He is a beautiful boy, the one sitting across from me. When he isn't paying attention I study his face. It is exquisite, with features strong and cold like a porcelin boy's. His eyes are rimmed by full, dark lashes. His skin has a dark tan to it, his black hair is long and straight. He used to be scrawny when we were kids, but now he's grown taller. He is still thin, but his height gives him a new look. His oversized shirt is black, the symbol of some band drawn in a darker black marker on the front. His jeans are ripped in a few places, his shoes held together with duct tape. He is sitting down, his knees pulled up with his arms resting on them. His brown eyes stare out at me and there is a smile on his face.
The electric chords of a slow rock song come from the stereo against the wall. There are speakers in every corner of the room, loud enough so I can feel the chords deep in my chest. For some reason all of the music has been slow, though with an edge that seems to reflect the kids here. For there are so many kids here.
It's hard to understand how childhood friends become adult drug addicts, but here they are. They laugh and talk, oblivious to my quiet amazement. I remember when we were all in the second grade, playing with antbeds and dogs that were as old as the hills. Now we gather once or twice every year, all of us in one tiny room, piled up on a tiny bed, laying on top of one another. He and I are sitting on the floor, and there is another boy laying his head on my lap. A girl is draped over my legs and there is yet another person laying on her. We are all connected, all touching. Everyone is asleep, but he and I got stuck with the sitting up positions. There is no room on the floor to lay down, and if we got up on the bed, we would disturb everyone.
I guess the change in all of us was gradual. A few sips of beer in the sixth grade wasn't a bad thing; it was a rite of passage. In highschool it became pure vodka, whiskey, and that awful, awful stuff that always made me throw up a little in the back of my throat. Cigarettes turned into weed, and weed became cocaine. As we grew, so did our drug usage, and our tolerance. No one in my new life would ever suspect me of doing a horrible thing, but these kids know. They've seen me high as a kite, and low enough to lay in the dirt with a gun. I've seen them all at their peaks, too. It's an unspoken thing. We are a tight ring of kids, ready to help one another when possible. The girl hanging off the bed went to jail for me, and one of the guys beside her fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself. They've protected me and they love me, and it hurts to watch their slow, downward spiral.
I know what is happening to all of us. We used to have dreams. The boy across from me used to tell me his aspirations, which always involved art. He wanted to design cars, or do modern paintings. He's so intelligent, good at math and an excellent reader. He dropped out of school, though, and helps his dad in the family business of meth making. He's got a wonderful soul, and a penchant for guitar. He is the epitome of everything these kids are, and what they wanted to be. I look at the weary faces that have dealt with more than any sheltered suburban housewife could ever imagine. One girl is beaten by her parents. Another one has had two miscarriages already, direct results of what happens when you drink alcohol and try to climb a staircase. A guy across the floor, all sprawled out and cherubic in his slumber has had his heart broken by the one girl that made his face light up. He doesn't really speak anymore.
The boy across from me watches my eyes rove and keeps smiling at me. He knows what I am thinking, because I have often shared my fears with him on a saggy trampoline under the stars, crickets making an outdoorsy soundtrack to our confidences. He knows about the stars, and he told me about the constellations. I knew the stories behind the constellations, being a lover of mythology, and so we spent hours just gazing at the sky and talking in slow, slightly slurring voices. He told me that he lost hope a long, long time ago, and that he knows he'll be here for the rest of his short life. I told him that I would never lose hope, as long as I saw the brightness in his eyes and in the eyes of everyone else around us. They are good, beautiful people, if given the chance to be.