Placebo Junkies Read online

  It starts feeling really awkward, and you can tell that other people are noticing, too, so no one protests when Jameson puts his phone away before the clip ends.

  Dougie’s holding ice on his knuckles, glowering through a matted curtain of his stupid wannabe dreadlocks, and I start feeling like I should go say something to him, no hard feelings, that sort of thing, to let him know that I’m not holding a grudge or anything. I mean, we’re in my apartment after all, so I should probably at least try to act like a good host, even if Dougie is a fucking idiot.

  My phone keeps ringing, but I don’t answer it because I know it’s not Dylan, and I’ve been getting a bunch of wrong-number calls lately. A few of them have been pretty nasty, and I’m starting to think that maybe somebody played a joke on me and wrote my name in a bathroom stall. For a good time, call Audie, that kind of thing.

  Now that I think about it, it seems like something Dougie might do. In fact, I start feeling kind of annoyed that it took me this long to figure it out. Of course Dougie did it. I watch him sulking on the other side of the room, how he makes a big point of ignoring me even though it’s my freaking apartment, and I’m sure of it.

  I’m not going to confront him, though. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight’s about Charlotte.

  Besides, I don’t feel so hot at the moment. Somebody raises yet another toast, and everyone in the room gets a little drunker and a little madder.

  I pull out my phone and text the number on the Professor’s business card. Want to observe a guinea pig funeral ceremony? Come over. I don’t even know why I do it, why I invite him. For some reason I just want him to be here, doing the little note-taking thing he does. I want Charlotte’s name written down somewhere. I want someone to have a record that she existed, and that she died doing this. I like the idea of having her name in a textbook somewhere. She’d get a huge kick out of that—generations of college students highlighting her name. Or even better—how cool would it be to have a multiple-choice question about you on a test?

  Was Charlotte’s death:

  A) A tragic accident

  B) Medical malpractice

  C) Murder

  D) Suicide

  E) All of the above

  I know—I’m quite the life of the party, aren’t I? But just thinking about Charlotte’s death like that, like a question, makes me realize that not a single person in the room, myself included, has a fucking clue what happened to our friend. Okay, fine, like Jameson said, it’s a reasonable assumption that she OD’d. We all know she was dumping a whole lot of a whole lot into her body, but was it a drop or a flood that killed her? I want to know exactly which pill, which vial, or which combination took my friend.

  Am I the only person who wonders?

  Maybe I shouldn’t. It isn’t that big a mystery; she’s just one more test bunny who died a foreseeable, and therefore unremarkable, death. She’s the warning label everyone ignores: may result in death. It doesn’t apply to me, people tell themselves. Those things only happen to other people.

  Except we, the scary, scarry people gathered in this room, are the other people.

  I finish my beer and stand up to get another, even though I know it’s a bad idea. Even though I don’t like the taste.

  “Hey. Quiet. Can everyone shut up for a second? I want to have a moment of silence for Charlotte.” Even Jameson is sloppy tonight, and everyone ignores him. “She’s in a better place. She really is … ,” he trails off.

  You can tell he doesn’t believe it by the way he says it, like he’s reading from a cheesy sympathy card. He’s just saying it because that’s the thing that people say when someone dies.

  The Professor texts back to say he’s on his way, and pretty soon Charlotte’s wake begins to resemble every other guinea pig party. People are yelling, there’s a guy running around in drooping tighty-whities, and the smoke detector goes off. I have another drink, because tonight’s for Charlotte, and after a while the Professor shows up. I see him talking to people and taking notes, and I have another drink, and none of it fucking matters anyway.

  As individuals, we’re all statistically insignificant.

  There’s a swirling energy in all of the buffoonery that starts to lift me up a bit, though. It’s obvious that all these ridiculous pillheads really do care, and that’s no small thing. Eventually, all I can do is stand there and grin, because I feel like Charlotte would be laughing at all these lunatics right along with me, and even though she’s dead, and even though her absence feels like a goddamn hole in my chest, I feel sort of happy right now, standing here thinking about my friend laughing, thinking about Dylan, and thinking about how I’m going to come up with the money for Patagonia even if it kills me.

  Scratch wanders over and stands next to me. “Hey, Audie,” he sniffs.

  Poor Scratch. I can’t look at him. He’s been trying to grow a mustache—it’s a patchy, sad little thing crawling across his lip—and he has all these ingrown hairs that look like they’re probably infected nestled in between the pube-y tufts he’s managed to grow. He’s a nice enough guy, I guess, but he’s just so exhaustingly revolting.

  I do my best not to shudder as he scoots closer, then closer still, until he’s almost leaning against me.

  Oh shit. He wants a hug.

  I go stiff and try to give him one of those touch-minimizing, back-patting things, like the hug equivalent of an air kiss, but he’s not having any of that. Once he has his opening, he dives right into full body contact, pulling me against him. He’s a couple inches shorter than me, so he ends up kind of nestling and snuffling wetly into my neck. A little moan escapes me as I think of the mucus trail he’s probably leaving on my shirt, and Scratch mistakes the sound for crying, which he takes as a cue to open up the floodgates. Soon he’s weeping and snotting all over my shoulder.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he sobs.

