Breaking Bailey Read online

  Warren: We are. But . . . there’s always a better way, Bailey. And I’m always looking for it.

  I had a feeling it wasn’t just making the product that he was talking about. Was he always looking for better in everything? Like, a girlfriend? Emily’s and Drew’s words creeped back into my head, and I knew I had to know. Perhaps if I wasn’t direct about it . . .

  Me: Can I ask you something? (His pretty eyes clouded over, but he nodded.) We’re . . . we’re safe, right? I mean, you and me. I shouldn’t get tested or anything, right?

  Warren, his eyes now dark: Are you asking me if I have an STD?

  Me: I realize it’s a little late to be asking, and I know we take precautions but . . . I mean, do you know for sure you’re clean?

  Warren: Let me guess. Emily told you I sleep around? Probably insinuated that I’m cheating, too, didn’t she?

  Me: She didn’t insinuate that, but yes, she did say you had a past. And she hasn’t been the only one to say something like that.

  Warren set his jaw, and for one frightening moment I thought he was going to yell. What he actually did was far worse. He cleared his throat and looked at me evenly, and his voice was smooth and emotionless when he spoke.

  Warren: And you believe I’d put you in danger? You believe Emily?

  Me: No . . . I . . . maybe. I mean, you’ve kept things from me before.

  Warren: When?

  Me, scrambling to think of examples: You said you wouldn’t take any more Percs, but you did.

  Warren, raising his voice: You told me I could, Bailey!

  Me: Okay, well, you didn’t tell me about the Percocets when you bought them.

  Warren: Come on. Surely you’ve learned by now that the less you know, the safer it is for you. I’m just trying to protect you. Everything I’ve done is to protect you.

  Me: And the Adderall? Giving it to me?

  Warren: Has it helped you or not?

  It has. It has helped me. On the surface. But now I can’t sleep. And now I’m not just thin, I can actually feel my hip bones against my clothing every time I move. And now I can’t NOT take it.

  Me: And you sell to people here? At Prescott?

  Warren, with a frustrated groan: Fine. You want to know it all? Here. Here’s my phone. Read my texts. Memorize my schedule. Follow me around. Know everything.

  He took his phone out of his back pocket and tossed it toward me with a little more strength than one could say was friendly. I held it in my hands. The screen was lit, waiting for a passcode to be typed in. I stared at it for a moment, then flicked it off and tossed it back (gently) to Warren.

  Me: I don’t want it. I’m sorry. Emily got into my head. That’s all. Warren, I’m sorry.

  Warren: You don’t trust me.

  I wanted to ask how I’m supposed to trust him when it feels like everything is a secret, but he would just argue with me again. And . . . in truth, he’s right. He has an answer for everything. The less I know, the safer I am, and he understands that.

  Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I love you.

  Warren: I’m sorry too.

  I was stunned to hear him say it back, and the shock of it made me realize how often he doesn’t say it at all. Then there was a moment when I thought maybe he would reach for me or at least seem open to me touching him. But neither of those things happened. And, I realized, he hadn’t told me he loves me back. We just stared at each other, my blood cold, his eyes tired.

  Warren: I’m, uh. I’m going to go, but I’ll leave that notebook here.

  Me, nodding: I’ll finish up a batch and then see what I can do with the formula. Warren, please don’t be mad at me.

  Warren: I’m not. I’m just . . . tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  He left, and I stayed at the lab until 1 a.m., trying to follow Warren’s new instructions perfectly, so that he’ll be pleased. Even if I would dare try it myself, I wouldn’t know anything about what I’m supposed to feel like, so I’ll leave it up to the boys, but I hope it’s good. That would make Warren right about his theory and prove that I know what I’m doing with this and can be trusted to do it alone.

  Emily wasn’t home when I got here, which was weird, but I’m grateful. I think I probably would have taken all of my emotions out on her. I didn’t fall asleep until it was nearly morning, but I wouldn’t let myself take a Percocet, either, so that’s at least good. I can do something right.

