Traffick

  I’ve Confessed None

  Of that to the great people here

  at Walk Straight, a place founded

  by an ex-prostitute determined

  to help reshape the tomorrows

  of teens who want out of “the life.”

  My caseworker, Sarah (who still thinks

  I’m “Ruthie”) has been after me for

  information. To live here, my legal

  guardian has to sign off on it. I was

  never arrested, so I’m not in the juvenile

  justice system, therefore not a ward

  of the state. When I first arrived

  here, I told them my parents

  were dead. That lie is catching up

  to me. Walk Straight has been patient—

  their goal is to take kids off the streets

  and give them a safe place to live.

  But there are legalities involved.

  I’m scared to return to Boise and live

  under my parents’ rule again. I’m also

  terrified of seeing Andrew, who I love

  more than anything in this world,

  because he’ll want to know why—and

  where—I vanished last spring.

  I just don’t know how to tell him.

  I’ve Been Courage Building

  For weeks, and today is the day

  I’ll give Sarah the information

  she needs to ruin my life the rest

  of the way. But it’s the only real

  roadway into the future. I truly wish

  Andrew could be there, too, but

  he deserves someone better than me.

  Someone clean. Unbroken. Worthy

  of a love so intense it will leave her

  breathless. Suddenly, my eyes sting.

  You okay? asks Shayleece, noting

  the onslaught of tears. She’s one

  of thirty-two Walk Straight girls—

  about my age, with dark-chocolate

  skin and huge espresso eyes.

  We haven’t talked much, but then

  neither of us is the talkative type.

  “I’m all right. Just thinking

  about someone back home.”

  We are at lunch, which today

  is a delicious (not) tuna salad

  sandwich. I never cared for tuna,

  anyway, but in this setting, with

  everyone eating it at the same

  time, the fish smell is nauseating.

  Shayleece doesn’t seem to notice.

  Someone special, huh? Bet it’s a guy.

  She waits for my nod before

  continuing. Like a real boyfriend?

  Ooh, girl! I want one of those someday.

  Okay, maybe she is the talkative

  type. I remain tight-lipped, except

  to say, “He’s the most amazing guy

  in the world.” If I think one more

  time about him kissing me beneath

  the broad Idaho sky, I’ll go completely

  crazy. It’s the best memory I own,

  but when it rises, smoke, I choke

  on the knot that forms in my throat.

  I’m suffocating at this moment.

  I don’t want to talk about Andrew,

  so I refocus the conversation,

  which I guess is what we’re having

  between bites of yucky tuna sandwich.

  “You never had a boyfriend?”

  Oh, hell no. My mom, she would

  have killed me. Sex for love, which

  means for free? Nah, she wouldn’t

  have put up with that for one second,

  and Daddy would’ve killed the guy.

  Now That She’s Opened Her Mouth

  It’s going to be hard to slam it

  shut again. Because when I ask,

  “You mean your mother knew

  you were turning tricks?” she has

  no compunction about sharing

  her entire life story with me. Oh,

  yeah. My mom’s the one who put

  me out on the track. Well, she did

  it for Daddy. See, she was one of

  his “wifeys,” too. And know what?

  Daddy was maybe my real daddy,

  ain’t that a hoot? Mom was fourteen

  when she started tricking, and he was

  her man, so she didn’t use no protection

  with him. She was fifteen when she had me.

  “Wait. Your mom wanted you

  to prostitute? How old were you?”

  My own mother insisted I had to

  get married before I even allowed

  a boy to kiss me, let alone . . .

  We needed the money for rent and

  stuff. I was thirteen, but no big deal.

  One of Daddy’s friends broke me in

  when I was nine. As Daddy says,

  tight pussy costs a pretty penny.

  Unless You Can Coerce It

  Crush what’s left of a little girl’s

  childhood into dust. I know

  it happens, but it’s hard to picture,

  and she doesn’t even seem that upset

  about it. How can that be possible?

  Shayleece finishes her sandwich,

  chases the last swallow with a big

  gulp of chocolate milk, starts on

  her giant oatmeal raisin cookie.

  Who broke you in? she asks bluntly.

  “You mean who did I give

  my virginity to?” I realize few

  enough girls here actually gifted

  it to someone. Maybe only me.

  “My first time was with Andrew.”

  He your boyfriend? Her voice

  drips incredulity, but when she

  assesses my body language and

  finds only truth reflected there,

  she asks, So how you end up here?

