Placebo Junkies by Carleson J. C

Author:Carleson, J. C. [Carleson, J. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult, Contemporary, Psychology
ISBN: 9780553497243
Amazon: 0553497243
Goodreads: 25278470
Publisher: Knopf Books for Young Readers
Published: 2015-10-27T07:00:00+00:00

I know—I’m quite the life of the party, aren’t I? But just thinking about Charlotte’s death like that, like a question, makes me realize that not a single person in the room, myself included, has a fucking clue what happened to our friend. Okay, fine, like Jameson said, it’s a reasonable assumption that she OD’d. We all know she was dumping a whole lot of a whole lot into her body, but was it a drop or a flood that killed her? I want to know exactly which pill, which vial, or which combination took my friend.

Am I the only person who wonders?

Maybe I shouldn’t. It isn’t that big a mystery; she’s just one more test bunny who died a foreseeable, and therefore unremarkable, death. She’s the warning label everyone ignores: MAY RESULT IN DEATH. It doesn’t apply to me, people tell themselves. Those things only happen to other people.

Except we, the scary, scarry people gathered in this room, are the other people.

I finish my beer and stand up to get another, even though I know it’s a bad idea.

“Hey. Quiet. Can everyone shut up for a second? I want to have a moment of silence for Charlotte.” Even Jameson is sloppy tonight, and everyone ignores him. “She’s in a better place. She really is…,” he trails off.

You can tell he doesn’t believe it by the way he says it, though, like he’s reading from a cheesy sympathy card. He’s just saying it because that’s the thing that people say when someone dies.

The Professor texts back to say he’s on his way, and pretty soon Charlotte’s wake begins to resemble every other guinea pig party. People are yelling, there’s a guy running around in drooping tighty-whities, and the smoke detector goes off. I have another drink, because tonight’s for Charlotte, and after a while the Professor shows up. I see him talking to people and taking notes, and I have another drink, and none of it fucking matters anyway.

As individuals, we’re all statistically insignificant.

There’s a swirling energy in all of the buffoonery that starts to lift me up a bit, though. It’s obvious that all these ridiculous pillheads really do care, and that’s no small thing. Eventually, all I can do is stand there and grin, because I feel like Charlotte would be laughing at all these lunatics right along with me, and even though she’s dead, and even though her absence feels like a goddamn hole in my chest, I feel sort of happy right now, standing here thinking about my friend laughing, thinking about Dylan, and thinking about how I’m going to come up with the money for Patagonia even if it kills me.

Scratch wanders over and stands next to me. “Hey, Audie,” he sniffs.

Poor Scratch. I can’t look at him. He’s been trying to grow a mustache—it’s a patchy, sad little thing crawling across his lip—and he has all these ingrown hairs that look like they’re probably infected nestled in between the few pube-y tufts he’s managed to grow.

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