The Luck of the Draw (Part 4?)

Disclaimer: See Part One

Warning: This piece deals with drug addiction. It's not very explicit, but if it bothers you, don't read!

Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please! I just got back to school and am already fiendishly busy; I'm proud I got this done, finally, and feedback would make my day! Have pity! I'm going to be stuck reading chemistry! 

Phil's just finished regaling Donna with stories of our "death-defying exploits." I did manage to interject that all of Phil's stories should be taken with a grain of salt, but he only shot me a dirty look and went on. It's a defense mechanism, really; if either of us tried to accurately recount the things we've seen, we would profoundly depress people. Some, like Donna, would probably chain us to our beds to keep us from going back. I won't say I'm not afraid; sometimes I'm downright petrified. But the stories we pursue are the ones that really need to be told. I don't know, I just want to help people. And if that means putting my life on the line for a few days so people who've lived in fear for years can finally sleep at night, then so be it.

I would go on, but there seems to be a squealing noise coming from the direction of the stairs. I make my way to the door of the kitchen, only to be barreled into by a very excited Eliza. "Adi!"

"Hey there, Tink."

Liza went through this stage when she was about six where she wanted to be Tinkerbell. I think every member of the family can still recite the "Peter Pan" script from memory, that's how many times we watched it. Sandy and I got in the habit of calling her Tink, and now most of her friends do too, at least occasionally. Dad only uses it when he's snarking at her, which, with Dad, is fairly regularly.

She's moved on to Phil, and is now trying to talk him out of some of his pancakes. She's about to start chasing him, when Donna sets a plate before her with a thump. Grinning guiltily, Liza slides into a chair.

"So, that's one accounted for," says Phil. "Where are Picasso and the pixie-kid hiding?"

You've probably noticed that there are a lot of nicknames floating around in this house. Donna blames it on CJ, but as for me, well, it makes me feel like we're a closer family, somehow. I've never actually voiced that opinion; they'd think I was a sentimental fool and I'd never hear the end of it, especially from Sandy and Norah. And it would make Donna cry.

The front door slams, to my surprise, and when I look up, I see Sandy. I thought he must have been sleeping in, catching up after a late party, but he looks as if he hasn't been home at all. From the glances Donna and Liza exchange, I sense that this isn't a one-time occurrence. After a quick hug, Liza slips past me and up the stairs. Sandy doesn't try to explain, or argue, he just stands there, passive. That bothers me more than anything. When a Lyman doesn't even try to put up a fight, something's really wrong.

As Donna approaches Sandy, Phil excuses himself; he too can see that something is going on. I lean against the banister and watch.

Here it comes, the inevitable parental showdown. It looks like a calm, reasoning one this time; Mom alternates between that and going totally ballistic. And Dad? Hah! What a joke. He's never here anyway.

Adi's here, though, which will obviously make everyone jump for joy. The return of the perfect prodigal son. Well, at least now they'll be distracted enough not to notice when I go out again. Isn't that what dear old Dad always says, to look for the positive in any situation?

Positivity my ass.

"Did you just get in, Sandy?"

"You saw me come through the door, Mom."

"I meant, are you just now coming back from wherever you went last night?"

"Yeah."

"You are aware that that was definitely past your curfew, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Man, the kid isn't even breaking a sweat. I could never get through one of Donna's grillings that coolly. Sandy just looks bored, though, remote and detached, like he doesn't even care. Liza's told me about Sandy getting in trouble in her emails, but I assumed it was normal stuff, stupid stuff like I did.

Now I'm not so sure.

Donna continues. "Well, where were you then?"

"Out."

"Out." Donna sighs. "Fine. Go upstairs and get some rest. We'll talk again in a little while. Are you hung-"

Sandy's already gone up the stairs to his room. A few seconds later the door slams. Donna sits down on the couch and rubs her head. I pull up a chair and ask the question: "Donna, what's going on?"

She smiles ruefully. "You think I know? Actually, I haven't got a clue."

"Liza mentioned he's been getting in some trouble…"

"Yes. Typical things, I guess you might say. Staying out past curfew, and Josh caught him with a cigarette once. He had Sam deliver an hour-long presidential lecture on the health hazards of smoking; Sam can pontificate almost as well as President Bartlet. That cured him of the smoking, but then his grades started slipping, and lately, well, it's just gotten ten times worse. He stays out all night, we can barely talk to him, he's isolating… Josh says it's just growing up, rebellion, sowing wild oats and all that, but…I don't know what to do. I never see him drawing anymore, Adi. Never. I just don't know…"

"You want me to try and talk to him?"

"Thank you, honey. Yes, if you don't mind. Maybe coming from you…" Donna trails off as we hear yet another key turning in the lock.

Staying with Adi's family is great. There's always this sense of energy and good-natured friction. I've always loved to debate, so the Moss-Lyman household is a dream come true. Josh is great fun to argue with; watching the verbal sparring dynamic he and Donna have is even better. I swear, those two should teach a seminar in banter, or something. Adi only jumps in when necessary; he's the voice of reason when things get heated, or at least he is until Josh and I start insulting his manhood. Then things get really fun. Sandy usually interjects some tongue-in-cheek comment before escaping to safety, and Liza hurls insults like the best of us.

Norah, though, she's something else. She's so passionate about what she believes in, fiery. It's spectacular. She and Josh can go head to head no problem. As for me, when I'm not arguing with her, I mock her "righteous anger." It's just so easy, especially when she's all fired up. She'll assume this sort of combat stance, her hands will start going everywhere, her hair will be standing on end, and her eyes fairly snap out at you. Frankly, I find it adorable, and usually say as much, which is when she starts to hit me.

