Sue Ellen sits down on the gravel, her knees sticking out through the frayed tears in her jeans.
“Yeah, yeah,” she tells me. “But I’m not an addict, so what’s wrong with me?”
She stares off at something in the distance that probably isn’t there at all. Her body rocks back and forth, her hands clutching the strings on either end of her knit woolen scarf.
“Wait a second,” I say, sitting down just close enough to feel the whispering of her body as it moves past—tick, ticking like a goddamn metronome. “Wait, you’re not an addict?”
Her jaw seems to clench tight so the bone is protruding just below her cheek. She stamps her boot on the ground—gravel exhaling dust like glitter in the sun, suspended there, sparkling, until wind I don’t even feel comes to scatter it invisible.
Sue Ellen’s face is flushed.
“No,” she says—her teeth clenched tight. “No, I’m not. I don’t know why that’s so hard for people to believe. I didn’t come here for that. I didn’t do this to myself. It’s so much more complicated than that. They promised my mom over the phone that they could help me and that I didn’t need to be an alcoholic, or whatever, but now it’s like they just won’t leave me alone. I mean, the way they talk about it, everybody’s an alcoholic, and everybody’s codependent, and everyone’s a sex addict with eating-disorder issues. It’s fucking bullshit.”
Suddenly I find myself talking at the ground so I don’t have to see what her eyes are doing. My pulse sounds loud in my ears.
“Hey, it’s cool. I mean, I agree, that’s the problem with all rehabs. They look at us, you know, the patients, like we’re all the same. But we’re not. I mean, obviously. We all cope with things differently and all have different things to cope with. But the way they tell it, there’s only one solution—which is basically to do exactly what they tell you and never question anything. It’s fucking ridiculous. I mean, trust me, this is like the sixth rehab I’ve been to. The only way to make it through these places is to try ’n’ sift through everything they say, you know, and just hold on to the five percent of good mixed in with the ninety-five percent of bullshit. ’Cause, yeah, the majority of what they feed you is worthless. The counselors all have their stupid egos and their stupid power trips, and most of ’em are recovering addicts themselves, so they aren’t a whole lot healthier than we are. If they all insist on treating you like an addict, that’s ’cause they don’t know how to think independently, without relying on their goddamn textbooks and case studies and blah-blah-blah. If they’re having trouble figuring you out, then that’s a good thing. It means you’re more complex than a statistic on a fucking pie chart.”
I glance over quickly, but I’m caught right away. I mean, she’s looking right at me.
“You know,” she tells me, “that’s really smart, what you just said. Are you an addict?”
My head nods sort of mechanically.
“Yeah, they got me on that. I more or less fit their little behavioral profiles to a tee. But, uh, what happened to you? Do you mind telling me? I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want to.”
She leans her head back so I can’t help but stare at her neck stretching up toward the cold, clear blue sky.
“It’s funny,” she says, her voice suddenly distant. “I couldn’t talk about what happened with anyone. None of my friends would talk to me. My dad wouldn’t listen to me. It was like somehow I was the one who’d done something wrong. Everyone just wanted me to shut up about it. So eventually I guess that’s what I did. I shut up. I made myself shut up. But now, since coming here, it’s like all anyone wants to do is talk about it. Every goddamn counselor and therapist has made me tell it all to them over and fucking over. Honestly, I don’t see how dwelling on this shit could possibly help anyone. They should be helping us move on, right? Not making us wallow in self-pity about shit that happened in the past. But, fuck, I mean, if you wanna hear it, fine—I’ll tell you. Anyway, it’s really not that interesting.”
Now, this is a fucked-up thing to admit, but I suddenly realize that, uh, I’m starting to get sort of aroused. I mean, enough so that if I have to stand up right now, it’s gonna be pretty embarrassing—even if it does seem to be somewhat of a miracle.
Ever since going into detox, I haven’t so much as stirred down there even once. I guess part of me figured that after having been with Zelda, you know, I wasn’t ever going to be attracted to anyone else. I mean, Zelda was the exact combination of all things built to satisfy completely every aspect of my sexual template. Just ask goddamn Melonie; she’ll tell you. It’s got all sorts of shit to do with my mother moving away when I was little—about my need to save her from her fucked-up relationship with my stepdad—you know, all that Freudian shit—for whatever it’s worth. The bottom line is, Zelda marked me deep.
But feeling this sudden, visceral attraction to the new girl, well, it’s pretty cool. I mean, maybe I actually will be able to move on from Zelda. All I need is a girl like Sue Ellen in my life to help me forget. It’s simple, really. I’m not sure why the hell I never thought of this before. Sue Ellen might just be the goddamn miracle I’ve been looking for.
So I listen to her story.
She talks fast, like she’s trying to get it all out
