“Nora thinks we should talk to someone. A therapist.”

“Oh God,” I say. “That’s a quick way to make us feel shittier. The last thing I want to do is talk about it. Any of it.”

“It could help, Nah,” she says in a small voice. “With … everything. You know. The pills—”

“Is this voluntary?” I ask.

“Not so much. No. I suppose you could go on a hunger strike or something, but she says we need to talk to someone. Who it is—that’s our choice.”

When we get home, my fears are confirmed.

“So I have a list of the therapists in our area,” Nora says.

“I’ll look at it later,” I say. “I’m really tired.”

The next day, I make up an excuse to be late for lunch with Mae and her new friends, all confirmed nerds, and hurry over to the bleachers by the baseball field.

Drew is already there. He’s wearing a black hoodie with a puffy vest, ripped jeans, a beanie. Total drug dealer chic.

“I kinda thought you might not show,” he says, keeping his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I’m here.”

“How’d you know I’d be able to hook you up?”

“You just look…”

“Shady?”

Most of the guys here go for the I’m-applying-to-Harvard look: docksiders even though it’s too cold to go boating, khakis, polos.

“Pretty much, yeah.” I hand him a hundred bucks. “I’ll take ten tens.”

Money was never a problem for me, for anyone in my family. My lifelong savings did get low in the worst months, but then my parents died and everyone felt bad and Aunt Nora put a lot of money in both my and Mae’s accounts. Supposedly to get Boston wardrobes, since we’re basically in Siberia and you can’t wear jean shorts and flip-flops in places with negative degrees. When you’re a privileged junkie, it means you don’t have to stoop so low as to steal from the people you love or do all the things girls can do to get their fix. I’m the luckiest unlucky girl I know.

His eyebrows go up a little. “I’ve got fives if you—”

“Ten is good.”

“Ten it is.” He pockets the money, then takes out a bottle.

“Hold out your hand,” he says.

I do and he pours ten blue little circles on my palm, then one more.

“A little something extra for my new customer,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“So, you’re from LA?” he says, following me as I start for the caf.

“What do you care?”

He shrugs. “Just making conversation.”

“I give you five stars for customer service, okay? You can go … wherever you go at lunch.”

“I was just wondering what a nice girl like you is doing buying opiates.”

“First, I’m not a nice girl. Second, it’s none of your business.”

“Fair enough.”