She shifts uncomfortably, looks out her window, unable to meet my eyes. I know she’s ashamed of what she’s done, ashamed she needs me, ashamed she shouldn’t live alone because being left to her own devices would be too tempting.
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I went to a frat party, and I got drunk. I woke up hooked.” Heat stains her cheeks. “Someone must have given me some without me knowing, or I thought it would be fun to try it and don’t remember.”
I nod. Six years ago, she was in her first year of college, trying to attend classes and do homework around working part-time and cleaning up after Mom. I helped when I could and told Talia several times to live with me, but she didn’t want to give up on Mom. Going to a party with friends would have been natural. When I was in school, I partied with the best of them, too.
“You didn’t get hooked living with Mom?” I ask.
“No. I knew how to clean up after her, but she didn’t bring it home very often, Devyn. She kept it on the streets.”
If there’s any contention between us, it’s that she wants to keep trying to help our mother. Mom’s been addicted to Sweet for years, and the longer you’re on it, the harder it is to get clean. Talia was hooked for only a few months, and she needed three years in rehab. I can’t imagine how long it would take someone like our mom, or how long it would last before she’s on the street, licking the bubblegum-flavored powder off some guy’s cock because she can’t score any other way.
“Do you remember what else you did that day?” I ask without trying to lead her. It’s a great skill to have—asking a question to lure the true answer out of the person you’re interviewing.
She twists in her seat and frowns. “What’s this all about?”
I slow down as a huge semitruck passes us, and our car shakes. “Just humor me, okay?”
“It was a Friday, and I guess in the morning I went to class. I remember I did because that’s when we were invited to the party. My friends and I decided to go shopping at the mall to look for clothes. This wasn’t a shit party—the frat guys were having something fancy, and a friend of Serena’s said she could get us in. We wanted nice clothes. We went to Bloomingdales, and I remember Serena spotted me the dress I wanted because I couldn’t afford it.”
Talia wouldn’t have asked me for spending money. Not when I paid their rent, the utilities, and grocery bill.
She sips her decaf. She stays away from anything that could be habit-forming. “We bummed around, you know? We were kids, excited for the weekend.”
“Yeah.” It makes me so angry. She should still be a kid, not a twenty-four year old who’s seen more than she should in any lifetime.
Talia falls quiet, and we spend the next few minutes in silence.
“Serena got munchy,” she says, picking up where she left off.
I glance at her in surprise. I thought she was done.
“I told her I’d buy her lunch in exchange for the dress, but she said she wanted something to bring to the party that night, and we went into Stevie’s sweetshop.”
My heart starts to slam against my ribs.
Barney was right.
“Did you buy anything there?” I ask, sounding like I couldn’t care less.
“Yeah, a pound of gummy worms. I didn’t eat them until we were at the party, though.”
“Did Serena buy anything?”
“Some Sour Patch Kids, I think, and...I thought it was funny, but she bought a few of those powdered candy dipping stick packets? I didn’t think I’d like it, but it wasn’t bad.”
“You had some of Serena’s dipping sticks at the party?”
“She passed them around. A frat guy pretended it was coke and started snorting it. It was funny.”
Hysterical. I wonder if he’s hooked on Sweet. It’s something I add to my list. Ask Talia to remember the names of anyone she can who had been there and how many had addictions after that night.
“How’s Serena doing?” Talia hasn’t spoken about her friend in quite a while. Serena got hooked at the same frat party as Talia, was at the same party the cops busted, too, but she wasn’t as lucky. Serena didn’t have the support system a recovering addict needs to stay sober, and after her stint in rehab, ended up on the streets again.
Talia picks at some white fuzz on her black leggings. “I don’t know where she is now. I lost touch with a lot of people when we moved to Portland.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not. Portland was what Talia needed, and it’s been good for her. I can’t feel bad for the people we left behind.
I focus on the road, the highway growing crowded the closer to Cedar Hill we come. We still have another two hours, and my plan is to drive straight to Rick’s office building. His partner, Beau—I don’t remember his last name—should be there and hopefully if I tell him what I’m doing and that I’m doing it for Rick, he’ll help us out.