Street Girl

12 | elliot

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up, El. I'm being serious."

"Nope, no way."

"El!" Red-faced, she raises her voice. "Come on, I know you have some, just give me a little."

"No way, dude. You're my little sister. I'm not giving you drugs."

"Why not? It's just weed. You might have Mom and Dad fooled, but Ollie and I know how much of a stoner you are."

"I am not. Leave me alone."

"Oh, yeah?" She stands and juts out a hip. "Well if you don't share with me, guess what? I'll rat on you to Dad."

Fuming, I stand, too. "I'll deny it."

"And who do you think he'll believe? You, or me?" She bats her puppy-dog eyes. Man, she's pissing me off. Sometimes Charlotte and I get along great, but other times she's pretty much the devil incarnate. Guess I should expect this—fifteen is a disastrous age for everyone. It's when I started drinking and smoking pot, but she's my little sister. I don't want her to end up like me.

"Go away, Char. I'm not giving you shit."

"Then I guess I'll go tell Dad. Suit yourself." Charlotte storms toward the door, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fuck. I've been good at hiding my weed from Dad, but if he suspects me, I'll get busted fast.

"Okay, wait."

She crosses her arms with a wicked smile. I stomp over to the desk and take out a sandwich bag with a bit of weed in it. "Here, take it. You're evil, Charlotte. Don't smoke too much, and don't get in any trouble. If you rat on me, you're dead."

She plucks the bag from my hand. "Thanks, El! See you later!" Charlotte prances down the hall to her room. Too irritated to sleep, I wander downstairs on a quest for snacks. My finger is on the kitchen light switch when my parents' voices sound from the dining room.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," Mom says. "What if El does something while we're gone and we aren't there to help him?"

Dad sighs. I peek around the corner, where their reflections flicker in the window, lit by the candles on the table. Dad sitting down, Mom standing over his shoulder. Dad takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

"I know, Liz. I hate leaving him alone too. What if he skips out on practice while we're away? You know he's been in one of his moods again lately. Coach Andrews called and said El's been zoning out on the ice, staring into space like he's... not all there."

Mom touches his arm. "Still, Dr. Belawa thinks it's best if we give him time... he is eighteen, and he's still doing so well. You're too hard on him about hockey."

"If he's going to go pro next year, he needs to be at a hundred percent. What if we got him back—"

"Don't say that. He won't take any pills, not after what happened last time."

"I know, I know. I just... I wish he wasn't such a handful."

Having heard enough, I stumble upstairs and crash into my room. The voice is back in my head: You fuck everything up. You hold everyone down.

Dad doesn't believe in me. He thinks I need pills to succeed. How could he even think about putting me back on those after what happened? Is hockey the only thing that matters to him? It's all bullshit. Dad used to play but he couldn't get into the NHL and now all that pressure is on me.

A sharp pain stabs my chest. My pulse hammers my throat like I'm having a heart attack. I lie in bed and try to calm down, but my chest rises and falls and rises and falls and rises and falls.

There's only one thing that can make it stop. I open my bedroom window and let the cold air touch my skin then slip onto the roof. I light the joint I was saving for later, and the smoke sweeps into my lungs, instantly calming me. Grey clouds rimmed with blue drift over the dark sky, and a few stars cut through the city's light pollution like laser beams. The noise in my head fades until it exists only under a thin layer of smoke.

In my room, my display of medals and trophies shine gold, but they look like shit. They're worthless if I don't make it to the NHL. Dad's right—if I'm gonna get in, I need to be a hundred percent perfect, but lately there's this blanket of sand weighing me down and it's so, so heavy, that sometimes I can't drag myself out of bed to do anything but get high. The fact that I have no friends doesn't help. I'm lonely all the time.

Except for earlier tonight.

Except for when I'm with Lucy.

When we were playing monopoly in front of the fire, I can't remember the last time I'd felt so relaxed. Not worried about hockey or school or anything. All that mattered was if she liked me. And considering how much I made her smile, and the fact that she hasn't blocked my number, well... maybe she does.

Thinking about her eases the thudding in my chest. I hope she's comfortable where she is. I hope she hasn't stolen from anyone since the night we met.

Dad's wrong.

I don't need pills to succeed.

I need to try harder.

So I grab my skates and sneak outside, into the brisk night. I head to the park around the corner. In the darkness, the ice rink is like a clean pane of glass. When I was five, I bruised every part of my body in this park trying to be like Gretzky. It didn't take long for it to become second-nature, and now I come here to think, to practice, to forget. To punish myself.

As soon as I'm on the rink, I soar. The smell of ice and the sound of shredding fills me with a heart-calming euphoria.

I have to be better. I have to be better.

I skate until my ankles hurt. Until my lungs are cold from breathing in so much ice. Until my body is soaked in sweat even though it's negative forty. Until I can't think anymore. Until I collapse face-first in the snow and pass out.