  I pull back as much as his damp embrace allows, but he’s obviously taking Charlotte’s death pretty hard, so I don’t pull all the way away. To be honest, I’m getting a little weepy myself, just watching Scratch break down.

  “I know, I miss her, too,” I say. Poor Scratch. Now I feel really bad. I mean, I know Charlotte threw the occasional pity fuck at him, but I didn’t realize he had real feelings for her. I’m pretty sure the feelings weren’t reciprocal, but obviously he doesn’t know that. I give up on my shirt and on holding back the tears, and for a minute we sort of cling to each other and just have a good old cry. It feels good to mourn Charlotte together. Comforting. And phlegmy as he is, Scratch actually smells kind of nice. Clean. Like he made an effort.

  “I know you guys were close,” I say when I finally extract myself from our wet embrace.

  He shrugs, then starts fingering a nest of blackheads inside his ear. “Sort of. I mean, we hooked up a few times. But we weren’t, like, close close.”

  “No? I just assumed from the way you were … I mean, you seem to be taking it pretty hard. I thought maybe … ?”

  He lifts the bottom of his shirt up to towel off his face, giving me a flash of the silvery-pink eczema blooming out of his belly button. Volcanic pimples and puckered biopsy scars dot his chest like dozens of extra nipples.

  Good lord, Charlotte. How could you?

  I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on a smudge on the wall behind him until he tucks his shirt back in. “Nah, it’s not like that. It’s just the timing, man. It sucks. I mean, I was this close to closing the deal on a little, uh, investment opportunity, and Charlotte was gonna help me out. Make the dream happen, you know?”

  I tilt my head at him, work my jaw a little.

  He misunderstands my confusion. “I was going to pay her back. With interest, obviously.”

  “That’s why you’re wailing like a fucking banshee? Because you’d asked her for a fucking loan?”

  He shrugs again, goes back to diggi
ng into those blackheads in his ear, really going for it this time. “What? I was counting on it, you know? I have commitments. And she supposedly had some sweet thing going on, tons of cash coming in.”

  He finally looks at the expression on my face. Picks up on my rage. “Hey, don’t get me wrong—it’s not just the money. Do you think I’d be crying like a baby if I didn’t care? I’m totally going to miss her. Totally. It’s some sad shit, man. It’s sad shit and bad timing, that’s all I mean.”

  I think back to one of my last conversations with Charlotte. Our Marry, Fuck, Sack Tap game.

  I pick option C and leave Scratch mewling and sputtering on the floor in fetal position as I walk away. “Get bent, you nasty fucking pustule,” I say over my shoulder. “Shove your stupid investment opportunity up your crusty, leprous ass!”

  I hate it when I’m so wrong about people. It makes me question my own judgment—like, who else am I misinterpreting?

  I see the Professor trying to get my attention as I push my way out of the apartment, but I ignore him. I’m done wasting time with this crowd.

  It’s cold tonight, and raining pretty hard, but I don’t care. I tuck my head down and head over to the hospital. It’s way after visiting hours, but I know how to sneak past the nurses. Dylan’s pretty much the only person I can count on these days, and since he can’t come to me, I’ll go to him.

  Chapter 25

  Guinea Pig Career Progression: A twelve-step guide to climbing (down) the corporate ladder

  Step One

  You will start by selling plasma. Everyone does. It’s easy money and the standards are low.

  Step Two

  Because that was easy, you will rationalize the giving away of small samples of potential yous. If you are male, this means sperm. (Why not get paid for what you’re already tossing off, er, away?) If you’re young and female this means egg donation, but only if you can get through the screening process. (Are you pretty-pretty-pretty enough? Perhaps a gymnast or a cellist? And, by the way, what are your SAT scores?)

  Step Three

  Because the slope is slippery and the pay is good, you will next allow something other than your skin to be pierced and probed. It will feel uncomfortable and you will not like it.

  Step Four

  Because you did not like it, you will decide to take pills for profit instead. Especially when the odds are good that you’ll be given a harmless placebo anyway.

  Step Five

  You will get a sugar pill and therefore feel nothing at all except a distinct sense of superiority over the poor working stiff you used to be before you discovered the world of drug trials.

  Step Six

  You will take more pills. Some of them will work as expected. Some of them will not. Some will do nothing at all. Some will do far too much.

  Step Seven

  Because some of the pills work as expected, and also because some work as not expected, you will no longer be so uncomfortable when strangers in lab coats stick things down your throat or up your ass. The money is good, and you feel good. Most of the time, anyway.

  Step Eight

  Because you are now letting strangers stick things down your throat and up your ass on a routine basis, you take more pills, and then more, and then more. You begin to hope that you do not get a placebo, because those do fuck all, and that is now a problem.

