Page 45 of I Blame the Club

He looks off into the distance and I wait for him to continue.

“Wes and I helped her move in this week and while we were unpacking I found a pill bottle with the same prescription she tried to use the first time.”

“Have you told Wes?”

Nico shakes his head, “No. That’s part of the problem. I panicked and took the bottle but now I don’t know what to do.”

I pause, taking a moment to think about the situation and the data on hand.

“Were there any pills in the bottle?”

Nico frowns, “Does it matter?”

I pull out my phone and do a quick google search.

“The risk of another suicide attempt is much higher if there are pills in that bottle. If it's just an empty pill bottle then we have a whole bunch of different scenarios that could be at play here.”

“Did you seriously just google suicide stats?”

Ignoring him, I put away my phone, “First step, find out if there are any pills in that bottle. Then you would either broach the topic with the subject or consult a loved one to plan the best course of action.”

Nico stares at me like I’ve suddenly grown three heads.

“That was… actually helpful.”

I shrug, “Solutions are easiest when you have all the variables present.”

He blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face, “You almost sound like a nerd there, Maurice. Any chance you have a pair of glasses stashed away somewhere?’

“I keep them locked away with the puke bags saved for long car rides.”

Nico throws his head back and laughs. Shaking my head, I start walking back to the field, fighting a smile every step of the way.

Nico

“What do you think of this one?”

Wes holds up another graphic t-shirt and I pull a face.

“I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”

“Dude. It’s an album cover.” He raises an eyebrow, pointing to the band name scrawled along the top, “Fall Out Boy. You’ve heard their music before.”

I sniff, turning away from the offensive piece of clothing, “Not by choice.”

Wes grins, “Pretty sure I remember someone screaming the words to Uma Thurman just last week.”

“Must have been someone else.”

“Mmhmm.”

Throwing the shirt over his arm, Wes leads me to the other side of the fan mania store. I’ve counted five different Anime tattoos on the employees wandering around the store, and I’m not even going to talk about the array of graphic t-shirts decorating the walls.

Hot Cultureis every emo’s fantasy.

And my worst nightmare.

“Who the hell watches anime anyway?” I shudder as I make eye contact with one of the life-sized dolls standing near the checkout counter.

---