The next movie night, Trish and I get dressed up. We don’t have much to work with but we buy some cheap makeup at the local Rite Aid and slut ourselves up as best we can.
When the van comes, it’s just Vern and this woman we don’t know. But Vern is in a good mood and he tells us dirty jokes all the way to Carlton. We laugh and goof around and try to gross each other out. The other woman is mostly horrified by the three of us. She’s like a suburban housewife who’s addicted to Ambien.
There’s only about ten other people at the theater. Vern and Trish and I make fun of the movie. And talk. And gossip about Juan in security. The other people don’t appreciate this. At one point someone threatens to call the manager.
“Just try it,” says Trish. “My friend Maddie here will kick your ass!”
“No, I won’t,” I say, shrinking into my seat.
“Yes, you will. And I’ll help.”
Afterward, back at the halfway house, Trish and I keep everyone up late watching America’s Next Top Model and playing gin rummy and drinking so much Diet Coke our eyes get fuzzy. Everyone tells stories about weird stuff that has happened to them with boys.
Angela tells about her cousin who started pimping her out to his friends when she was twelve.
Trish tells about losing her virginity in eighth grade when she was so drunk she couldn’t stand up. “That made it easier for the Hartley brothers,” she says. “I couldn’t get away.” This happened in her parents’ pool house, while her parents were having a party. Trish’s family is sort of crazy, it sounds like. You didn’t even have to leave the house to get into serious trouble.
My situation was the opposite. I was so bored at home I couldn’t stand it. I was always getting caught crawling out my window. Or trying to steal my mom’s Volvo. Or trying to hitchhike someplace.
Everyone is horrified when I tell them about the hitchhiking. They act like that’s the scariest thing they’ve ever heard of.
That night when I go to bed, I’m totally wired on Diet Coke. It’s a terrible high, all chemicals and caffeine and my skin is crawling and I can barely stand it. At one point I get the squirmies so bad I kick off my covers and kick the wall about twenty times and then lie there breathing and cursing to myself.
Nobody says anything, though. Not even Angela, who’s right above me.
People freaking out at night isn’t that unusual at Spring Meadow. You kinda have to live and let live.