  Step Nine

  Because you are now taking many, many pills, most of which do something, holding down a regular job has become impossible. This does not bother you, as even the idea of a regular job has now become intolerable. Side effects from pills are usually temporary. Side effects from real life are usually not. Also, you like to be in control. You’re your own boss now, you tell yourself.

  Step Ten

  Because you now make a full-time living from the steady sublet of your veins/skin/bones/bowels, things that once seemed unbearable are now routine. You hardly even feel the pain anymore, and you’ve begun to feel pleasantly indestructible. You are definitely in control.

  Step Eleven

  Because you are indestructible and in control, and also because the money is very good, you will start to see every day as another chance to play chicken with the universe. It’s a powerful feeling, and you will usually win.

  Step Twelve

  Until you do not.

  Rest In Pieces, Charlotte.

  Chapter 26

  It’s a sign of just how broken up we are about Charlotte that Jameson and I wait another day before we go through her stuff.

  Jameson brought her purse home from the hospital, so he gets first dibs on the wallet. He cradles it in his hands for a minute, then unsnaps it and opens it slowly, all reverent like it’s a ceremony.

  We are solemn and respectful thieves.

  He extracts a thick stack of money, and I let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of cash.”

  Jameson reaches into the purse and pulls out an envelope filled with even more; I see fifties and hundreds as he fans through the bills. This isn’t quick-trip-to-the-ATM kind of cash. This isn’t a handful of crumpled ones and fives. This is serious money—one hell of a payday or ten. I can’t believe Charlotte would even think about loaning any of it to Scratch, but neither can I think of any other reason she’d be walking around with so much cash. It’d be just one more in a string of poor choices; she‘d be the first to tell you she had a long history of bad judgment when it came to guys.

  Jameson turns pink and shifts around, looking a lot less reverent than he did a minute ago. He splits off a stack of bills—a very small stack—and hands it to me. He tries to stuff the rest into his own pockets, but there’s too much. He finally gives up, his face dark red by now, and puts the money back into the envelope, which he slips into his jacket.

  I count what he gave me. Two hundred bucks. I’m guessing he kept at least ten times that for himself. I start to object, but he cuts me off. “We were working on something together. She owed me this much and more.”

  Well, isn’t that interesting. Now that Charlotte’s not around to set the record straight, she suddenly seems to have owed money to all sorts of people.

  Jameson’s almost certainly lying, but what can I do about it? This is his apartment, after all, and I haven’t paid him my portion of this month’s rent. He hasn’t said anything about it yet, but we both know a conversation is overdue.

  Now that I think about it, I don’t remember paying him the rent last month, either. That doesn’t necessarily mean I didn’t pay him. I forget a lot of things. Still, it’s my turn to flush red, heat creeping up my cheeks as it occurs to me that Jameson may be lying about Charlotte owing him money only because he’s too nice to point out that I’m actually the one who owes him a shitload of cash.

  Either way, it stings a little that he’s lying to me. That he can’t just come right out and say what’s on his mind, especially on a day like this. That we can’t just put it all out there and acknowledge that one of us is screwing over the other. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Guinea pigs aren’t exactly play-by-the-rules kinds of people.

  We do whatever it takes, up to—and including—stealing from our friends.

  The thought comes full circle, then slams into me like a fist. A large sum of cash disappears from my backpack one week. A large sum of cash appears in Charlotte’s purse the next. Coincidence?

  I think back to the way she begged me to take her place in the study that day. Please, Audie? My head is seriously killing me. … She knew my schedule, knew exactly where I’d be. She could have been watching me, waiting for her chance to pounce, to steal the money I’d been working so hard to save. …

  No. It’s a stupid idea. I mean, we freaking lived together. She could’ve just taken the money while I slept, or while I was in the shower. There’d be no reason to stalk me around the lab on the off chance that I might pass out in the alley.

  It w
as a ridiculous thought, and I actually feel kind of bad for even considering the possibility that Charlotte would rob me. Charlotte was my friend. She’d never do that to me.

  I wouldn’t put it past Jameson, on the other hand. Between his little pharmaceutical resale business and the way he just pocketed most of Charlotte’s cash, he doesn’t even try to disguise his … entrepreneurial interests. I know for a fact that just last week he resold a bottle of my leftover pills to some poor bastard for eighty bucks. He paid me five.

  Did I pay him rent? I must have …

  Jameson pokes around the contents of the purse briefly, then pushes it over to me without taking anything else. He looks away while I pick through the tampons and ChapStick and crumpled fast-food receipts. The only thing even remotely worth keeping is a leather appointment book. It’s nice. Refillable. It’s something for a person with a real life, someone with things worth keeping organized. I keep the book and the wallet, and shove the purse away. I’m not a purse-carrying kind of girl, and besides, it would make me too goddamn sad to look at it and think of Charlotte every day.

  He must realize that he’s being a greedy shit, because Jameson tells me to go ahead and keep whatever I want from her room. “I’ll go in there and clean out whatever you don’t want some other time,” he says. “I can’t deal with it right now.”

  And then that’s it. It’s done.