’Course we didn’t know better.
My pa was a born-again Baptist,
and Sunday was the best day
of the week because Baptists
respect the Sabbath. Weren’t
no cotton rows hoed on Sunday,
that’s for sure. Not a single one.
His accent is honey-thick Texas.
But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.
She moved to California young,
when Maureen divorced Grandfather.
Still, she carries a hint of Good
Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.
Me? I’m fighting it, though it may
be a losing battle. Still, despite
living in Texas for most of my life,
somehow it isn’t Home. And
the really messed-up part of that
is, I have no clear idea where
Home might be. It’s not here
in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather
or Aunt Cora, though it really
should feel that way. Not with
Trey, wherever he might settle
down if they actually let him go.
No, Home is somewhere else.
I don’t know if it’s a place
I’ve already been, or one
I’ve yet to find. But I’m pretty
sure the answer is tangled up
in Where I Came From.
AND WHERE I CAME FROM
Is tangled up
in those faces
I see. At least,
I’m pretty sure
it is. No one here
will tell me much
about why I’m here.
Other than the jail
thing, which I get.
But I know I must
have more family
somewhere. Why
have they never
tried to get hold
of me? It’s all so
confusing, especially
when the people
I do have insist
on keeping secrets.
I HAVE MANAGED
To learn a handful
of assorted details
about the jigsaw
puzzle
that is my beginning.
Nothing what you’d
call solid. Bits and
pieces.
I know I was born
in Nevada. Reno,
I’m told. But I
don’t
know if my mother
still lives there.
When I ask, I
always
get the standard
answer: You don’t really
want to try and
connect
with her, do you?
Well, what if I do?
Do they
think if I found her,
I’d love them less?
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
I’m not sure if I want to connect
with her or not. And even if I do,
I have no idea where to start. Not
like Grandfather will share information.
Reno? Maybe. But it’s a big place,
and Nevada is bigger. And why
think she still lives there? Besides,
I don’t even know her name.
I wonder
if she
remembers mine.
Maybe she’s dead. Disabled.
Brain fried too crispy to even try
to stop by and say hello for fifteen
years. I was two when Aunt Cora
took custody of me, which was just
about the time the State of Nevada
took custody of my parents. Locked
them up that time for a couple of years.
Aunt Cora says
the monster
swallowed them.
THE MONSTER
Is what they called their crystal.
We learned about it in school.
How it messes up your brain.
Makes your teeth go rotten.
Blasts caustic chemicals
through arteries and veins.
How just a little spoonful
keeps you up for days,
no desire for food, high
until you crash. Nosedive.
How using once or twice
can hook you. Take your mind
captive. Agitate cerebral cells
until you wind up psychotic.
What they didn’t say is how
the monster chews up families.
MINE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE
But it’s the only one I’m qualified
to talk about. I don’t know if my parents
were ever in love, but for argument’s
sake, I’ll imagine they were.
So along comes the monster. Then what?
Sex, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.
Good sex? Bad sex? Group sex?
All of the above? I mean, why did any
of that have to change because they
decided to get high together? I don’t
understand. Did they both go gay in
lockup? Decide they liked same-sex
sex better than sex with each other?
Did they ever even try to put things
right with each other after they got out?
Did they ever even once think about me?
Summer Lily Kenwood
SCREAMING
I learned not to
scream
a long time ago.
Learned to
bite
down hard
against pain,
keep
my little mouth
wedged shut.
Fighting
back was useless,
anyway. I was
fragile
at three, and Zoe
was a hammer.
Girls
are stinkier than
boys when they
get
dirty, she’d say,
scrubbing until I
hurt.
And if I cried
out, I hurt
worse.
I’M FIFTEEN NOW
And though Zoe is no longer
Dad’s lay of the day, I’ll never
forget her or how he closed
his eyes to the ugly things
she did to me regularly.
He never said a word about
the swollen red places. Never
told her to stop. He had to know,
and if he didn’t, she must have
been one magical piece of ass.
