Recovery Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

that, dear —”
    “I sleep in bunk beds, Mom. With people who shot people!”
    “Honey, I understand that. But you need to understand this has been a burden on us as well. Your father has been worried sick. Do you know how much Dr. Bernstein charges? And it’s not all covered by insurance, you know.”
    “All right, Mom. Okay. I’m the evil daughter and you guys are the victims.”
    “I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is why can’t you at least consider his advice? A lot of people consider your father a very intelligent man.”
    “Okay, Mom, I gotta go.”
    “We’ve spent a lot of time on this. I’ve had conversations with Dr. Bernstein almost every day.”
    “All right, all right, I’ll think about it,” I say. I am now in a hurry because Margarita just turned on
America’s Next Top Model
, which is my new favorite show.
    “That’s all we ask.”
    “Okay, gotta go.” I hang up and go straight to the TV.

14
    T wo days later, I’m reading
Us Weekly
at my laundry room job and I happen to glance outside and see the maintenance crew doing something to the lawn. One of them is Stewart. He’s wearing coveralls. His dyed blond hair sticks out from beneath a baseball cap.
    I go to the window and watch the group of them. They talk, they poke at the ground with shovels. Not a lot of work gets done. Stewart stands apart, the baby of the group.
    I sit on the windowsill. I watch Stewart. I watch him lean against the truck. I watch him drink coffee. I watch him take a shovel out of the truck, lean on it, and then put it back.
    Eventually, the crew gets back in its truck and drives away. I go back to my chair and pick up my magazine. I try to read but I can’t concentrate. Not now. I go back to the window and stare out at the empty lawn.
    I think through my night with Stewart at The Carlton theater. What he said. What I said. The way he looked standing on the sidewalk. The squareness of his shoulders, the silence in his face…
    Then I tear myself away and go back to my chair. I don’t know what I’m daydreaming about. I’ve been with tons of guys. It never works out.
    I snatch up my
Us Weekly
. It’s ridiculous to even think about.

15
    M ovie night comes around again. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I sneak down to Rite Aid the day before, where I wander the aisles looking for something to make me halfway attractive to a boy.
    It won’t be easy. I’m pale, blotchy. I’ve gained eight pounds of “recovery fat.” I’ve got deep bags under my eyes. I try different shades of lip gloss. I experiment with eye shadow. I sneak a pinch of Preparation H and rub it under my eyes.
    Back at the house, I go through my stuff. I have one cute skirt at the bottom of my suitcase. I put it on. I find my favorite blue socks and put those on. I put on my one clean shirt and brush out my hair.
    Margarita watches all this from her bunk. “Big night for you, no?” she asks.
    “It’s movie night.”
    “You dress up? Just for movie?”
    There’s no point lying about it. “There was a boy there last time,” I say.
    “Ahhhh. Movie night!”
    I check my hair in the mirror. “You wanna go?”
    “No, no. No boys for me. I shoot my husband.”
    “It might be good practice. You know, for not shooting people.”
    “No. You go. Have good time.”
    I wait on the porch. When the van comes, I run to it. There are people already inside: two older women and a skinny guy with taped-together glasses.
    We go to the next stop, two more people get in. It’s going to be crowded tonight. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. At the final stop I crane my neck to see if Stewart is on the porch.…
    He is.
    I instantly sit back in my seat, sink down into it, curl my hands in my coat pockets. What on earth am I doing? What do I think is going to happen?
    He gets in. An older guy gets in with him. They’re talking.
    I am in the farthest-back seat with one of the women. Stewart and his friend squeeze onto the first bench seat.