  “Want my cookie?” I shuttle

  my tray across the table so she can

  enjoy the second dessert. “This will

  probably sound stupid, but I think God

  sent me here. See, this priest—”

  No. I don’t mean here at this table.

  I mean in Vegas, in the life. I never

  saw you out on the track. Daddy

  woulda loved getting hold of you.

  He’s always scouting for white girls.

  I don’t really want to talk about

  Tears of Zion with Shayleece,

  so I tell her, “It’s a long story. Let’s

  just say I had no choice but to run

  away, and the trucker who picked

  me up hitchhiking was headed

  in this direction. I’ve got a question

  for you, though. How did you wind

  up at Walk Straight? Does your mom

  know you’re here?” I watch her stuff

  the last bite of cookie into her mouth.

  My mom’s dead. A few crumbs fall

  from her lips. Daddy makes his girls give

  him five hundred every day. Mom was

  short too many times. He got mad, beat

  her down. I got home right as he put

  the gun to her head. I ran ’cause Daddy

  saw me, but didn’t know where to go.

  A girl out on the track told me ’bout this

  place. She said they’d keep me safe.

  The Sex Trade

  Is a violent business. Pimps

  competing. Pimps keeping their

  girls in line. Big city, small town,

  makes no difference. “Did the cops

  ever find out who killed her?”

  Oh, hell yeah. Word got around

  on the street, and you know, one

  person said something to someone,

  probably someone who runs other

  girls, and eventually it reached

  the police. Plenty of Daddy’s DNA in


  that place. Then my counselor here

  made me fess up about my pimp, so

  now they’ve got him for murder and

  for trafficking children. I still qualify.

  That busts her up, and the way

  she laughs, head thrown back

  as she squeals and snorts, makes

  me grin, despite the fact that it

  isn’t funny. Am I still a child?

  Okay, well, it looks like lunch

  is over. Thanks for the cookie.

  She pushes back from the table,

  stands. If your boyfriend really

  loves you, he’ll forgive you.

  On Weekdays

  We’re required to attend classes

  both a.m. and p.m., the goal

  being to earn our high school

  equivalency certificates so we can

  move on to productive jobs and

  become solid members of society.

  That’s assuming we stay long

  enough to make all that happen,

  and I don’t think I will once Sarah

  contacts my parents. Then again,

  I can’t imagine returning to Boise

  High, pretending to be an ordinary

  junior, a little behind on credits

  because . . . Exactly why? Beyond

  school, what about church? Papa’s

  church, where he preaches everlasting

  hellfire for infractions as insignificant

  as divorce or using birth control. How

  can I sit there and listen, all the while

  remembering the things I’ve done?

  How can I bask in the glory of God

  when I’ve trolled the streets on Satan’s

  arm? Shayleece claims Andrew will

  forgive me. But how can I forgive myself,

  or expect the Lord to offer redemption?

  These Thoughts

  Intrude on my concentration

  this afternoon. I’m happy when

  I can leave US Government behind

  in favor of library hour. I requested

  computer time yesterday. I don’t know

  if they bother to monitor what

  we view online. Probably. Doesn’t

  matter to me. My tastes are benign.

  I check e-mail first, always hoping

  for some little word from Andrew.

  I’m not disappointed. Hello, my heart,

  he writes. Hope you are well and

  that you’re coming home soon. Wherever

  you are is too far away. God, I miss

  you. I dream about you every night.

  Sometimes those are good dreams.

  You and me, here on the ranch,

  playing with Sheila (who’s not

  a puppy anymore . . . funny how

  fast they grow into dogs!), or just

  sitting on the porch, watching

  the cottonwoods flicker in the breeze.

  But then come the nightmares

  where I see you in the distance, faint,

  but no matter how hard I try or how

  fast I run, I can’t catch up to you,

  and when I reach the place where

  you were standing, you’re gone.

  Vanished, just like you disappeared

  from my life. Please come back to me,

  or at least tell me where you are so

  I can come find you. I promise, no

  matter what has happened, we’ll make

  things right again. I don’t care what

  your parents think. All my love, Andrew.

  Beautiful words. I want to believe

  them, need to trust in him. But how?

  The love we shared ran marrow deep,

  but the Eden he knew died behind

  the walls of Tears of Zion. “Ruthie”

  is who I am here in Vegas. Walk

  Straight needed to call me something,

  so I offered my middle name, Ruth.

  Sarah added the “ie” to make it feel

  “friendlier.” Less biblical, for sure.

  But I don’t want to be Ruthie

  anymore. She represents a short

  chapter of my life I’m determined

  to edit out. And if I’m no longer Eden,

  who’ll I be if I return to Idaho?

