CHAPTER 6: CLAUDIA

By ladyrishikesh

"You had to repeat seventh grade?"

I'll never forget how embarrassed I was when Noah found out about my less-than-stellar academic past. I was in eleventh grade, and he was a freshman in art college. He was SO cool. He dressed in all black and always wore these sunglasses that obscured his eyes. His type of art was different from mine. His idea of creativity involved splattering a bunch of neon paint on a poster board and painstakingly smudging it to create abstract forms. I would rather draw or paint what I see. I guess I've always been like that.

I met Noah at an open mic night one weekend. My best friend Ashley Wyeth, in addition to being an awesome artist, had also begun playing acoustic guitar. I had tagged along to support her. It wasn't a big favor or anything: after all, this was such a neat atmosphere. So many creative people were hanging around, sipping coffee and listening to music! I hadn't been around so many people with common interests since my days in the Baby-sitters Club. While a sophomore was playing a cover of a Pink Floyd song, I saw a tall, dark-haired guy leaning against the espresso counter. I'm no stranger to dating, and I knew that by the end of the night I would be (at least!) exchanging my phone number with this hottie.

As I'm sure you can imagine, I did. I didn't expect things to move so fast, but before I knew it we were casually dating and seeing each other a few times a week. It was a little intimidating, being around Noah. He was intelligent, well read, and way more sophisticated than anyone I'd ever met (and that's saying a lot—my old BFF, Stacey McGill, was from New York City!). I would often find myself poring over the contents of my closet before our dates in order to find something unique enough to impress Noah. On the night he discovered how dumb I am in school, I had selected a soft black sweater, shiny black tights, high-waisted red shorts and suspenders, and a jaunty red beret. I knew I looked "art school," and I hoped that Noah would think so too. He must have, because soon we were kissing in his Mini Cooper.

"How many people have you dated?" he asked me, out of the blue.

I had to think about it. "Well, I've dated several in the past couple of years. A few in eighth grade, too. In seventh grade, I dated one or two guys. The first time through, anyway." It was a stupid slip-up. All my friends knew about my past, and so I usually talked freely about it with them. But Noah had no clue how much I struggle. If he knew, I would lose so many points in his eyes. I could feel it.

"You had to repeat seventh grade?" he asked me.

I felt my heart starting to race in my chest. He tilted his dark sunglasses down his nose so I could see his blue eyes.

"Why?" he asked.

"Idon'tdowellatschool," I mumbled.

"Oh," he said. He leaned back in his seat. This was it. He was never going to touch me, or let me see any of his artwork again. I wasn't sure which was worse.

"I'm sorry," I blubbered. I felt like I was going to cry.

"About what?" he asked. "Who cares? It's just school."

"But you're so smart," I pointed out.

"So are you," he said. "School's a joke most of the time."

"But you spend so much time doing schoolwork," I said. I couldn't stop arguing. I wanted to, but I couldn't.

"Yeah," he said. "I have to. I would flunk out of art school." He shrugged. "It's no big deal. I never sleep, so it gives me time to study, do my art, and whatever else I want to do."

"You never sleep?" I asked. "How do you manage that?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little box. He opened it up. Inside was a pile of tiny white pills. "Take one of these. You'll be up for two days, no questions asked."

I was a little unsure, but the way he was looking at me, like he still wanted to kiss me even though I'm an idiot, was enough to convince me. I picked up a pill and gulped it down. He grinned. We made out for another hour.

That night I cleaned my entire room, completed three new paintings, started a new sketch, and even had time to do my British lit homework. Still going strong at 7 am, I changed my outfit and gulped down a few Snickers bars before running out the door to school. I have no idea why it seemed like such a good idea to leave my junker of a car behind and jog to school, but I did it. I got there in less than ten minutes. That whole day was nothing but a jacked-up, fast-paced blur.

That was the first time I did speed. I continued taking it a few times a week for the next six months. Even when Noah dumped me a month later, I continued hunting down speed from other art students who needed an extra boost to do well in school. My grades went up. I had more time to see my friends. I completed painting after painting. It seemed like a miracle. I was suddenly motivated to do everything. I had energy, and I had the time. My parents thought I was turning into Janine. They were so proud of me.

One day, I was starting to feel a little sick. I had been regularly taking speed for almost half a year. I was sitting in study hall, the one class I had with my former best friend, Stacey McGill. I'm not sure why we stopped being friends. There were no hard feelings, or anything like that. We just drifted apart. We have some of the same friends, and we see each other at parties sometimes. We say "hi" in the halls. That's about it. As I was sitting in study hall, drawing frantically across the cover of my notebook, I could hear my heart beating. It felt like it was beating out of my chest, up my throat, and out of my mouth. I could feel my face getting hot and my palms getting sweaty. I tried to remember how many pills I had taken in the past day. I counted up to three before falling out of my chair and hitting the floor.

I woke up in the nurse's office. Stacey was sitting beside me. I could barely open my eyes, but I could hear Stacey's voice as she spoke to the nurse and our study hall monitor. "I think it's just a fever," she said. "She should probably have something to eat. I'll take her home."

She didn't say anything to me as she guided me out of the school and into her car. It wasn't until we were half a mile down the road that she said something. "I know you're high, Claudia," she said. She had covered for me, I realized. She didn't say it in a mean way, or in a judgmental way. It was very matter-of-fact.

She took me home and gave me some water. She cooked me some Ramen noodles and helped me into my bed. She told me to call her if I needed anything. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until that evening. When I did, I walked over to my desk and saw the number for a drug rehabilitation group. Beneath it, Stacey had written "I know we're not best friends anymore, but I still care."

I called the number. I've been off speed for a little over a year now, and I have Stacey to thank. No one ever found out—not my parents, not my teachers, not Janine, not even my good friends. It was a secret I kept, and a secret Stacey kept for me. I still struggle at school, and I don't produce artwork as fast as I could. But I can function, and I'm healthy. I could have died that day in school. I probably would have, if someone hadn't been there for me.

It's funny that my best high school memory involves a girl that I hardly talked to throughout my entire 9th–12th grade career. But it taught me something important: no matter how many things change in your life, no matter how much distance grows between you and someone you care about, when it comes down to it, true friends are always there when you need them. No matter the circumstance. Even if you're trying to impress a guy who you thought was more sophisticated than said friend. I guess now I'm starting to understand that Stacey's subtle help was much more impressive than some art snob handing out pills to teenage girls.