Breaking Bailey Read online

  Me: I didn’t think so. When you say “changed” . . .

  Mr. Callahan: Well, I didn’t know Warren as a child, but I have good friends at Campbell. Warren’s parents are not exactly warm people. But when his brother was found dead . . . it was in all the papers locally, and the family was really under the microscope, considering their standing in the community. And if his parents were distant before that, they were downright neglectful afterward. Warren’s mother took precedence. I can imagine that a boy like that, who believes he’s not good enough to get his parents’ attention . . . well, I imagine that his brother’s death and his parents disappearing almost completely just proved that to him.

  Me: He always seems sure of himself, though.

  Mr. Callahan, looking at me with a gentle but probing expression: Does he really?

  Me: I don’t know. And I don’t know how to help him.

  Mr. Callahan: I wish I had an answer for you. I have a feeling that your loyalty and empathy for him have done more for him than most people in his life have, but it’s probably also hard to trust that or accept it. Maybe he even wants to refuse it sometimes, because he may not think himself deserving. But . . .

  Me: But?

  Mr. Callahan: I hope you’re not giving so much of yourself that you’re giving up who you are.

  Me: I’m not sure I know what you mean.

  Mr. Callahan: I mean, Prescott’s coursework is substantial, but you’re extremely intelligent, Bailey. You shouldn’t be having this kind of trouble with it, if you don’t mind me speaking frankly with you. There’s quite a difference between not being able to handle the work and just not doing it. And I hope you don’t give up on Emily. It sounds like she could really use a friend right now.

  At that point I could only nod to him because I was unable to speak in the face of the harsh truths he was telling me. I looked down to hide the tears in my eyes and my gaze landed on a newspaper on his desk. The headline read, “Toddler Found in the Cold.” There was a picture underneath the headline of a small, run-down house.

  Tears forgotten, I turned the paper so I could see it better.

  Mr. Callahan: Yes, terrible thing. Luckily the boy will be all right. He’ll be in foster care, maybe until he’s of age, but he’ll live.

  Me, scanning the article: What happened?

  Mr. Callahan: Neighbors saw a little boy, a two-year-old, out in the cold and rain the other night in Frenchtown. Know where that is? (I shook my head.) It’s a trailer park in the east end of Wiltshire. He was wearing only a diaper, no clothes, walking in the road. A kind soul took him in and called the police. Turns out his parents were so high on meth they didn’t even realize he was missing.

  Me, heart galloping a syncopated beat: So he got out in the street?

  Mr. Callahan: Could have been seriously hurt. Or taken. Or could have frozen to death. The temperatures were in the freezing range that night.

  Me: How could his parents not even realize?

  Mr. Callahan: When you’re that high, I don’t think you even know where YOU are, let alone a small child. But thank God, he’s been placed in a home where he’ll be safe and cared for.

  Me: I don’t understand how . . . how someone could let themselves get that way. That they’d not notice their kid was gone. That they’d thinking getting high is more important than their kid.

  Mr. Callahan: That’s how addiction works, unfortunately. Addicts often can’t think about anything but their next fix.

  For a moment I thought about Warren and the pills he takes. And I thought about myself and the Adderall.

  But I could stop taking that, couldn’t I? I don’t NEED it. But I’m craving it. I’ll start to want it whenever I feel my energy fading. Or when I feel like I can’t focus. Or when I have a lot of work to do. But wanting isn’t the same thing as needing.

  . . . Is it?

  I asked Mr. Callahan if I could have the newspaper and he let me take it. Then he told me I could always talk to him. About anything. I thanked him and went home.

  I have to head to the lab in a few minutes, but I’m nowhere near done with homework. Every time I try, I look at the picture of the little house where the toddler lived with his parents. Even if I hadn’t read it or Mr. Callahan hadn’t told me, I would have known it was east-side Wiltshire.

  I tucked the paper inside my purse, with the Percocets.

  April 18

  Drew was at the lab last night, as was Katy, and when I got there they had my particular batch of the product out and were in deep conversation. Apparently, Drew had filled Katy in, because when she saw me, she threw her arms around me and squealed. That was when Warren walked in.

  Drew then told Warren about how he’d tried some of the batch I’d made, how it made him feel, and that I’d followed his instructions perfectly. Warren smiled, gave me a proud nod, and took out some of the new product for himself.

  Drew didn’t even need to be asked. He just got out his pipe and handed it over to Warren. I did my best, I think, to not look completely panicked. After all, he’d basically admitted to me that he is an addict but also that he can handle himself. Still . . . he doesn’t need THIS addiction. He doesn’t need to become the type of person who would let a child wander out into the winter cold without clothes and not even realize it. Will he one day do that to me? Metaphorically? Will I become just another distraction from the next high, something he’d rather forget?

  But at least if I looked anxious, maybe my friends thought it was because I was worried I hadn’t done a good enough job. I watched Warren heat the pipe with a lighter, watched him draw the poisonous fumes into his lungs. I wish I could say he looked awkward doing it. Or maybe that he had no clue what he was doing, or that he coughed and sputtered and rejected the drug with his body and his voice. But of course, he looked used to this. He looked as practiced and sure as he could be.