  Heart at War with Head

  I think about how to respond.

  At some point, I’ll have to break

  down and tell him the truth. Not

  possible to construct a solid future

  on a foundation of dishonesties.

  Doing it this way would give him

  time to consider the implications

  and change his mind about wanting

  me back in his life. He wouldn’t

  even have to write a reply to say

  goodbye, he could simply excise

  me from his life with his silence. Plus,

  I don’t have to look into his eyes,

  absorb the hurt and anger that will

  surface there if I admit the ugliness

  face-to-face. I’m a coward. Too

  cowardly, in fact, to come clean

  right now. To keep moving forward,

  I have to maintain at least a minimal

  amount of hope that Andrew and I

  can be together again. Still, I need

  to give him something, so maybe

  a bare-bones explanation of why

  I simply evaporated one day.

  The story begins with Mama.

  Backward in Time

  That’s where I take him, not so

  far back, not really though

  it feels like years ago, and what

  has transpired between then and

  now has aged me more than months.

  “Dearest Andrew. I am safe, for

  now, in a shelter in Las Vegas.

  I do hope to return to Boise, but

  I’m not sure when, because I told

  them my parents were dead,

  something I plan to rectify today.

  I won’t tell you everything now,

  but want to confide some of it.

  Remember the last time I saw you?

  My family was at church, at least

  I thought so. But when I got home,

  Mama was there, and I was sure

  she’d beat me again. Instead she brought

  me into the kitchen, made tea laced

  with sleeping pills, and as I passed

  out, she blamed Satan for me falling

  in love with you. I woke up eleven

  hours later, out in the middle of

  the Nevada desert, at a rehab

  center called Tears of Zion. . . .”

  I Describe

  My routine, the lack of sustenance

  and human company. Underline

  the hopelessness I felt when I learned

  my time there had no set termination

  point. Now comes the hard part,

  but without it there’s no explanation

  for how I got here. “All I could think

  about was finding a way to escape,

  to get back to you. One of the orderlies

  had a crush on me. God forgive me,

  but I promised he could be my boyfriend

  if he helped me get away.” I won’t give

  Andrew the disgusting details; he can assume

  them or not. “It worked. When we stopped

  for gas, I hid from him. A nice rancher

  gave me a ride and I wound up in Vegas.

  I tried to call you, but your phone was

  disconnected. I didn’t know my parents

  had you arrested until your mom told

  me. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  I spend a few minutes stressing over

  how to sign off. “Love” isn’t strong

  enough, and he used the preface “All
my.”

  I choose, “I’ll never stop loving you,”

  hit send before I change my mind.

  A Poem by Cory Bennett

  The Disgusting Details

  Of life in hard-core juvenile

  lockup don’t really need

  to be repeated. My brother

  Cody would never let me

  live it down. I won’t argue

  the system got it wrong, that

  I’m

  not qualified to be here.

  Break into a home,

  then whup the owner’s

  ass until she’s lying

  still

  on the ground,

  they’ll put you away

  if they catch you. Problem

  is, there isn’t

  a kid

  in this place

  who won’t walk away

  tougher, meaner, calloused,

  no hint of child left

  inside.

  Cody

  Imprisoned

  I thought a lot about being locked up

  when they first sent my little brother

  to jail. Not saying Cory didn’t deserve

  it, or that it didn’t maybe save his life.

  The path he was headed down

  could have ended with him slamming

  face-first into a brick wall. But it made

  me a little crazy to consider the day-

  to-day of containment in a little cement

  room, only let out for meals, classroom

  bullshit (like anyone there gives a fuck

  about school), and an hour of exercise.

  Yeah, that pretty much seemed like hell

  to me. But, with luck and good behavior,

  Cory will be released one day. He didn’t

  manage to kill the woman he knocked

  senseless, and since she recovered, he’ll only

  be incarcerated until he turns eighteen.

  The cost of my indiscretions, which

  should’ve resulted in nothing but pleasure,

  was life, in prison in a useless body.

  One Day Blurs

  Into the next, a huge brown smear

  of hospital shit. There’s nothing to do

  but watch TV, hour upon tedious hour.

  The food sucks, but even if it was gourmet

  I’d avoid it because eating only means

  someone’s gloved finger massaging

  my anus to make me take a dump. Not

  that I can feel it, but knowing that’s what’s

  going on is more than enough to drop

  me into a cavern of depression, a place

  I fall into regularly, with or without