here, if you really want to know the truth, which if we did, none of us would be here, but the truth was I have to be drunk to have sex with my husband. So now I’m here, and I’m not only not drinking, I’m not having sex.
“Umm. Well, I’m here because my friend Molly took me to lunch and said I needed to stop drinking. Not that I was drinking all that much. But, you know, I’m just mid-stage, and, well, I just mostly drink beer.”
Doug snorted. “Girl, I’ve spilled more beer on my tie than you drank in your whole little life. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
“Doug, shut it down. You don’t need to be all over new chick, giving her a hard time and all.” Wow. Theresa to the rescue?
“Seems to me like she got lost on her way to the country club or somethin’.” Doug slapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward. I wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or stand up.
“Leah?” Once again, Mr. Doctor's voice. “Why are you smiling?”
“Why am I smiling?” I echoed, rotated my wedding band, and stared at the floor. This wasn’t a question I was prepared to answer. I didn’t read about a smiling probation period in the papers Ms. Wattingly had given me. Why did it matter? A test? Lady or the tiger? Sobriety behind one door. Insanity behind the other. Still the band spun around my finger. So much friction, my fingers would explode into flames. My hand on fire would put a stop to that smiling.
“I … I just smile. I don’t think about it, really. I always smile. I mean not always, but mostly.” I was a stammering adult, apologizing for a smile. This was why people drank. This and the fact that I now held a conversation with the floor.
“Uh-huh.” Mr. Doctor's pen tap-danced on his clipboard.
I knew that response. I