Glass - 02

  Long pause. Then, I’m not

  really sure. Can I help

  you with anything else?

  Something’s up with her.

  I’m not really looking

  for Trent, anyway. “Yes.

  Can you tell me how

  to get hold of Robyn?”

  Longer pause. Uh, you

  know, she was moving

  out of the dorm, into

  an apartment. I’m not sure…

  Things are growing clearer.

  “Is there a problem, Mrs.

  Rosselli? I just want to

  catch up with old friends.”

  The longest pause of all.

  You’re not their friend,

  Kristina. You’re nothing

  but trouble they don’t need.

  Stung

  But not really smarting,

  I could tell her that

  both of her children

  need all the friends

  the ycan get—trouble

  or not. One is eighteen

  and gay, in a city where

  homosexuality is almost

  as dirty a word as “Democrat.”

  The other will be lucky

  to finish her freshman year

  in college—too much time

  buying affection with an

  omnipresent speed stash.

  But saying that won’t suit

  either of us at the moment.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,

  Mrs. Rosselli. I’ve made some

  mistakes, yes. But I’m working

  hard to straighten myself out.

  Having friends in my life—

  good friends, on the right

  track themselves—is one

  thing I desperately need.

  I apologize if I’ve ever

  done anything to offend

  you, or to hurt Robyn or

  Trent. I don’t believe I

  have, but if you think

  so, please let me make

  it up to you.” Oh yeah,

  I’m back in the game,

  and damn does it feel great!

  Not Only That

  But it works.

  I’m sorry, Kristina.

  I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Rosselli.

  I understand your feelings.”

  Trent works for a lawyer

  after school. He usually

  gets home around six.

  “A lawyer? Wonderful!

  I know he wanted to go

  to law school….”

  Robyn’s at UOP in

  Stockton. She still has

  her old cell number, 775…

  “Thank you so much.

  I’ll call Trent later. Please

  tell him I was in touch.”

  I will. And how’s that

  baby? Growing like

  corn, I’ll wager.

  Growing like corn?

  Whatever. “He’s beautiful,

  thanks. Looks just like me.”

  She chuckles. I bet he

  does. Take care, Kristina.

  “You too, Mrs. Rosselli.”

  I click the phone dead,

  dial another number.

  “Hey, Robyn. It’s Kristina.

  What’s up?”

  She Sounds

  Strung,

  like her brain is

  disconnected

  from her mouth.

  Don’t get me

  wrong.

  I remember that

  feeling well—

  knowing

  exactly what you

  want to say, but

  your

  lips can’t quite

  manage the

  correct

  combination of vowels

  and consonants

  to form the

  words.

  Could be a bad sign.

  Anyone that

  incapable

  of cohesive language

  could very well be

  crashing—another way

  of saying

  Robyn is definitely

  still using, but might

  be out at the moment,

  a sentence

  worse than death for

  a regular tweaker.

  How bad is my timing?

  Let’s Find Out

  K-Kristina?

  “C’mon, Robyn. It

  hasn’t been that long.”

  Oh, yeah, right.

  Kristina. Whatcha

  been up to?

  “Not much. Studying

  for my GED. Taking

  care of my baby.”

  Sounds…like not

  a lot of fun.

  “Which is exactly why

  I’m calling you.”

  Oh, yeah, right.

  Well, I could maybe

  help you out there.

  “Very cool. I have to

  see if I can borrow a car.

  How about tomorrow?”

  That would probably

  work. I’m in class

  until four.

  She can do classes,

  sounding like that?

  “Okay. I’ll work on

  the car and give you

  a buzz tomorrow.”

  Oh, yeah, right.

  Uh, Kristina? Come

  alone, okay?

  Tweaker talk for

  This better not be a bust.

  “Not a problem, Robyn.

  All I want is to get my head.”

  Thinking about it,

  I’m starting to want

  that real bad.

  But First

  I have to convince my mom to lend

  me her car, and to babysit

  Hunter—all on a Friday

  night. Party night, for

  almost every

  partier in

  America.

  Hell, it’s the

  American Way, as

  I think almost everyone

  will agree. Get out of school

  or off work, put on clean clothes,

  and look for a way to escape reality—

  whether that’s with alcohol, weed, or

  my all-time favorite: speed.

  Pot and beer mostly make

  me tired. I only used

  to use them when

  I was buzzed up

  real high,

  didn’t

  mind slowing

  down a little. But I

  haven’t done any of that

  in way too long. Being good

  all the time isn’t just hard. It’s damn

  boring. There’s more to life than babies

  and books, and I’m overdue to go out

  and find a little fun. First things

  first. I have to find a way

  to Stockton. All it

  will take, I hope,

  is the perfect

  little (okay,

  big) lie.

  I’m Out of Practice

  Not having had to manufacture

  a lie in quite a long time.

  I have to say, that isn’t a bad

  place to be, where you don’t

  have to lie. Everything is just

  so much easier when you don’t

  have to remember what you

  told who, and when, and why.

  What is simply is. But not

  anymore, I guess. Now I have

  to not only come up with a reason

  to go, but also to remember exactly

  what it was, no matter how tweaked

  I might be when I get home.

  Tweaked! It takes a modicum

  of thinking, but within an hour or so,

  I invent a great (I think) excuse.

  It’s a Doozer

  “Mom, is there any

  way I could borrow

  your car? There’s a
r />   college fair I want to

  check out tomorrow,

  over in Sacramento.

  It starts around four

  and should go until

  eight” (1 think

  that will give me

  plenty of time to

  hook up with Robyn—

  even if she isn’t

  exactly on time—

  score, toot a little,

  and start back.)