Cynical? Me? Yeah, maybe
I am, but then, why wouldn’t
I be? Since the day I was born,
I’ve been passed around. Pushed
around. Drop-kicked around.
The most totally messed-up
part of that is the more it
happens, the less I care. Anyway,
as foster homes go, this one is
okay. Except for the screaming.
SCREAMING, AGAIN
It’s Darla’s favorite method
of communication, and not
really the best one for a foster
parent. I mean, aren’t they
supposed to guide us gently?
Her shrill falsetto saws through
the hollow-core bedroom door.
Ashante! How many times
do I have to tell you to make
your goddamn bed? It’s a rule!
Jeez, man. Ashante is only
seven, and she hasn’t even
been here a week. Darla
really should get an actual job,
leave the fostering to Phil,
who is patient and kind-eyed
and willing enough to smile.
Plus, he’s not bad-looking
for a guy in his late forties.
And I’ve yet to
hear him scream.
DARLA IS A DIFFERENT STORY
Here it comes, directed at me.
Summer! Is your homework finished?
Hours ago, but I call, “Almost.”
Well, hurry it up, for God’s sake.
Like God needs to be involved. “Okay.”
I need some help with dinner.
Three other girls live here too.
And turn down that stupid music.
The music belongs to one of them.
I can barely hear myself think.
She thinks? “It’s Erica’s music.”
Well, tell her to turn it down, please.
Whatever. At least she said please.
And would you please stop yelling?
GAWD!
My neck flares, collarbone
to earlobes. Like Erica
couldn’t hear her scream?
I fling myself off the bed,
cross my room and the hall
just beyond in mere seconds.
“Erica!” (Shit, I am yelling.)
“Can’t you …?” But when
I push through the door,
the music on the other side
slams into me hard. No
way could she have heard
the commotion. “Great
song, but Darla wants you
to turn it down. What is it?”
Erica reaches for the volume.
“Bad Girlfriend.” By Theory of a Dead-
man. I just downloaded it today.
She looks at me, and her eyes
repeat a too-familiar story.
Erica is wired. Treed, in fact.
I TOTALLY KNOW TREED
In sixth grade, the D.A.R.E.
dorks came in, spouting stats
to scare us into staying straight.
But by then, I knew more than
they did about the monster
because of my dad and his women,
including my so-called mom.
Her ex, too, and his sister and cousin.
Plus a whole network of stoners
connecting them all. The funny
thing is, none of them have a fricking
clue that I am so enlightened.
Tweakers always think no one
knows. Just like Erica right now.
“Shit, girl. You go to dinner lit
like that, you’re so busted.
Darla may be a bitch. But she’s
not stupid, and neither is Phil.”
Here comes the denial.
Her shoulders go stiff and
her head starts twisting
side to side. But she doesn’t
dare let her eyes meet mine.
What are you talking about?
“Hey, no prob. I’m not a spy,
and it’s all your life anyway.
I’m just saying you might
as well be wearing a sign
that says ‘I Like Ice.’ If
I were you, I’d skip dinner.”
I turn, start for the door,
and Erica’s voice stops me.
It’s just so hard to feel good,
you know? I do know. And
more than that, it’s just
so incredibly hard to feel.
MAYBE THAT’S WHY
I have also felt the gnawing desire to try
crystal, despite knowing what it did
to
Barely There Dad
to
Rarely Here Mom.
Maybe they were just trying to feel
something too. Something besides
heat
for each other
hate
for each other.
It’s too bad they hooked up at all. Because
the only things they have in common
are
giving me life
and
tearing my life apart.
MY MOTHER
Gifts me with a visit once, maybe
twice, a year. Our conversations
seesaw between inane and trite:
How’s school?
“Okay, I guess.”
Still running track?
“Not for a while.”
Extracurricular stuff?
“Not really, no.”
How they should go is like this:
How’s school?
