battle the reemergent Bree,
that despite my plan to come
back
and pick up where I left
off, only more positive
and energized to go
forth,
get my GED and a great
job, find a nice little
place, make my own way,
the odds
of things ever being
quite right again are
clearly, completely,
not in my favor.
But Playing the Odds
Is not my best thing, so
I stow every single nagging
doubt and head off to Stockton.
It’s a gorgeous blue September
day, and I take my time.
South on a straight stretch
of Highway 395, turn west
on Highway 88, leaving Nevada
behind, just out of Minden.
The winding highway
carries me past Kirkwood,
my family’s favorite ski resort.
Even without snow, the steep
angular mountain brings back
memories of stepping off cornices
and hanging, midair, for a scant
second before dropping down
long, deep black-diamond runs.
I can almost feel the sizzle
of adrenaline, pumping
from the back of my skull, zooming
down my spine and into my legs,
making them reach
for even more speed.
Turn. Turn. Don’t fight gravity.
Suck into its jet stream.
Once in a while I’d make a mistake,
catch an edge. Or a mogul.
Most times, I corrected
before taking a tumble.
Once or twice, I wasn’t so lucky,
dumping headlong down the hill,
sliding out of control
until the landscape leveled.
And that made the adrenaline
pump even faster.
Which reminds me.
I have not had an adrenaline
rush since I took my little detour,
one of nature’s irresistible highs, denied
by brain chemistry gone awry,
at the claws of the monster.
I might not know the cause
of such cerebral malfunction,
if not for an article I once read.
It defined for me exactly
how crank scours
the brain’s pleasure center,
scrubbing away dopamine,
adrenaline and other natural
highs. It didn’t stop me,
of course, but it did slow
me down for a day or two.
Not slow enough to keep
the damage from occurring.
Now only one thing can give
me that kind of feeling—like
I have the world by its throat.
And I am on my way to it.
Several Miles Farther West
I pass a small mountain
community, home to loggers,
retirees, and telecommuters.
My parents have friends
who live here, and for
about thirty seconds
I think about swinging
by. They have a pretty cute
son, who I once had a serious
crush on. We used to visit,
and on overnight stays Quade
and I would sneak out at night,
for nothing more than a little
conversation. Okay, we almost
kissed once. But I was such
a total tool, when he leaned
his face down close to mine,
looked into my dilated (by
the dark, not by stash, which
I still turned up my nose at)
eyes, and it came to me what
he had in mind, I actually
turned my face away, pretending
some nighttime noise
had drawn my attention.
Plain and simple, I didn’t know
how to kiss and didn’t want
him to know it. He was a couple
of years older, and a dark-haired
hottie who surely knew a thing
or two about kissing. Unlike me.
I didn’t learn those ropes
for another year or so.
Looking back, I wish I had
had a different teacher,
one who really cared about me.
Looking back, I wish
I had parted
my lips—opened my mouth
wide and invited his tongue
inside—for Quade. Maybe
every single thing that happened
in my life after that night
would have turned out differently.
Then again, maybe not.
Either Way
I decide not to stop by.
My mom told me Quade plays
bass in a metal band, so he
probably isn’t as straight
as he used to be. Just like
me. Still, I have a destination.
I jot a reminder in my
mental notebook to look up
Quade one day very soon.
This time, maybe I’ll just
let him kiss me. I most
definitely know how.
In fact, thinking about it
is starting to make me
want it. I haven’t let myself
even consider going out
with a guy since Hunter
was born. Men are trouble.
But what the hell? I’m
looking for trouble right
now, aren’t I? And one
kind of trouble will
likely lead to another,
at least eventually.
The more I focus on that
kind of trouble, the better
it’s starting to sound.
I do still have the problem
with paunch, but crystal
will help with that, too.
I just have to stay cool,
keep Bree reined in.
Little lines, maybe one
in the A.M., to wake up
feel great, not eat
everything in sight.
Maybe another small
toot in the early P.M.,
just enough to limit
dinner calories and still
be able to sleep at night.
Or maybe go out at night.
No, no, no! This isn’t
about going out at night.
Isn’t about partying.
Is not about turning into
a lunatic again. I am
and will remain in control.
Stockton
Is an interesting little city—half
artsy, half-cow town, and home
to the Asparagus Festival and other
events that take advantage of its
watery location on the delta fed by
the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers.
Today I couldn’t care less
about any of that. All I want
is to find Robyn’s apartment,
not far from the University of the Pacific.
Driving by the brick-and-ivy campus,
I almost envy the students,
walking alone or sitting in groups,
looking at their books—and each other.
Guys. Girls. Tight jeans and T-shirts.
Big Gulps here. Cigarettes there.
It’s all so normal. Then it comes
to me that one of those
students is Robyn, who is anything
but “normal.” You can hide
a lot, or maybe just get away with
a lot, if you play your cards right.
I only hope the hand I’m about to deal
&
nbsp; myself will hold an ace or two.
I Locate Robyn’s Apartment
Building C-9. Third floor.
I’m early, but not too,
so I sit on the stairs to
wait.
And wait. Four o’clock
comes and goes. Still I sit,
not too worried about
Robyn getting home
late.
Even on her best days,
clock-watching was
never her greatest
trait.
Did she have a greatest
trait? Oh, yeah. That’s why
I’m here, huh? Patience!
Maybe she didn’t come
straight
home because she had
to make a buy on the way.
But when a watch-check says
eight
after five, I decide I’d
better try her cell. Dumped
into voice mail,
something I
hate
under any circumstances.