  “I’d ask you to come along, but I

  need you to watch Hunter. I can’t

  really take him with me. If it makes

  you feel better, I’ll invite Trent to

  ride along. He can visit his sister.”

  College

  fair?

  Don’t you want me

  to go along with

  you? You’ve

  never driven

  that far by your

  It’s aself.

  three-

  hour trip, you

  know, not easy.

  I Will Invite Him Too

  Of course, I know he

  has to work until five thirty.

  But at least if it comes up

  in conversation, I can

  tell Mom I asked,

  but he had other plans.

  I call about eight.

  “Hey, Trent. It’s Kristina.

  Long time, no talk.

  “I heard you’re working

  for a lawyer. Hope

  he’s really cute!”

  Trent hesitates, not

  at all sure why I’m striking

  up a conversation.

  He’s not bad, actually.

  But that can’t be why

  you called. What’s up?

  To the point, and why

  not? We haven’t spoken

  since before I had Hunter.

  “Actually, I’m driving over

  to Stockton tomorrow

  afternoon and wondered

  if you’d like to ride along.

  I thought you might like

  to drop in on Robyn.”

  Thanks for thinking

  of me, Kristina. But

  I have to work and

  even if I didn’t, I

  wouldn’t go. Robyn

  is on a fast track to death.

  “What do you mean?”

  Like I don’t know

  exactly what he means.

  If you don’t know, you

  haven’t seen her lately.

  And if you haven’t

  seen her lately, I suggest

  you steer clear. She’ll

  take you down with her.

  Kristina, we haven’t

  hung out together

  for a while, but you’ve

  always been a good friend

  to me. Let me offer you

  a good friend’s advice.

  Stay away from Robyn.

  And if you see her coming,

  run the other way.

  Tonight

  Sleep is impossible,

  anticipation swelling

  and ebbing like some

  sort of crazy tide.

  Strange,

  how when I close my

  eyes, try to concentrate

  on that little door between

  them that opens into

  dreams,

  I fee l high already,

  locked in a battle

  between the need to dive

  into REM slumber and the

  desire

  to start the damn party

  already! I remember

  that awful tug-of-war well.

  So why jump right back in,

  release

  the monster to stalk

  my days, haunt my nights;

  to bite through my skull

  and suck on my brain?

  From

  a purely omniscient

  point of view, it makes

  no sense whatsoever. I

  have freed myself from

  physical

  addiction, no rehab but

  to endure sweating, puking,

  and cardiovascular jumping

  jacks. The mental

  bonds,

  however, seem as strong

  as ever, and the piece

  of me that recognizes

  that knows I might be

  making a very big mistake.

  Maybe That’s Why

  When Hunter makes

  his daily plea for

  a three A.M. breast

  milk feast, I call

  to Mom, “I’ll handle it.”

  He’s now four months

  old, and drinking

  formula supplements

  from a bottle—a conscious

  decision on my part.

  I had hoped to have

  him weaned—and my

  breasts completely

  my own again—

  within five months.

  My new game plan

  will expedite that

  schedule, I realize,

  and I have to admit,

  that makes me sad.

  I change his diaper,

  marveling for about

  the millionth time at

  his perfect little body.

  The body I created.

  All clean and dry,

  I carry him back

  to my bed, cradle

  him in one pillowed

  arm, unbutton my top.

  And as the milk begins

  to flow, so do my tears.

  “Mommy loves you,

  Hunter Seth. No matter

  what, Mommy loves you.”

  He looks up at me

  with spectacular green

  eyes and, around my

  very sore nipple, smiles

  a toothless baby smile.

  Now You Might Think

  That tender scene might make

  me change my mind, and truthfully,

  I have thought twice.

  But I don’t want to think again.

  I MapBlast directions to Robyn’s

  apartment, load a small ice chest

  with soda, to fight the wah-wahs

  sure to strike on my way home.

  If it gets too late, promise me

  you’ll stop and spend the night,

  Mom insists. Here’s some money.

  She hands me a crisp $100 bill.

  Suddenly it strikes me that I

  haven’t even thought about the money

  end of the transaction to come.

  Lucky me. A hundred will just

  about cover it. Still, if prices

  haven’t risen with inflation,

  another hundred will score

  an eight ball instead of a gram.

  Yeah, yeah, my thought processes

  have already graduated from casual

  to daily use. But I don’t want

  to have to drive to Stockton

  too often. Hell, an eight ball

  will last me just about

  forever. Won’t it?

  So Where to Find

  Another hundred dollars?

  In lieu of an allowance,

  Mom and Scott buy

  diapers and baby formula.

  My savings account is

  still closed to me, and will be

  until my eighteenth birthday.

  That impressive turning point

  is only a couple of weeks away,

  but not soon enough to score

  the monetary birthday rewards

  I hope for from relatives, far

  and near. No, only one place

  comes to mind, an easy

  place, all things considered—

  Hunter’s rainy-day piggy bank.

  All those very same relatives

  sent him a little cash, right

  after he was born. I was going

  to open a college savings


  account, but haven’t gotten

  around to it yet. No problem.

  I’ll replace it as soon as I get

  my birthday stash. Meanwhile,

  Hunter won’t miss it. And

  neither, I hope, will Mom.

  Pack an overnight bag, just

  in case, she says, interrupting

  my thoughts. Always a good

  idea to plan for that rainy day.

  She Makes It So Easy

  Handing me her keys,

  helping me pack, giving

  me money. I’d like to

  blame

  her for what may come,

  take dead aim and whack

  this big ball of

  guilt

  across the net,

  into her court, wait

  for her well-deserved

  volley.

  But that wouldn’t

  be accurate,

  wouldn’t be

  right.

  I know as I climb

  into the SUV, crank

  the engine, that what’s

  left

  of Kristina will have to