31st
…sacrifice was the peculiar black hole of introspection.
It was introspection above all that proved the reality of my chronic indecision, about Samantha, yes, and life. It was October 6, the year 2005.
——
There was, coincidentally, a buzz in the air—and in young heads—in those days. In a way, the uneasy coöperation happening across uptown’s silk stocking and bodega districts simply reënacted what happens every time some new illicit powder or paste (or these days, experimental pill) flattens caste and class into a single, and singular, revolt against neurotypicality. The well-born of Collegiate and Nightingale-Bamford needed a new high, and that meant a supply chain from the poors.
But something was different this time, something different about the rare samples smuggled out of New Jersey R&D labs and slipping across the border. This time, the legit medical indication wasn’t acute pain or panic attacks or attention-deficit disorder. Since Don was invisible to his classmates at Collegiate, no one noticed the day he spied a conversation between Chad, a Richie Rich Lothario much shorter than one would expect, and Nick, semi-literate and so unambitious he had never even graduated from marijuana.
“What it basically is, is the the impairment or even”—Chad fixed the knot on his cravat and let the suspense hang and rustle in the breeze like the paisley silk tucked against his hairless chest—“or even finally the loss of your ability to make decisions. But now there’s this new drug in phase-one clinical trials. Meant to treat this very issue. And if you scratch off the coating and crush it up…”—he grabbed, then stroked Nick’s forearm—“It’s called Twelve.”
Don didn’t dabble, not even in the soft stuff. Didn’t need it, couldn’t afford it, wasn’t interested. But as he watched Chad and Nick start armwrestling—it always turned to (arm)wrestling soon enough with those two—he was overwhelmed by the feeling, the absolute certainty, that we had to score some Twelve, whatever it took.
What a drug, he thought. That is the drug for people like me. Tonight, tonight, tonight. Take some Twelve, and I’ll decide exactly what to do about Samantha.
