Dancing with Molly - Lena Horowitz Page 0,67

Then my dad announced that we were going to the fifth floor, and we got on the elevator. That was a totally mind-boggling experience, by the way. As soon as we went up, I felt like I was standing on my head, and by the time we got off, I was dizzy. Elevators and molly do not mix.

I blearily followed my dad into this mostly white office, and the receptionist buzzed the doctor or whatever you call him. While we waited, I rubbed the hem of my T-shirt between my thumb and forefinger. It was so soft. I had no idea clothes could be that soft. Then, suddenly, we were up and walking into the counselor’s office.

His name was Tim Burbridge, and he had a soul patch. A soul patch! It looked like a little caterpillar dancing its way across his face. I laughed and reached out to touch it with my thumb. It felt surprisingly silky against my skin.

Of course, this was a big mistake.

My mom actually gasped. My dad asked what I was doing. Tim looked me dead in the eye and said, Your daughter is rolling right now.

Which made me laugh some more. Then my mother asked what rolling meant, and that made me laugh even harder.

The next thing I knew, Tim was telling my parents he couldn’t treat me when I was like this. That there was a detox facility in the hospital, or they could detox me at home. My mother was so white I thought I might be able to see through her.

We’ll take her home, she said. We can handle this. Tim gave them some kind of pamphlet with instructions on what to do. Like I’m their new and exotic pet.

And then I was back in the car and I was victorious. I’d gotten out of substance-abuse therapy. Go me!

Of course, what I probably should’ve done was ask to see the pamphlet, because when we got home, my parents did every single thing it said to do, line by line. They made me sit in the corner while they searched every inch of my room, even though I kept telling them there were no more drugs. I’m not a junkie, I kept saying, but they didn’t listen. They emptied my drawers, my closet, my bedside tables, my desk, under my bed. My mom grabbed this journal, and started to flip through it, but I snatched it away from her, and hugged it to me while they finished their gestapo impression. Then they took everything out. My books, my iPod, my sketch pad, my old stuffed animals. Everything. And then they locked the door again.

So here I am. Stuck for three days straight while I “detox.” I swear, they’re all so clueless. The molly is already out of my system. I know, because I feel like shit. I don’t need three more days to flush anything out. If they knew anything about this drug, they’d know that.

And if they knew anything about me, they’d know there’s no way I’m staying in this damn room alone for three whole days.

Tuesday, July 8

I am sooooo tired. I swear I slept almost all day. I only woke up to text with Carson, who was not arrested, but lost his phone somehow at the Flaming Daisy Carnival and had to get a new one. He’s fine. His mom talked to my dad and found out that my father only told the cops that Carson had kidnapped me so that they’d break him into the festival. So, no one at Carson’s house is very happy with my dad either. His parents are so cool. They just trust him. Whatever. At least he’s not mad at me. He just feels bad for me. He thinks my parents have gone off the deep end, and I so agree with him, because get this:

Every once in a while I get up and check if my door is still locked and it is. It’s always locked. And every time I try to turn the knob, either my father or my mother instantly says, Do you need something? Yeah. One of them is always sitting right outside my door. Don’t they have anything better to do with their time?

Somewhere around noon my head started pounding, like from the inside out. I went into my bathroom for some Tylenol, but it wasn’t there. Nothing’s there. They took every last thing out of my medicine cabinet, even my floss. Because, why? I might try to hang