Okay, okay, I admit it, I have a thing for Adi's sister. I always have had, ever since that first Thanksgiving. She never backs down from anything, and gives as good as she gets, if not better. But, she's his little sister. She is also, and this is far more frightening, Josh Lyman's daughter. Hey, I argue with the man on friendly terms, and that's hard enough. You think I'll survive going up against him when the subject is his daughter?

You're right.

Neither do I.

I hear voices coming from the stairwell, which must mean that Norah is home. I head down the stairs, the requisite snide comment on the tip of my tongue, when she looks up. I stop, mid-flight. Holy god. I, ah, don't think I'm in Kansas here anymore, folks. She looks absolutely…lovely.

I used to call her Pixie, because of her short hair that stood up all over. It's longer now, the reddish curls tumbling past her chin; her face looks softer. Discreet makeup brings out her eyes. She's definitely not a gangly tomboy anymore. She looks sophisticated, urbane. Fabulous.

Oh, yeah. We're most definitely not in Kansas, here.

Hah! I have accomplished the impossible. The smooth and suave Philip Brookner, is, for once, speechless, and staring at me with an utterly stunned (and therefore ridiculous) expression. I would rather render him speechless with my superior intellect and wit, of course, but this is fine for starters.

I've been trying to get that self-satisfied expression off his face for years, ever since the first time Adi brought him home for Thanksgiving. Of course, I fell for him right away. What fourteen year-old wouldn't? He's not Tom Cruise or anything, but he's got a grin that's sexy as hell, dark brown hair and light green eyes. Add in a fabulous accent, and he was pretty much guaranteed to jump-start my hormones, if they'd needed any jump-starting in the first place.

Even in my room upstairs, I can feel the tension brewing; it's like the air on a humid day, thick, palpable, oppressive. So I do what I always do: block it out, try and ignore it. I don't brood like Dad and Sandy, I cover things up.

Sandy. My big brother has always been someone I've idolized, ever since I was little. I love Adi, but Sandy's always been my big brother, if you know what I mean. So funny, and smart, and he could draw the most wonderful pictures. He made storybooks for me, the first one when he was maybe six or seven, exuberant and childish, and the last one a year ago, for my Bat Mitzvah, beautiful and detailed. The pictures are bright and fanciful, and I love to look at them.

But I don't idolize him anymore, and that hurts. Lately, he doesn't seem to care about anything or anyone, least of all himself. I've thought about trying to talk to him, but I am his little sister, and when he's in one of his moods, nobody, not even Mom, can get anywhere with him.

So I do the next best thing: get out of the way, because one day, whatever volcano Sandy's been hiding is going to erupt, and the last thing I want is to get caught in the backlash.

I have a feeling, though, that no matter what I do, I might get caught anyway.

I feel like shit. Luckily, there's an easy way to fix that. Vicodin.

What? You mean you didn't guess? Hey, between Dad and Mom, this place is Vicodin central. It's not like they're junkies or anything, they just need it once in a while, for their injuries. Nah, it's me that gets the recreational pleasure out of it.

It's just so nice not to have to feel. Not to actually have to do anything about being perpetually equivalent to aforementioned shit.

You may be wondering, how can the offspring of two such confident individuals as Joshua Lyman and Donnatella Moss-Lyman have such a low opinion of himself? Very easily, my friends. It's just, everybody's so goddamn perfect around here. I mean, my father is the second most powerful man in the world, my mother is a respected journalist renowned for her wit, my older sister is considered the heir apparent to the Lyman political dynasty, and my older brother is fucking Gandhi! So, of course, I have to be the wastrel. Every family has one; it might as well be me, right? Right. But I don't know, sometimes I don't think I'm really that cool with it. That's where the Vicodin comes in. Changing would be too hard, and besides, it would make everyone too happy.

Shit! The bottle I keep in my room is empty. I keep a stash in the back of the bathroom closet. You might be wondering how I take the pills without my parents noticing they're missing? First of all, they're too fucking busy to notice much of anything; I mean, why care that your son is hooked on pills when there's the weekly national/international apocalypse to avert? Second, do you know how easy it is to refill a standing prescription? I know you wouldn't believe it, but the helpful son story really does work.

Anyway, here they are. Oblivion, here I come. I knock back a few just as the door opens. I whirl around, pills scattering everywhere, to come face to face with a horrified Liza.

"Sandy!" She's staring at me like I just killed her cat or something, her big blue eyes brimming with reproach and tears. I so do not need this right now.

"Get out of here, Liza." She doesn't move. She's starting to piss me off; the last thing I need is for her to ruin everything. "Liza, get out of here, are you deaf? GET OUT!" She's still just standing there, tears dripping down her cheeks. I take her arm and try to drag her out, but her feet don't move. My rage at the futility of it all, everything, boils over, and I slam her into the doorframe, then turn away shaking, barely registering her sharp yelp of pain. Oh God.

"Tink? I'm sorry, Tink, I'm really sorry. Here, let me see. Tink…" She's shrinking away from me, pressing herself into a corner. I hear the pounding of feet on the stairs, and turn to grip the sink, defeated.

"Guys?" It's Norah. "Mom went out to the store, she'll be back soon…What happened? What is it, Liza? Oh my God, look at your…Sandy!"

I don't make out the words of her rage, they just slap at me as relentlessly as hail, augmented by Liza's rain of tears and whimpers. I hear Adi and Phil come up behind her, hear them hustling Liza out with soothing tones, and then it's quiet. I turn around slowly, only to find Adi watching me, looking lost.

If Adi's lost, what does that mean for me?