Other Broken Things Read Online Free PDF Page B

hospital were a pretty big deal to her. She pretends they weren’t, but you can’t really fake not being anxious. At least, not that well.
    â€œThat would be great,” she says. “Finish your breakfast and I’ll take you to Dr. Warner’s.”
    I’m pushing it, but I can’t help blurting out, “Maybe I could drive myself. Test out the new Breathalyzer.”
    Shit. Tylenol wouldn’t show up on that, would it? Momentary panic is replaced by the annoyed voice in my head telling me I’m being a freak and I need to man up already.
    â€œWell,” Mom says, fussing with her already perfect hair, “I need to do some errands downtown anyway. And I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. And Dr. Warner may want to talk to me afterward.”
    Ah. She wants to make sure I don’t sabotage the piss test. The things she doesn’t say are almost louder than what she does. Mom’s about as subtle as Mrs. Claus with mistletoe on her ass.
    *  *  *
    The piss test is clean. Apparently codeine doesn’t show up on the test, or else they weren’t screening for it. File that one away under clandestine ways to get high. Dr. Warner is stodgy and methodical, and doesn’t seem to mind that I eat all the butterscotch candies on his desk as he talks to me. I’m pretty sure he thinks the whole therapy thing is bunk because he keeps trying to push antianxiety meds on me. I originally suggested Xanax—which can be popped like Tic Tacs if you want a mellow buzz—but Warner was absolutely against it because they’re super addictive. Heh. Go figure.
    Mom talks to him for five minutes afterward and puts her foot down about the whole medication idea. She thinks kids are overmedicated and should be able to make their lives stress-free on their own with fruitcakes and caroling or some shit. Dr. Warner tries the patronizing little lady thing on her, but Mom doesn’t fall for it. She’s gotten that crap from Dad for years and she can smell an amateur mansplainer like Warner a mile away.
    So no meds. Another appointment made for two weeks from today. And Mom’s assurance that I’ll keep going to AA meetings. I leave his posh office, which looks more like a law firm than a psychiatrist’s office, and smile to myself over the idea of Mrs. Hunt getting her panties all twisted up when she sees my empty desk.
    *  *  *
    I make it to school in time for lunch. I grab a plate of fries and a bunch of ketchup packs and scan the cafeteria. I could sit with Amy and Amanda, but I’d rather have teeth pulled than watch them sip from their water bottles and slur-whisper about how wasted they are. I’ve got to get new friends.
    Brent raises his hand and pats the seat next to him, but I roll my eyes and head for the smoker table instead, same place I’ve been sitting for the past few days. They’re all burnouts, but at least they don’t really say anything. Stoners can be pleasantly quiet and I sort of wish I’d picked that as my drug of choice instead of vodka.
    â€œWhat’s up?” they say when I sit down.
    â€œNothing,” I answer, and that’s pretty much all that’s required of me for the rest of the meal. It’s even better than an “I’m just going to listen” meeting.
    The cafeteria monitor watches me like a hawk the whole time, but I don’t care. I finish my fries and then fish out my history notebook, half-assing an assignment for Mrs. Hunt. I’m dying for a cigarette, but I don’t think I can sneak out of school when I just got back. Instead I pull out a full pack of Big Red and chew piece after piece until the bell rings. Amy and Amanda stumble past me toward the exit and don’t say anything.
    On my way out of the caf, I bump into Camille. My best friend from junior high. A lifetime ago. We lost touch a few months into high school, me spending all my time at