Glass - 02

  Gasoline. And, until a few hours ago,

  baby food. “How much is left?”

  I don’t know. Not much. But there’s

  still a little glass. We can sell it…

  Lockbox. I spring from bed, rush

  to its hiding place, line up the numbers

  on the lock. One hundred sixteen dollars.

  Trey is still talking. We just have to stay

  out of it until we make our money back.

  Stay out of what? Oh, the stash. Right.

  We’re so very good at that. I sit back

  in the chair beneath the window, stare

  at the same stars in the same night sky.

  Inside, everything is different. Again.

  I Still Love Trey

  But I can’t trust him,

  and so the love feels

  different.

  I still love Hunter,

  but know he’s better

  off away from me,

  and so the love is

  distant.

  I still love Brad, in

  some warped way,

  even though I was

  discarded,

  used then tossed

  aside, like a once-

  favorite toy,

  outgrown.

  Funny, but I still love

  Chase. Seeing him,

  married and

  moved on,

  stuffed me with pain.

  It throbs, stabs.

  But that isn’t so bad.

  At least I know I’m

  still alive.

  Alive and Throbbing

  I’ve formulated a plan.

  First I put in a call to Cesar, who tells

  me to stop by anytime.

  Code words for There’s plenty around.

  Next we have to sell what

  little is left in the lockbox. I put Trey

  on that. Anyone but Angela

  is fair game. He’d better leave that ho

  alone or start packing.

  I stash a couple of pipes

  full, just in case everything goes to shit.

  I mean more to shit. I’ve

  avoided doing what I’m going to do,

  because if we screw this up,

  we’ll have Mexican Mafia on our ass.

  Not a good thing. No, not

  at all. So I guess the message is:

  Do not screw this up!

  Trey returns with a couple

  hundred bucks and we head for Fernley.

  León lets us out of the car,

  a good omen. Cesar greets us with his

  usual not-quite-smile.

  That doesn’t change as I tell him we

  want to up our regular.

  Holding this much meth halfway

  scares the crap out of me.

  I offer Cesar three bills,

  which leaves us with sixteen whole

  dollars until we manage.

  to off a great deal of glass. “I know

  we’re really short, but

  we had to change apartments. Can

  you front us the rest?

  We’ll get you the money by next

  week. We’ve got buys

  lined up.” Major lie.

  Better to call it a bluff. Makes it

  sound more like a game.

  Cesar shrugs. You been a pretty

  good customer. No reason

  to think you won’t make good. But

  fuck wit’ me, you ain’

  gonna like what happens. You know?

  Oh yeah, we know.

  The Plan Has Flaws

  Like, the rent is due and we’re

  out of cash. I give the manager

  a sob story about the baby getting

  sick. Since the baby isn’t here,

  she buys it, gives us a few days

  to catch up, with a little interest.

  Translation: twenty-five for her.

  Like, we really need to sell some

  ice right now, and everyone seems

  to be a little short on cash or set

  for the foreseeable future. Trey

  actually goes downtown to peddle

  small quantities to tourists and card

  dealers—an inspired way to play.

  Like, because we’re not selling it

  very quickly, we’re tempted to go

  ahead and smoke it. First the profit

  goes up in a cloud of exhaled ice.

  Next goes the investment capital,

  or it would be investment capital,

  but it wasn’t our capital to invest.

  Like, by the time we’re supposed

  to pay Cesar what we owe him, we’re

  even further behind than when I

  concocted that ridiculous plan.

  We don’t have close to what he’s

  expecting, and wouldn’t, even if

  we sold everything that’s left.

  Anyway, we can’t sell everything

  that’s left, or we won’t have any

  personal, or any way to get more.

  Which leaves us pretty well

  screwed. Like 100 percent

  screwed, unless I can, with lightning

  speed, concoct a workable Plan B.

  Plan B

  Revolves around that we need

  money. Lots of it and fast.

  Three possible ways to

  come up with it.

  Beg.

  Not really my style. I mean,

  I suppose I could call Mom,

  tell her I can’t even afford food.

  But would she believe me,

  and would she care even if she did?

  Borrow.

  I could maybe call Leigh, ask for

  a loan until payday, lie and tell

  her there really is a payday

  coming up soon. But she’s not

  exactly rolling in money herself.