  After a minute or two, long enough for the high to set in completely, a smile spread Warren’s mouth wide. He started describing what he was feeling, his voice a little tighter and rougher than I was used to. There was something different about his pretty eyes, too. Less warm, more sharp. He talked to Drew and Katy, mostly, and avoided looking at me much, and honestly, that was just fine with me. I wasn’t sure what to make of this new Warren, like he was more a stranger now. It wasn’t just the change in his demeanor that bothered me, the obvious shift in his motor skills or the intensity of him with the high, it was something else. I watched him talk to our friends, trying to figure out what it was, exactly, that bothered me so much, and it hit me like a freight train: This was the most satisfied I’d ever seen him. I can’t put into words how much that hurt, how much it felt like a betrayal that he needed a high and craved a high more than he did me, but there was no denying that it seemed in that moment he finally had what he’d been longing for.

  And it made me realize that maybe . . . maybe I’ll never be that important to him. Maybe nothing can be as important as a high to him.

  He told us the new version of the product is stronger. He already felt like he’d used a lot more than normal, even though that was the amount he would usually use. He talked about a sort of euphoria, a powerful feeling, like he could do anything. It was like Adderall times ten, if what he was saying was correct. He felt like he could run for miles without stopping. He felt like he didn’t need to eat ever again. He felt like he could ace tests, write books, recall every fact known to man. It was that kind of invincible. But of course he was talking about nothing, really. Rambling on too fast and gesturing more animatedly than I’d ever seen him. He was truly enjoying the high, and the sad part was, I wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

  Drew agreed with him, and then they got to work. All of them except me. Katy started talking about her contacts, how to basically pitch the new version to everyone. Drew started talking logistics with Warren: how much of what ingredient and where they could get it, how much it would take up front to manufacture this version on a larger scale, and also where
we could cut back since we were using less of some of the ingredients. Then, of course, they all talked about how much to charge.

  It was more than I’d ever heard them talk about prices. So far, I knew only what came to me each week. How much I could stick into my pocket when Drew distributed payment. I’d never known anything about what we were selling it for versus how much money it actually took to produce.

  The markup for our labor, logistical planning, and artistry was around 400 percent.

  I felt tears form in my eyes and closed them so that they wouldn’t fall.

  Not only were we giving addicts the means to forget about their children in the cold; we were charging them through the nose for it.

  I listened to the group make plans and work out numbers. I nodded along at appropriate times. I answered questions or gave my thoughts when asked my opinion. I even laughed when they talked about how if they started selling this now, we’d have extra money to blow while we are at Drew’s beach house, when I really felt like puking on their shoes I was so disgusted. But in truth, I wasn’t really listening. I was obsessively going over things in my head, getting my mental files in order: how I’d joined, how the Club worked, the collateral, Warren’s addiction, my own (I think I have to put that name on it now) addiction, the consequences of leaving the group, how alone I’d be, what trouble I might get in, what I might possibly lose, how I’d survive without Warren. And as I turned those things over and over in my head like some sort of nightmarish carousel, one thing became crystal clear—I had to get out of the Club. It was the only right thing to do. And I had to do it without ruining my life.

  As I’m writing tonight, I’m still thinking it through. Every scenario I’ve come up with, from simply telling the group I’m leaving and promising to never say a word to anyone, to going full-out nuclear on them and turning myself and everyone else in, means that life will never be the same. I might be going to jail. Or they are. Or more people will end up addicted.

  One thing is for damn sure: If I get out, I’ll lose them. All of them. Even Warren.

  Maybe especially Warren. He is the one who will feel most betrayed, because if anything gets out about the Club, his own drug use is going to come out, and the ripple effect will go through his family. And I know Warren. There won’t be any understanding or forgiveness for this. I’ll be dead to him.

  Another thing is certain as well: If I CAN get out of this without much collateral damage, without ever telling another soul and the group letting me go without a fight, I will no longer be able to get Adderall. The thought alone makes me nauseated and shaky. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to stop taking it first.

  I can do it, I think. I can stop. Maybe I can even get Katy and Warren to stop with me. Maybe I can convince them it’s for the good of the Science Club.

  Maybe there is no chance in hell.

  April 19

  Of all things, my father called today.

  I was so startled to see his number pop up on my phone that I sounded weird when I said hello and he immediately asked if I was okay. I told him I was. What else am I going to say? “No, Dad. I’m not. I think I’m addicted to Adderall and my boyfriend is addicted to way more than that, and oh, by the way, I’m totally in the drug business now. Cool, huh?”

  I shared more than I ever meant to with Mr. Callahan, so let’s just leave it at that, okay?

  I asked how he was, and he said he was doing really well. He said Isa’s had a pretty lengthy and intense case, so he’s been on his own in the evenings more than he’d like. I could hear the sadness in his voice. The loneliness. And I felt for him, as much as I don’t love Isa. Loneliness for any reason sucks. I’ve felt incredibly lonely in a room full of people before. I felt lonely last night at the lab, being the only person who seemed to see a problem in what we are doing.

