“Mommy’s on the floor and she won’t get up.”
Normally, I’d be mad at my sister for interrupting my homework, but on an otherwise regular Wednesday night of my junior year of high school, I knew that her tear–stained cheeks and panicked words overrode the importance of my A.P.
10:01 p.m.: Supplies: Beer, check. Vodka, check. Funnel, check. Butt, check.
10:07 p.m.: Lock myself in the bathroom and turn on the shower to hide what I’m doing from my roommates.
6:45 a.m.: Alarm goes off for running club morning practice. Why am I doing this again? Snoozed.
6:56 a.m.: Receive text, “Hey do you still want to go later?” Um, not a chance.
At some point during my freshman year, I found myself alone with a guy I’d just met. He had dark hair and eyes, I think, and his name was a generic one I soon forgot.