“Better than could be
expected, considering
I only have foster parents
to make sure I’m there
on time, with breakfast in my
belly, encouraging my rather
outstanding performance,
despite the fact that no
one really gives a shit.”
Still running track?
“Not since the day a wind
sprint almost sent me to
the hospital because my
asthma (which can no doubt
be attributed to your
tweaking during the first
trimester you were pregnant
with me, and smoking the entire
nine months) kicked in so
hard I could barely suck
enough air to keep my
face from turning blue.”
Extracurricular stuff?
“Sure, because I’ve been
encouraged so regularly
to explore my unique set
of talents, huh? And, like,
I’ve got parents who’d
come watch me perform
even if I could sing or act
or dance or whatever.
No, Mother. My only
extracurricular stuff has
to do with making out.”
I COULDN’T SAY THAT, THOUGH
Because then she’d feel validated
about her other regular line of inquiry:
Boyfriends? No?
Girlfriends, then?
Either way, it’s all
good with me.
I hate that she thinks sex
is the only thing on my mind.
The last time she went there,
she was taking me back to Darla
and Phil’s, after a long weekend
of not-quite-bonding at her tacky
Vegas apartment. Any news on
the boyfriend front? Getting a little?
Like I’d confide in her if I was.
“Who do you think I am? You?”
Sometimes, I guess, I’m snappish.
But doesn’t she deserve snap?
Her comeback was immediate,
not to mention completely lame.
Summer Lily Kenwood!
Why are you so angry?
“Let’s start with my name.
Like my life is so full of sunshine,
and like you didn’t know how
crappy it would be the day you
named me. And then there’s
you, who chose to go ahead
and have me, even though
you didn’t want me….”
She jerked her piece-of-crap car
over against the curb. Lit a new
cigarette off the one already
irritating my asthma. Shut your
mouth. I did want you. Still want you.
I just don’t have enough resources….
“God, Mother. You sound like
an investment banker instead of
a total loser tweaker. Resources?
What you don’t have is enough love.”
IT WAS NASTY
Mean.
In your face.
Designed for
overt reaction.
And it got zero.
She pulled away
from the curb, exhaling
nicotine poison, regardless
of my little brothers, chilling
in the backseat. Drove me home,
dropped me off without a single word.
I don??
?t know
if she was stunned
into silence, or if her
meth-mangled brain couldn’t
grasp what I said. Either way, we
haven’t spoken
in months. I’m pretty
sure she was straight that
day. Pretty sure she’s been
straight every time I’ve seen her.
Always, she’s chain-
smoking anxious. Often,
she’s angry. I’ve never seen
her happy. Was she ever happy?
Was she ever happy when not using?
GODDAMN METH
Has ruined
so many lives.
Her life.
Dad’s life.
My life.
Friends’ lives,
because they use
or because people
they love use.
They don’t call it
the monster for
nothing. It chews
people up, spits ’em
out, often unsalvageable.
So why have I been even
a little tempted to take
a spin with the monster?
IT’S NOT HARD TO FIND
Here in Bakersfield. In fact,
California’s central valleys
are fertile ground for more
than pistachios and wheat.
They are, in fact, a sort
of monster lair. Bikers
have busily built labs
in the area for many years.
And while law enforcement
has been busy too, there’s
a lot of “nothing” out here.
They can’t be everywhere.
I know all this because
my boyfriend’s Gramps
was an original Hells
Angel manufacturer.
He’s in prison too. Not for
cooking it or transporting
it, but for stabbing a guy
in a bar fight while high on it.
That’s not something Matt
is proud of. In fact, he hates
meth, and what it’s done
to his family. If he knew
the idea of trying it had
even crossed my mind,
he would not be happy.
And if he had the slightest
notion that his best friend,
Kyle, is the one who keeps
offering it, Matt might end
up just like his grandfather.
SO FAR
I’ve refused.
Refused the meth.
Refused the scene.
Refused Kyle’s kiss.
Well, sort of.
Once he cornered me.
Once he held me close.