There's a round reception desk on the other side of the lobby, but no one's sitting there. Computer printed paper signs point me down the hall to where it opens up into a big, felt-carpeted gym, then breaks off into several hallways, each with numbered doors, and no windows.
The paper signs lead me around the corner and down a hall to room 15. The door is ajar, the murmur of several voices audible in the hall.
When I go inside, several people turn to look.
It's a large room, slightly longer than it is deep, with a circle of fifteen or twenty chairs in the middle. There's a table with coffee, cookies, and a water bay. And across from the door, a window bathes the gray floor and plastic chairs in sunlight—but it must be at the back of the building, because it looks out only on shrubs, and sky.
A dozen people about my age mill around, some munching cookies, others drinking from Styrofoam cups. A girl standing alone by a bookshelf who looks younger than everyone else—maybe thirteen or fourteen—gives me an uncertain smile. Her eyes are outlined in kohl, making them look big, and dark, an impression that clashes with the simple sweep of her blonde hair. She mouths "Hi," and gives an awkward wave.
I nod, but look away. There'll be a sign in sheet here somewhere and my name needs to be on it. My parents will check.
I locate the clipboard on the cookie table, cautiously greeting a nearby couple—a bored looking guy in Dockers, and a girl whose fishnet stockings are more hole than stocking. When I pick up the clipboard, they tip their heads together and return to a whispered conversation.
As I finish signing in, people start to take their seats in the circle, so I hurry to get a good spot. There's a chair in the middle, under the window, that has a notebook and clipboard sitting on it. That'll be the leader's seat.
I learned pretty quickly when my parents first forced me to start attending groups in LA, that the best seat to stay under the radar was to sit two or three chairs down from the leader. Not right next to them. But close enough that they have to turn to see you, because they spend most of their time looking forward—at the chairs opposite them in the circle—so it's easier to escape scrutiny.
I make a beeline for the chair two down on the right, as a woman who's probably in her thirties, wearing jeans and with her hair back in a messy bun, heads for the leader's chair with someone else . . .
You've got to be kidding me.
Towering over her, still in the stiff khakis and sky-blue polo he wore to school today, Chase walks with her, nodding at something she's explaining with her hands.
He's looking sideways at her, so hasn't noticed me yet.
Horrified he's here, I slip into the chair I was aiming for, stare at my hands, and hope he sits on her other side.
He might not even notice me?
But Chase doesn't stop on the other side of the leader's seat. Instead he crosses in front of her and takes the chair next to mine.
I drop my face into one hand and pray for an earthquake to open the floor and take us all.
"Hey, Kate," he says. Like it's no big deal we're in a rehab meeting.
"Hi," I barely murmur before I look away. The young girl has dropped into the seat on my other side, her pale hair swinging into her eyes. She pushes it back and smiles again. "Hi," she says in a voice that's the strangest mix of husk, and high pitch. "I'm Ember."
"I'm Kate," I say, giving her a small smile, then turning back to the front, pretending to ignore the bronze man-wall at my other side who's watching me. His gaze burns on the side of my face.
Mind racing—I don't want this guy knowing anything about me, let alone this—I'm about to choose a different seat when the woman clears her throat. "Okay, everyone, let's quiet down and take a seat. We've only got the room for an hour."
There's only a couple empty seats after the last of the wasters sit.
I fold my arms and cross my legs, leaning on my knees and staring at the carpet.
It's fine. I'll ignore him.
"Okay, everyone! It's so great to see you again. For those of you who are new, my name's Trista. I'm addicted to methamphetamine, and became addicted to alcohol when I tried to use it stay off Meth. So I'm a double-threat," she winks. A couple of the people chuckle.
Chase finally looks at her instead of me, but heat radiates off his coiled bicep. I frown at my toes.
"Remember: This is a safe place. Everyone in this room is an addict—"
I glance skeptically at Chase and freeze when I catch him staring back. He gives a tight smile, the square corner of his jaw tense, then runs his hand back and forth over his almost-non-existent hair.
Mr. Candy-Ass can't be an addict, surely? He must be here to layer up his college essay, or something. I clasp my hands together in my lap and decide I'll do nothing. I'll wait the meeting out. Then pretend I never saw him. Ask my parents if I can find a different meeting.
"—There's no judgment for you here, whether you're sober, relapsing, or five years straight. Our only rule is that you must be sober when you're here. Remember: We're here to support each other. Everything said in this room remains one hundred percent confidential."
I shake my head. There's no way I'm speaking while Chase is here. I won't have him taking stories back to Amy, or the rest of the school.
"Today I want to focus on triggers. What are you dealing with in your day to day life that makes you want to use or drink? And how successful are you at resisting? Remember, there's no judgment. If you've relapsed this week, we'll start your day count again. We're here to help you get through it. So, who wants to go first?"
There's the shifting of butts on seats, eyes darting around the circle.
Chase turns from looking at Trista, to watching me again. He swallows, then clears his throat. "I'll go first."
Stunned, I look at him. Skeptically. My nails dig into my skin as I grip my hands together to keep myself from running out of the room.
I'm resolved to tune him out, when the very first words out of his mouth stop me in my proverbial tracks.
Chase leans forward, elbows on his knees, and talks to the carpet. "I'm Chase and I'm addicted to . . . well, getting high." There's a titter around the room, and a few nodding heads. I blink. "My biggest trigger this week has been a guy at school who hurt a friend of mine on Monday. Ever since, she's been a mess, while he walks around like nothing happened. I look at him and I want to pound him into the floor. And then I hate myself for thinking things like that, and the cravings come . . . " he trails off miserably.
I gape at the side of his somber face. Chase is an addict?
"And how are you combatting those urges, Chase? Or did you relapse this week?" Trista asks softly.
Chase heaves a sigh that feels far too familiar. I'm riveted.
"I haven't relapsed, but it's hard. Sometimes I white-knuckle it, you know? Force myself not to do anything. But that feels dangerous, like if I get tripped up, I'll fall back into it.
"Other times, I get distracted by my friends. They help because they want me to stay clean, but they don't really understand the details so it's uncomfortable. You know that feeling when people look at you like you're a loaded gun?"
Lots of nodding this time, including me. I catch myself and stop.
"And sometimes I focus on what's good in my life. Think about the future I want. Remind myself I can't do any of it if I'm off my head all the time."
Chase runs a clawed hand over his almost-shaved head again. He exhales heavily and his breath shakes.
As much as I want to dismiss him, I have the sinking feeling he's being honest. How on God's green earth did this candy-ass, monster of a guy become an addict? What was he smoking? Potpourri?
"What's the hardest part, Chase?" Trista asks.
Chase doesn't answer immediately. His brow furrows and he swallows. "The hardest part is seeing other people . . . people I know are headed down the same road I was on. Knowing they'll be destroyed by it. I want to grab them and force them to go the other way. But I also wish I could go with them and get lost in it again. So I feel like a hypocrite."
Then he turns his head and looks at me.