  April 12, later

  I didn’t see Warren this morning, which means he is definitely still angry, or at least that’s how I have to take it. My stomach twisted into a knot that stayed all day. Between second and third, Katy and I met in the bathroom. I wanted so badly to ask about Warren, to either confirm or deny what Emily said, but I let it go. I can’t keep doing this to myself and to Warren. I can’t keep letting Emily inside my head; I can’t keep getting inside my own head like this.

  And besides, the thing is, even if Katy wants Warren, she also clearly wants Drew more. I just have to have a little faith that Warren and I are more solid than that and that he truly loves me enough to turn down someone like Katy Ashford.

  I did tell Katy about the fight, though, and she hugged me and touched up my makeup out of her bag. Then I shared some Adderall with her. That’s about the only thing that got me through the day. Warren was in English but came in late, so I didn’t get to talk to him. When the bell rang, he was already out the door.

  I went to the lab tonight, fully expecting that Warren wouldn’t even come there, and I was right. When I got into the basement, Drew was there, suited up in coat and goggles.

  Me, sighing: He’s really that mad?

  Drew, with a shrug: He’ll get over it.

  Me: What do I do?

  Drew: Help me with this batch. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this. And Warren . . . Give him time. He gets in his little moods and there’s no talking to him. But I’ve never seen him so affected by a girl, so you’ve got that going for you.

  Although my heart leaped at that, I don’t know if “affected” is necessarily a positive thing.

  On the other hand, maybe I’m just reading into Drew’s words too much, just like I’m probably reading into everything else too much.

  Drew, gesturing toward Warren’s notebook: What is this?

  Me: Warren adjusted the formula. He thinks we can make it purer and more potent.

  Drew: That’s good. That’s really good. We could probably make less of it and sell it for more. Did he try it?

  Me: No. I made it last night, according to his instructions. He said he’d test it.

  Drew: I’ll do it.

  Me, concerned: Okay, well. You won’t need much, if Warren’s right. And . . . I mean, I made it by myself, so . . .

  Drew: Bailey, for fuck’s sake, do you doubt everything you do?

  I drew in a breath sharply. It wasn’t just that Drew had never spoken to me like that before, it was the question itself. And I knew the answer: Yes. Yes, I do doubt everything I do. It’s not just Mom dying or Warren’s games that have me so off, it’s Prescott, not feeling like I’m on top of things for once in my life. And joining Science Club. I don’t know who I am anymore. That is the reality of it. And if I don’t know who I am, how can I trust myself?

  I felt like a scolded child, so I merely nodded, then I opened one of our storage units and took out the batch I’d made. It was clearly marked so I would know, and so would Drew or Katy, that it was different. It looked different too. Slightly more cloudy than the other batches Warren and I had made. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Usually I thought our finished product looked almost pretty, like crystal or glass. This looked more like shards of table salt.

  Drew studied it, then, without a word, went to his coat and withdrew a glass pipe with a bulb on the end.

  It occurred to me that I’d never actually seen anyone use what I’d been making for months, and I was suddenly seized with the urge to run out of the lab. I couldn’t explain it;
I just knew that if I saw it, saw what it did to people, I could never go back from that. I could never NOT know again.

  While I was freaking out, Drew was oblivious, doing the drug like it was second nature. I watched as he loaded the pipe (um, is “loaded” the right word? I don’t even know) and flicked a lighter underneath the bulb. Pure white smoke drifted, tranquil, around the bulb, and after a passing moment Drew inhaled it.

  When he breathed out, I stared at him, looking for some sign of being high on meth. Like maybe it would change everything about him.

  A slow, languid smile spread across his mouth.

  Drew: Oh, Bailey. You . . . Warren . . . whoever . . . round of applause.

  Me, heart leaping: Really?

  Drew, taking another hit: Really. This is going to make us bank. Rich, Bailey.

  Me, smiling: I thought we were.

  Drew: No, this is next-level rich. I gotta call Katy.

  Me: Oh. Um, can I ask you something about Katy?

  He nodded. There is something so casual and unassuming about Drew that I feel okay asking him anything. Even this.

