“So, you don’t really like going to parties, then?” Her tone is light, curious. I shrug, swallow down a sudden lump in my throat that makes me want to get up, put my dishes away, and run to my room. “I do, but just not the way I usually am.” I realize that doesn’t make much sense, so I clear my throat and add, “I’m lame without drugs.” I look up and meet her gaze. “I’m awkward and shit so I take—took—things to get pumped up. To want to be around people. Otherwise, I’d just sit in my room all day and stare at the ceiling.” Like I’ve basically been doing for the past three days. Otherwise, I
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