Drabble Thirty-Six : So It Begins
"Mickey," my sister calls through my cracked bedroom door, "your probation officer is at the front door." When I don't respond, Mandy barges is. She groans and yanks at the covers I'm currently tangled up in. Exasperated as she yanks it off of me, Mandy says, "She's pissed and I don't feel like lying to her again." Finally pulling me free, Mandy squeals and tosses the blanket back over me as I yawn and push myself up slightly. "Jesus!" Mandy bellows, scowling at me and already across the room. "Put some fucking clothes on!" she says and storms out, cheeks burning.
I lay back for a few minutes, collecting my hazy mind and staring at my ceiling. I don't remember coming to bed. What I do remember is falling asleep at Greg's after discussing with him the possibility of buying from his friend's dealer. And waking up to the sound of his snoring. I remember leaving by the same window I crawled through. Coming home and helping Sandra up off the bathroom floor. Hitting her stash again. Watching some moronic show on FX.
She's running low. Which means I'm running low. Which means I need some money to get my fix. And also to buy some food and maybe pay the phone bill. Fortunate for me, Greg knows a guy who sells smack relatively cheap and is willing to hook me up. Greg never touches the stuff, but doesn't give a good damn if I do.
I've been on the stuff for only a few weeks. So far I'm not a complete slave to it. Not in my opinion.
Stumbling out of bed, I slip into my jogging shorts and don't bother with a shirt. I scratch myself on the way to the front door and frown in Reba's serious face.
Mandy let the bitch in. Mandy who is now stuffing her face with the last of our cereal and watching me from the kitchen counter.
"Mickey," Reba greets me. She tightens her frown. Her usually cheerful, optimistic face is grave. "Pablo says you haven't been to work all week. Are you sick?" she asks me, already knowing I'm clearly not. She sighs before I can lie. "You only have two weeks left before you probation period ends," she tells me, shaking her head and looking saddened. "Don't mess up your freedom," she pleas. "I've seen so much success from you," she says. "You were doing so well," she says.
This bitch is deluded.
I scrunch up my face and flip her the bird, nonchalant. "You done?" I ask, cocking a brow.
Reba, she crosses her arms and looks around the house, concern evident on her face. Mandy frowns at her from the kitchen walkway, milk dribbling down her chin. The sound of Sandra throwing up is the only thing to be heard now. I can practically see the wheels turning in Reba's head. Concern mixed with disgust turned to alarm and realization. She looks me over, eyes darting and chewing her painted lips. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, I shudder at the sympathy she's not bothered masking.
She digs into her purse and pulls out a business card. For a split second I wonder why she's bothering handing me that. I've not skipped my appointments with Reba because I've lost her information; I'm skipping because I no longer give a fuck. But when she pulls out a pen and writes on the back of it, reaching it over to me before letting herself out, I see what she is really about.
It's a card for some beauty shop. And written on the back is what I figure is probably her personal phone number. Standing in my front doorway, Reba looks back at me and clears her throat. "In case you want sanity in your life," she tells me. "Or in case you just want to talk," she says. "It's my cell phone," I'm told. "It's always on me," she adds before shutting the door. Through the crack, she says, "I'll tell Pablo you're down with the flu."