  Or steal.

  I’ve never considered this option

  before. Course, I never had to.

  Would I even be good at it?

  Who would I steal from?

  And afterward, would I feel

  no remorse?

  One Thing’s for Sure

  If I’m going to steal, Trey has to be

  in on it. This is his fault to begin with.

  “So, any ideas how we might come

  up with some cash, uh, illegally?”

  You mean like counterfeiting?

  Huh. That thought never crossed

  my mind. We couldn’t do that, could

  we? “No. I meant more like…hmm,

  borrowing. With no intent to repay.”

  You aren’t serious, are you?

  “Far as I can see, we don’t have

  much of a choice. We’re almost dry,

  and we’ve got to make good with Cesar

  to get more…and stay in one piece.”

  Well, I’m not about to snatch purses.

  Sheesh. Never thought of that, either.

  “What if I could get hold of some checks.

  Think we could get away with cashing

  them?” I have an idea where to get some.

  Probably. At least with a fake ID.

  Fake ID. Good idea. It could, in fact,

  come in handy in a number of ways.

  But I have no idea how to get one.

  “How could I get one of those?”

  I do happen to know this guy….

  A guy who makes them for college

  students. A guy who once helped

  Trey himself out. A guy who isn’t

  the least bit difficult to get hold of.

  That must be some kind of sign.

  The Guy Lives

  In a little brick house, with a white

  picket fence and flowers in the yard,

  a few blocks from the university.

  He greets Trey with a nod, says
br />   to me, Hi. I’m Frank. Come in.

  Frank doesn’t look like a crook.

  He looks like a computer nerd,

  which he most definitely is.

  His turn to check me out. So,

  you want to get into the clubs?

  “Uh, yeah. Can you help me out?

  Guess I don’t quite look twenty-

  one.” Perfect. Just perfect.

  No problem. Come on. Let’s

  take your picture.

  Digital this. Special program

  that, my new ID is almost ready

  to go. Just one thing missing.

  What name did you want here?

  Most people use someone else’s.

  Well, duh. Of course I want to

  use someone else’s, the someone

  whose name will be on the checks.

  “Put Marie Springer.”

  Now All I Have to Do

  Is figure out how to get the checks.

  Best if no one is home. I give Mom

  a call. A bit of small talk, then I ask,

  “When is Jake’s next baseball game?

  Trey and I thought we might stop by.”

  I’m turning into an experienced liar.

  I listen for a tone of suspicion, but can

  find not a trace when Mom informs me,

  Friday at three. He’s starting pitcher.

  “Very cool. Are you bringing Hunter?”

  Like she would leave him with a baby-

  sitter. If she’s going, he’s going too.

  Her voice totally cools. Of course.

  We’re going out to dinner afterward.

  You’re welcome to come with us.

  Everything clicks completely into

  place. Unreal. Maybe we’ll take

  you up on that. See you Friday.

  Who Knew Burglary

  Could be such a piece of cake?

  A major dose of the monster

  provides plenty of courage.

  Trey parks his car well away

  from the house, and we hoof

  it from there. I could use my

  key, but we want this to

  look like the real deal, so we go around

  back, trying windows as we go.

  We’re in luck with the laundry room.

  It’s a small window, but I shimmy

  through, then unlock the sliding

  glass door, just like real burglars

  might do. Wait. We’re real burglars,

  and getting caught would mean jail.

  Getting caught doing any of this

  would mean major jail time.

  Why worry about it now? Mom

  keeps her checks in her desk.

  I locate the box, dig down for

  the bottom batch. Let’s go!

  insists Trey. But I want to make

  this look real, so I go into Mom’s

  bedroom, empty her jewelry box

  and, for good measure, grab

  the digital camera, too. Out the

  door, no one the wiser. For now.

  We even stop by the game. Fifth

  inning, Jake has been replaced.

  And we’re too wired for dinner.

  Mom Can’t Have a Clue

  About what we just did,

  where we just came from.

  But she definitely knows we’re high.

  She gives Hunter to Scott, pulls me down

  the steps, behind the bleachers.

  Trey stays behind.

  Mom puts her hands on my

  cheeks, squeezes as she looks

  into my eyes. I can imagine how they look.

  God, Kristina. Look at you. If you keep

  this up, you’re going to die.