  Me: Have she and Warren ever . . . you know, liked each other?

  Drew let out a burst of laughter and smoke. The smell hit me then. It was like what I was used to smelling while making it, but burnt. God, people put this crap in their bodies?

  Drew: Hell no. I know. It sometimes seems like it’s sexual tension, but believe me, no. Never. Not even when we were kids.

  Me: Thank you. I feel stupid for asking. Emily said Katy was into him.

  Drew: You’ve got to stop believing that girl. She’s a damn mess.

  Me: Apparently. And I need to start believing Warren more.

  Drew, nodding, slightly nervous and with quicker movements than usual: Warren is the only person I’d take a bullet for, Bailey. He’d do the same for me. And I know he’d do the same for you. He’s hard to put up with sometimes. He’s kind of an asshole. But you have to trust him. He sees the long game like we can’t, you know?

  I’m not sure I do know, but his words made me feel better. Drew and I finished up a batch (he was surprisingly knowledgeable about the process, even if he was sometimes too hyper and scattered to really help), and I went home, finished my homework, and even had a nice conversation with Emily about normal things.

  I think I need to apologize to Warren. I’ll find him first thing in the morning and do just that.

  Warren and I are going to be okay. And I actually feel sleepy at a normal time (for the first time in what feels like months!!!), so hopefully that means I can finally get some rest.

  April 13

  I didn’t have to find Warren this morning. He found me. He was waiting for me with coffee in hand, and if he hadn’t had a sad, droopy smile on his face, I would have thought it was the same as every other morning since we started dating. He handed me the coffee and asked if we could talk, and I was suddenly seized by panic that this was it: This was the day he was going to dump me.

  I agreed, and he started heading toward the exit. I grabbed his hand and stopped him, and he didn’t pull his hand away. So that was a good sign. I told him I couldn’t miss English. He promised to get me back before then.

  So we went out, he still held my hand, and we sipped our coffees in silence for a moment. I was the one to break the silence.

  Me: I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, really. But I think I realize now how much everyone else is getting in my head, and I shouldn’t let them. I need to listen to you and trust you.

  Warren: No, I’m not sure you should. And I should be the sorry one here, Bailey.

  With those words, I got truly scared. He must have noticed, so he pulled me to a bench outside the math building, uncaring that the very teachers marking us absent would be able to see us from the window. He held me close to him. The air was chilly and slightly damp, like the fog from the morning hadn’t quite cleared.

  He started by thanking me for doing so much work in the lab to help him, even though I’ve been stressed out about school. Then he confessed that he feels like his life is a mess right now. It broke my heart to hear him say it but . . . honestly, it was also such a relief. On so many levels. I wanted to know that he could see that he wasn’t doing well, and I have to admit, a huge part of me wanted to feel a little less alone in my messy life.

  Warren: Things have been awful with my dad lately and . . . I should have told you that. You let me in about your mom, and for some reason I have a hard time letting anyone else in about my family’s issues. I shouldn’t. Especially with you.

  Me: How can I help?

  Warren: You can’t. I mean, not with my family. It’s all too messed up. There’s nothing anyone can do about that. I try to . . . I try to ignore all the shit and bury myself in the work or the money or you, sometimes. (He squeezed my hand hard.) And I try to bury it with other things.

  Me: Percocets.

  Warren: Sometimes. Sometimes other things.

  Me, panicking: Not . . . please don’t tell me . . .

  Warren: No, not heroin. I wouldn’t stomp on my brother’s grave that way. But . . .

  Me: How much? How often? What else?

  Warren, rubbing his forehead: I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Anything I can get my hands on. Anytime.

  My heart ached for him so much then. The desire to medicate himself is only a desire to heal, to fix, just the completely wrong way to go about it.

  Me: What can we do? Can I . . . take you somewhere? Rehab?

  Warren: No. I can’t. My family can’t know. It would destroy them all over again. It’s okay. I can deal with it.

  Me: But . . . but you’re around it all the time, Warren. Because of what we do. (I was suddenly seized with an idea. A way to make everything better. Perhaps the ONLY way.) Can we . . . can we stop? Just quit? Tell Drew and Katy to find other chemists?

