Page 4 of Glass - 02


  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.

  Robyn Greets Trey

  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.