For once, I want to do more than just maintain.

I get up and grab one of the bottles out of her hand, don’t bother reading it before trying to twist off the top. It takes me three tries to open the stupid thing, but I finally get it before shaking whatever’s left into my mouth.

“B.R. What about me?” Maryanne swats my arm, but I ignore it. I’m so tired of getting shit from everyone. Tired of feeling on edge all the time, like my own heart wants to eat me alive. I just want it all to go away. After fumbling a couple times, I finally manage to open the vodka before I down some, pills and all.

What feels like a second later, my legs go weak. The spins pick up again, but it feels like my head and not the room. Maryanne starts laughing and dancing around. I try to watch her, but a sheet keeps dropping over my eyes.

The room lurches. I fall to the floor. Maryanne’s laughing, and I’m fighting to talk, but nothing comes out. Something tries to crawl up my throat. That stupid sheet drops down again, but it doesn’t go away this time. Why won’t Maryanne take it off? She keeps laughing…laughing…

Soon, there’s nothing left.

…

I try to open my eyes, but it’s like they’ve been sewn shut, giving just enough to partially lift, only to fall closed again. They’re puppets on a string, someone pulling the lines so they don’t listen to me. The thought makes me want to laugh. When I try, the sound won’t come out. My throat burns. My tongue’s dry as hell, and I’m heavy, paralyzed or something.

Oh, shit. Am I dead?

My heart starts pounding a really killer drum solo. If my heart’s beating, I can’t be dead, right?

I try to sit up. It’s a no-go, so instead I focus on my eyes, fighting like crazy to pull them open.

“He’s coming around,” someone whispers. Mom? I think so but can’t tell. When I feel a hand against my head, I know it’s her. She’s done that since I was a kid, and I want nothing more than to lean into it. That has to be good. If I can remember stuff like that, I have to be okay.

Do I want to be okay?

“Bishop?” Mom whispers again. The pain in her voice slices me open. I hate it when she’s hurting—hate it more that I’m pretty sure I fucked up big, and I’m the one who made her feel that way.

“Ma?” My voice won’t come out right. There’s something in my throat. I fight to open my eyes, but they sort of flutter instead. First, I only see fog, but slowly it starts to clear, and she’s leaning over me, her brown hair hanging down. She smiles, but a tear slips down her face and lands on my cheek. I’m supposed to protect her, not make her cry.

Yeah, I totally screwed up.

This time, I try to move my arm but realize it’s strapped down. Tubes are all over the damn place: on me, hanging from stuff. There’s a constant beep that I must have missed before.

Panic sets in, and I try to push up again. To do something, anything. Since my arms aren’t happening, I go for my legs. Try to get up.

“Shh. It’s okay, honey. Just relax.”

I can’t stop. I’m freaking the hell out here, and she wants me to relax?

“He’s too agitated,” a voice I don’t recognize says. “We’re going to give him something.”

Give me something? Yeah, that actually sounds good.

Mom’s face starts to blur. The last thing I notice is she’s not even trying to smile anymore, and then I welcome the darkness that takes me over again.

…

“I’m not going to Alaska.” When I feel my heart kick up, I fight to slow it down by squeezing the arms of the chair.

My band’s manager, Don, doesn’t even attempt to hide his anger the way Mom’s trying to hide her sadness.

Don crosses his beefy arms and leans against his desk. “You’re going.”

I shove out of the chair, and it crashes to the ground behind me. “First of all, I’m an adult. You can’t make me do shit. Second, it was an accident. A onetime accident.”

I still can’t believe it happened. Waking up and finding out I could have choked on my own vomit? I’ve never been that messed up before. It was a really bad night, and I got a little carried away, that’s all.

Pills are a way to unwind. A way to stay calm when I feel like I’m cracking apart.

Mom’s shaking hand moves to her mouth, and she gasps. I didn’t even say anything, but it’s the first time we’ve even partially put it out there since I woke up in the hospital a week ago. “Ma, I’m sorry. Seriously, you know I didn’t mean anything. It was…” I shrug. “I don’t know. Just something to do, or whatever. I was tired after the show and all that press stuff. It helps me relax. It’s not like I do it all the time.” When Maryanne hooks me up, I can make a whole bottle last over a month. That’s nothing compared to some of the people I know. Not that I could tell my mom.

“Bishop…you could have died.” Mom’s crying again, wiping tears with her pink-painted nails. I hate myself a little more for making her feel like this. “Do you realize how serious that is?”

Do I realize how serious that is? That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. “Yeah, Ma. I’m the one who woke up with a tube down my throat.”

That only makes her cry harder. If possible, I feel even shittier. Mom doesn’t deserve this crap, doesn’t deserve my screw-ups since she’s given up everything so I can be here. Too bad I can’t seem to make myself do anything about it.

Don clears his throat. “If you understand how serious it is, you get why you’re going to Seldon. Your mom and I have been talking, and we think—”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m an idiot. I don’t need you two discussing shit behind my back.”

When he speaks again, Don’s voice is hard. “Do you know how long I’ve been in this business, Bishop?”

Right now, I couldn’t care less.

“Over twenty years. I’ve seen a lot of talent come and go. I’ve seen people make it big and people screw it all up.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen people die.”

“I—”

“Shut up and let me finish. I believe last week was an accident, but I don’t believe this was a onetime thing. You might think I’m an idiot, but I can tell when someone’s high. I’ve been around the block with musicians both in better and worse shape than you. I also know you’re on the edge. If you keep going the way you are now, you’ll take a header right off it. It starts out as a way to relax, then you start losing control once in awhile like last week, and before you know it, you don’t have any control at all. I’ve seen it.”

“We just want you to take a little break, sweetie,” Mom adds. “That’s all. Get a clear head and see what you’re doing.”

Looking at her hurts too much, so I look at Don instead. It’s easier to be pissed at him.

“You’re lucky you have people who care about you. Not everyone has that. I’ve been around long enough to know that even though you’re making me money now, you get worse and you’re going to start costing me money. It’s Alaska or rehab. You choose. We can keep Alaska quiet, which honestly is a damn blessing. The press doesn’t know what happened last week, and we might be able to keep it that way. They find out and everything changes. It’s not about the band’s music anymore. It all turns into ‘How’s your drummer? Staying clean?’ I won’t let you screw up my band up like that, Riley.”

I hate the way he pulls that last name bullshit. Don looks at me all cocky, like he knows he has me. Music awards are all over the walls of his stupid office, taunting me. Our Grammy from last year.

“And if I refuse?” The look on Mom’s face tells me I broke her further. Don’s scowl says he’s beyond pissed, but what the hell? They’re not the ones getting shipped away.

Bishop! Bishop! Bishop!

Focusing, I think of the pills I have back at home. After dealing with this, I deserve one

“You’re a natural drummer, kid.”

I shake my head, wishing my hands would stay still. He knows it pisses me off when he calls me kid even more than the last name thing.