  Warren: I can’t do that, either. I need the money. I need them.

  I thought about what Drew had said about taking a bullet for Warren, and I realized the feeling is mutual. And whatever animosity he and Katy have for each other, we are still a team, a family, and he knows he can rely on her.

  Me: Okay, then what can we do? What can I do?

  Warren: I don’t know. . . . Do you think you could just . . . let me be?

  Me: You’re asking me to leave you alone? Do you . . . do you want to break up with me?

  Warren: Oh, no! No, baby. That’s not what I meant at all. I mean, can things just be normal again? Back to being happy and not questioning everything?

  Me: You want me to pretend this isn’t happening? That you’re not taking pills just to get through the day?

  Warren, with a slow nod: Yes. At least for a while. Just . . . just let me get to the summer, you know? Then I can figure it out. And I can be away from here and at Princeton.

  How on earth can I just pretend that everything is okay? I can’t help but think it’s the last thing he needs, but I was scared to push him. I’m afraid of losing him but, honestly, more afraid of how he’d react. His anger is intense, plus it might trigger him into using more pills. So I told him I could try. That was the best I could do.

  He walked me back in time for second period. I should have felt good, but I didn’t. Not at all. Then when Katy and I met up in the bathroom and I swallowed down two Adderall, I told her everything. She didn’t act surprised about his apology or about his admission that he’s using pills regularly, more than Percocets. What she did act surprised about was that this was the first time he and I had talked about it.

  Did everyone know? Everyone but me?

  I asked Katy what to do. What WE could do, as his friends and partners. She shook her head and laughed, and maybe she didn’t mean it to be cold but it felt so icy I nearly started crying.

  She said he is the smartest person she knows, that he can play all of us like violins. I asked her to explain what that meant.

  Katy: He got you to apologize, didn’t he? And he got som
e sympathy. And he got you to say that you’ll leave him alone about it.

  Me: That’s not what he was doing. He’s hurting, Katy. And he just doesn’t know how to stop hurting.

  Katy: I don’t doubt he hurts, Bailey. The problem is he makes everyone around him hurt too. See you at the lab tonight.

  It’s one in the morning and I’m still not sure how to interpret her words or the whole conversation in general. And I still feel unsettled about the talk with Warren. Even more than I was before.

  I just don’t know what to do. All I know is I can’t give up on him. What kind of person would I be if I did?

  April 17

  After school today I didn’t go with Katy to get coffee, and I put off doing homework or going to the lab, and headed to Mr. Callahan’s classroom. I’m not sure why I wanted to talk to him. Maybe it was just that he seems so . . . adult. Wise, even. Warm, at least, unlike how most of my friends are at the moment. He was still there, sitting at his desk grading what looked like freshmen-level homework. He was delighted to see me. He asked me how things are going, and I told him that things aren’t that great, if I was being honest. He gestured to a seat in the first row, and I sat.

  I chose my words carefully, and of course I didn’t tell him anything that would get me into trouble. But I did tell him that my grades are abysmal, at least to my standards (and sometimes to Prescott’s standards as well), and that I feel that my friends here are confusing. I told him about the problems I’d been having in my relationships with Emily and Katy, and I also told him about Warren. I said it feels like Warren is such a big part of my life, and it’s affecting everything else.

  I could tell he was glad I confided in him. He said he’d been worried since I stopped coming in after school to do extra chemistry but he knew how hard Prescott could be. He also, sort of awkwardly, told me that first love can be intense and often confusing. He said he imagined Warren could be extra intense. I asked if he knew anything about Warren’s family, and to my surprise, he did.

  Mr. Callahan: We were told. The staff, I mean. There are certain things in a student’s file that are essential to teaching them . . . things like learning disabilities or perhaps a mental disorder. But there are also cases like Warren’s, when something in a student’s personal history needs to be known, because the student . . . well, the student was changed so much by it. It helps us teach that student, to get through to them. It’s not salacious gossip, I want you to understand that.