  He asked if I’d be home for break, and there was some hopefulness in his voice. That was more shocking than him calling me. Then I immediately felt like crap for saying I’d be elsewhere. Dad had obviously talked to Bex. He knew of her plans to go to New York, and I wondered how often they talked. Then, as if I wasn’t shocked enough, he apologized for not calling on the anniversary of Mom’s death. He APOLOGIZED.

  Dad: I’m really sorry, Bail. I wish I had a better excuse. I just couldn’t pull myself together that day.

  Me: You mean . . . you were upset?

  Dad: Yeah. I think things have happened so fast for me, with Isa, I mean . . . I’m not sure I really had time to properly grieve for your mother. Not the way I needed to.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Part of me wanted to yell and say that of course he hadn’t grieved properly; he’d barely grieved at all. I also wanted to say terrible things about Isa and how she just distracted him from pain or something, but none of that makes real sense when I think about it. Of course she distracted him, but he obviously cares about her too. Most of all, though, I wanted to tell him how he’d left me all alone and moved on from Mom when I needed him most.

  But I didn’t say anything like that.

  Me: Well, I’m not sure I’ve been coping in the healthiest ways, either.

  Dad: What do you mean? Are you okay?

  Me: I’m fine, Dad. Just . . . angry.

  Dad: At me?

  Me, swallowing hard: At you, yeah. I guess I felt like it was too soon for Isa. It felt disrespectful to Mom. But I’m mad at everything, Dad. Mad that she’s gone. Mad at all the good things I do because she can’t see them. Mad at all the bad things I do because she’s not here to help. I don’t know.

  I have no idea if it was simply because he asked, and asked so sincerely that I truly thought maybe he wanted to know, or if with everything going on it felt good to unload something on him, but for whatever reason, I was honest. And yeah, it DID feel good to finally say it. Maybe we can understand each other a little better now. At the very least, there’s not such a wall between us.

  Dad, after a moment of silence: I’m really sorry, Bailey. I should be doing more. And I hope you understand about Isa. . . . She’s not a replacement.

  Me: I know. I understand, Dad. It’s just weird to see you happy, I guess? I feel like you should still be angry like me. And sad.

  Dad: I’m both of those things, Bailey. Every day. Every day I miss your mother. Is school really going all right? Have you made friends?

  Me, trying to sound happy: Yeah. Friends, and a boyfriend.

  Dad: Bex may have mentioned that, but don’t get angry at her; she only told me because I was worried about how you were adjusting.

  Me: I can’t ever be mad at Bex, Dad. You know that.

  Dad: So who is he?

  I told Dad a little about Warren and about my friends. All the good stuff, none of the bad. I also told him I’m not doing as well as I want in my classes, and he confessed to me that he’d never been good at schoolwork and was impressed and proud that I was even in Prescott considering my genes. The conversation sputtered out, and Dad excused himself, saying he needed to get dinner on the table by the time Isa was home. He told me he knew I could handle Prescott and knew I’d get into Harvard or wherever I wanted to go. I didn’t tell him about the wait list for the Princeton program. No need to disappoint him with that. If I actually get in, then I can tell him I applied.

  When I hung up the phone I felt both better and worse, and bereft of a friendly voice. I considered calling Bex to give her a gentle teasing about not being able to keep a secret, but decided to let it rest.

  It’s almost eight o’clock, and I have a few more things to do for tomorrow’s classes, but I don’t feel like being alone. I need Warren. I need to know that he cares too. So I’ll head to the lab and keep him company while I finish my homework, and if he really needs a hand, I can help too. It’s okay. I can keep doing this. I have to, I think, until I have a better plan.

  April 20

  Although last night went okay at the lab (Warren mostly kept us talking as I did my homework, and even when I had to j
ump in and help him a bit, he kept my mind off what we were actually doing enough that I didn’t have to think about it much), I just couldn’t face it tonight. I wanted to be around Warren, even though I . . . I think I’m sure we can’t go on like this. But I wanted to be with him tonight and kiss him and feel some of that heat. Just to feel normal. Maybe to distract me. But in the end, the image of the cold, abandoned toddler won out. I just couldn’t bring myself to go through another four or five hours of pretending I was just fine with destroying lives. But I did go to the lab. I had another idea.

  Warren was there, looking gorgeous in his blue cashmere sweater, his hair slightly mussed. I could tell by his eyes, though, that he’d had a lot of Percocets. Weird how I couldn’t see that before. Now it’s so obvious.

  I asked him for his car keys. He cocked his head at me in question. I somehow, miraculously, came up with an excuse that would mean he wouldn’t want to come along.

  Me: It’s Bex. She needs some, um, girl help. She’s really upset that some of the girls in her grade already have real bras, so I’m going to take her to get something pretty. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Unless you need me here?

  Warren, pulling a face: No, by all means, help Bex with girl problems. And I’d prefer to never think of your little sister and bras in the same context ever again. You know how to drive it, right?

  Me, laughing: Thanks. And yes. I promise I’ll drive as carefully as possible and I won’t let Bex eat anything inside it.

  Warren handed me the keys and reminded me where it was parked. Then he reached for my hand and I let him take it.