  Are you trying to die?

  I can’t look that bad, can

  I? [You can. Do. But play

  the game. Deny.] “What do you mean?”

  Concern becomes anger. You know what

  I mean. Jesus. How stupid

  do you think I am? I know

  fucked up when I see it, and

  you’re fucked up every time

  I see you. You’ve got to stop. Or die.

  “Don’t you get it, Mom? I really don’t

  give a shit if I die. What,

  exactly, is there to live for?”

  Holy crap. Did I just say

  that? And did I mean it?

  Damn, maybe I did. Maybe I really did.

  Mom’s eyes tear up. There’s not a lot

  more to say, is there?

  I’m your mother, and

  I’ll always love you. But

  I can’t watch this any

  more. Clean up. Or don’t call again.

  I Locate the Ladies’ Room

  Luckily, it’s empty, no

  one to see the vacant-

  eyed girl, staring

  in the mirror.

  Staring at a stranger

  who doesn’t care

  if she dies. Maybe

  wants to die.

  Who would care

  if I died?

  My face is hollow-

  cheeked, spiced with sores—

  the places where I stab

  at bugs. Tiny bugs,

  almost invisible,

  but irritating.

  Usually they come out

  at night, when I’m lying

  there, begging for sleep.

  I’ve been meaning

  to tell the manager

  that the apartment needs to be

  sprayed. Sprayed. Steam

  cleaned. Deodorized.

  My hair looks odd too.

  It used to be darker.

  Shinier. Prettier.

  Can hair lose color

  when you’re only eighteen?

  What if I go all the way

  gray? Will Trey still

  love me? Will anyone?

  That is, if I fool

  them all and don’t die.

  Trey Is Waiting

  Outside. One look tells him

  more than he wants to know.

  He opens his arms, reels me in.

  What’s the matter? Mom, again?

  I can’t even address that.

  “Would you care if I died?”

  He pushes me back, eyes

  netting mine like a difficult

  catch. What the fuck are you talking

  about? Who said you were going

  to die? Never mind. Don’t

  tell me. Your loving mother.

  “Forget about my mother.

  Do I look like I’m going

  to die? I feel good, but I look rough.

  Don’t I? Tell me the truth, okay?”

  That’s what I say. But he

  knows what I need to hear.

  Kristina, I don’t know what

  your mom had to say to you,

  but you are beautiful. Incredible. If

  you died, it would break me in two.

  You taught me what love is.

  How could I live without you?

  He kisses me, and it’s better

  than our very first kiss because

  I know it means more than his just

  wanting to get into my pants. It’s

  affirmation. After all these

  months, all the good and bad,

  he really does love me.

  As much—or more—as

  I love him. That makes everything

  worth it—the lying. The stealing.

  The leaving others in my

  dust. The inseparable guilt.

  Guilty

  Ka-ching! Guilty? You betcha. Fact

  is, I’m going to get guiltier, soon

  as I can figure out how to cash a few

  checks. Checks,

  with my mom’s

  name on them.

  Cash ’em, with

  a fake ID, with

  Mom’s name

&nbs
p; forged on it.

  Paid for with

  owed-for ice. So what now? Do I

  cash one big check, hope the bank

  doesn’t ask just why do you need

  so much cash right this

  minute? Or do I cash one

  here, cash one there, till

  they add up just right. Oh, here you go,

  Cesar dearest, and oh, could you front

  us please, one more time, thank you! U I L T Y!

  Trey Counsels

  Me to write several smaller checks,

  cash them at different locations.

  In similar fashion, we hock

  the jewelry at three pawnshops,

  in three towns. All ask for a name.

  None requires an ID. Go figure.

  I do feel kind of bad about offing

  a couple of Grandma’s rings. One

  is Mom’s favorite. But hey, if

  she liked it that much, she shouldn’t

  have kept it where some stupid burglar

  could find it. Steal it. Pawn it.

  Take the money and pay off her debt

  to La Eme, ask for another front.

  Perhaps not the best move, but I’m

  no longer worried about making those.

  I’m just trying to stay high and survive,

  whatever that takes. I have no plans

  for the future. Any future. As Cesar

  might say, Qué será, será. What will

  be, will be. No one lives forever, do

  they? For some, living longer, slower,