Just as I’m starting
to feel really pissed, this
great-
looking guy starts up
the stairs. Okay, this is déja
vu-ish. I met my Adam, who
I once believed was my soul
mate,
on a similar staircase. But
this guy goes way beyond
Adam—older, buffer, with
slate
gray eyes that fix on me,
eliciting chills that I can’t
describe. He looks at me
like a barracuda, scoping
bait.
Ravenous. Suspicious.
Curious. Delicious. (Him,
not me.) I feel like a
freight
train has steamed right
into me, and when he smiles
a hungry smile, I decide Robyn’s
tardiness must be
fate.
I Watch Him
Climb the stairs past me,
try to keep all hint of drool
inside my mouth, where it belongs.
Guess whose door he knocks on.
“Robyn isn’t home yet.”
He turns, eyes narrowing
into discerning slits. She’s always
late. I swear she gets lost,
driving ten blocks from school
to home. The name’s Trey.
“Hey, Trey. I’m Kri…
[Bree!] The voice inside
my brain practically shouts.
“Br…” No, I’m not her
anymore. “Kristina.”
Trey smiles. Good to meet
you, Kri-Br-Kristina. You a friend
of Robyn’s? He saunters over,
plops down next to me,
leg touching mine.
My heart picks up its pace.
Can he hear it? If he doesn’t,
he’s deaf! Around the pounding,
I manage, “I’m an old friend
of Robyn’s, just here for a visit.”
His grin says everything.
I see. Well, Robyn’s friends
generally only “visit” for one
of two reasons. Stash. Or money.
Wonder which one you’re after.
I’m not copping to anything.
“Do you include yourself
on that list? Or are you after
something else completely?”
I’m trolling, and he knows it.
Guess you’ll have to hang
around to find out. Oh, look.
Here she comes now. Time
for the party to start.
You up for it, little girl?
No one has called me that
in a very long time. I like
how it makes me feel.
“Oh, yeah. I’m up for it.”
And a whole lot more.
Suddenly I’m very glad
I wore butt-slimming jeans,
a baggy shirt that covers
my tummy, and for the first
time in months, a little makeup.
With a massive, soggy kiss,
one meant to impress.
(But impress him or me?)
All I get is a lukewarm,
Hey, Kristina. Long time
no see. You look good.
No hug? No warm, fuzzy
friendship to rekindle? Oh, well.
Not like we were ever the best
of friends. More like snorting
buddies. She used me. I used
her, and I’m using her now.
“You look great too, Robyn.”
Yeah. Great. Like bones,
in a bag of jaundiced skin.
Robyn opens the door.
Sorry about the mess.
I’ve been kind of busy.
Anyway, housework is
such a waste. It never
frigging ends, does it?
The smell—dirty ashtrays,
sweat, and a slight hint
of mildew—almost knocks
me over and I enter at my
own risk. “Mess” does not
describe the battlefield
I’ve just walked into.
The living room is strewn
with dirty clothes, designer
shoes, and smeared paper
plates. Attached is a small
dining nook. Books (text
and other) spatter the table,
along with beads, pastels,
and various art supplies.
I’ve always got two or three
projects going on at once,
explains Robyn. Some for art
class, others just to stroke
my creative side. Unfortunately,
I don’t finish many.
Trey laughs. Spoken like
a true tweaker. Oh, and
speaking of tweak…
He reaches down into his sock
and produces a plastic bag
with some serious-looking crystal.
So Robyn wasn’t scoring
for Trey. He was scoring for
her! Very interesting.
Robyn Is Making
A sizeable buy. I sit, growing more anxious with every
passing second, watching her weigh a half ounce of meth
into eight balls. She’s into the deal, heavy. I mean, there
she is, holding enough crystal to send her away for a very,
very long time. My hands shimmy as I reach for the bindle
Robyn passes me. It’s different from the meth making the
rounds last year. This is hard little rocks and not much powder.
Robyn pulls out a glass pipe, but I ask, “Can we do some
lines?” I long for that punch to my sinuses. The one that
hard-core users can no longer handle because of the gaping
sinus-cavity holes. Trey gives me a strange look, and Robyn
says, Jeez, it has been awhile since you’ve used, huh? You
can’t snort glass, Kristina. You have to smoke this…or
shoot it. You’re not into needles by any chance, are you?
Trey laughs at my over-the-top horror. Needles? No way.
And, apparently, no fine white lines to watch disappear
into my nose. “Is it all like this now?” I ask, ignorant.
Trey answers with a shake of his head. You can still
find street-lab crank. This is Mexican meth, as
good as it comes, maybe 90 percent pure.
It’s pricey, of course. And worth every damn penny.
How much is that, I want to know, but before I can query,
Robyn drops a sparkling rock into her pipe. She lights
a Bic, holds it well under the glass, and a fine plume of
methamphetamine smoke lifts to greet her open mouth.
&nbs
p; The pipe travels next to Trey, who indulges, then passes
it on to me. My hand trembles, anticipating treasure.
Long-lost treasure. One slow, easy inhale sparks little
explosions inside my brain, firing directly into the pleasure
center, igniting ecstatic bursts from eyebrows to toenails.
Trey was right. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it. I want
to feel this great all the time. With one hit, the life I have
worked so hard to make normal perverts itself again.
I came here, meaning to go home reenergized. But now
I don’t want to return to the artificial “home” created by
my parents, my child. All of a sudden I feel more at home
with a forgotten friend and a complete, very cute stranger.
That Idea
Vanishes
instantly,
with the
mere mention of money.
Trey said the glass was pricey.
Now he clarifies, So the eight
ball is three hundred.