Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin Page B

the oozing morsels standing in Monique’s kitchen, before the toaster had a chance to cool off. Other times we’d carry the tartines to a park bench surrounded by white wildflowers. No matter where we were, we had to lick the hazelnut chocolate spread from the corners of our lips and fingers.
    By the end of eighth grade, I’d forged notes for twelve doctor appointments, eight eye doctor appointments, and seven dentist appointments. On weekends I smeared black lipstick across my lips and disappeared into the few thudding, sexy, vapid nightclubs that let minors in. I pressed myself close to the wrong sort of boys, mistaking their lust for love.
    Eventually the noise around me was so loud that I actually felt something again. I grew addicted to this whisper of emotion as I moved and danced and lived . The poet Shane Koyczan once said, “Addiction isn’t so much about pain as it is sanity.” Truer words have never been spoken.
    This time in my life will always be best represented by the night I sat on the steps of the Parc du Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Its angular pathways overlook the twinkling city and the even more dazzling Eiffel Tower. The metal structure stretched more than a thousand feet into the sky, lit from head to toe like a Christmas tree.
    Though we’d long since lost track of the time, I knew it was after midnight. I was drunk, holding a bottle of tequila, leaning on Monique to stay upright. The stone beneath us was cold. The bitter snap of winter radiated through my corduroys until my teeth chattered.
    “What now, Sasha? It’s getting late,” she said. She always spoke English when drunk—the only time she did.
    “Watch this,” I said, smiling mischievously. I looked up at the Eiffel Tower, raised my right hand, and snapped. Before I could blink, the lights extinguished; first the top row of the tower, then the middle, and finally the bottom. Monique drew her breath in sharply.
    “Did you see that?” I stared into the darkness. “I … I did that!” I pointed my trembling hand toward the spot where the Eiffel Tower should have been, tears filling my eyes while the most pure form of laughter rang out from beneath the liquid armor of intoxication. Deep down I knew that lights on the Eiffel Tower were automated, but in that moment I needed to believe I’d turned them off.
    The drinking, the skipping school—all of it—was about regaining some sort of control. That night, I felt that there might be just enough magic in the world to help me through constant upheaval and loss. What I didn’t realize was that the more I drank, the less in control I was.

    I did my best to hide my new interest from Patricia and Pierre—not because I was ashamed, but because like any true addict, I wanted to protect my habit. But my transgressions caught up with me.
    “Have you been skipping school?” Pierre asked one afternoon after I stumbled home from a full day of drinking beer at the park.
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of course,” I said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
    He looked at me steadily, and then sighed.
    “What’s this?” He pulled a small white note out of an envelope and placed it on the kitchen table: “Sasha has a doctor’s appointment. Please excuse her from class today.” It was signed, “Pierre Dumont.”
    “Well, just the once—” I began.
    “And this?” he interrupted, tossing down another slip of paper. “And this?” He tossed down note after note, until 27 were amassed in front of me.
    I stared at the pile, unable to speak. A few slid onto the floor, fluttering like leaves in autumn.
    “You’re not going to do this again, Sasha,” he said firmly, “You’re too smart to waste your life like this.”
    I recoiled as though I’d been slapped.
    “Like my brother?” I screamed. I stormed up to my room, taking two stairs at a time, and slammed the door behind me.
    A few minutes later, Pierre sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the floor.