A Not-So-Simple Life (4 page)

Even so, I wonder what Nick Stark’s fans would think if they knew his fifteen-year-old daughter is fending for herself while her mom is out on a three-day drug binge (well, three days so far). Then again, maybe no one would care. After all, this is not a new story. In some ways I can really relate to Nicole Richie. Her story is freakily similar to mine. And yet when Nicole blows it (by anorexic or drunk and disorderly or whatever…) and she makes the front page, it seems as if everyone takes potshots at her. They call her “shallow” and “spoiled” and say she has “entitlement issues.” It’s like no one remembers how she was raised, the things she’s, been through. Why doesn’t anyone care to attribute some of her problems to the fact that she grew up in a very strange family? But then again, maybe it’s really not so strange. Not by my standards anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if the way I’m living might actually be turning into the norm in this country. Maybe it’s simply my fantasy that there are healthy, happy, well-adjusted families out there. Moms who drive kids to soccer and ballet. Dads who come home for dinner. Perhaps a dog or a cat running around. Food in the fridge. Utility bills that are paid. Am I wrong to assume that people like my cousin Kim and her dad are the norm? What if they’re the anomaly?

Even so, more and more I find myself wanting what they have. It’s like a desperate craving, a deep, pathetic longing that will never be fulfilled. Because I can never have what Kim and her dad have—what their little family had before Kim’s mom died. It’s completely out of my reach. I’m like the poor little kid with her nose pushed against the toy store window, just wishing. Only it’s not the toys I want. The sad truth is, I’ve actually had more than my fair share of that kind of junk. When I was little, my dad used to bring home all kinds of things to make up for being gone so much. Nanny Jane was always picking things up and complaining that my room looked more like a toy store than a nursery. And later on, after the divorce, when I’d go to visit Dad, he would use the latest video games and electronic gadgets to pay me off. Only it never worked.

I’ve had all the material things any kid could want. But that doesn’t make up for what I haven’t had, and that doesn’t make me want it less. And writing in this stupid journal only
seems to make me feel worse! I think Kim was wrong about the therapy thing. Although writing about the earth is kind of therapeutic for me. So here goes.

Y
es, it’s been a while since I picked up a pen to record what’s been going on in my life…and in this particular nut house. But let me start by saying this has been the worst month of my life. And if you knew everything about my life, you would know that means it’s been bad. Seriously bad. That’s the main reason I’ve avoided writing in my journal the past couple of weeks. It’s just too depressing. Even for me. But suddenly I feel the need to document these things. Perhaps I can use this journal in court as evidence of my mom’s inability to parent.

Shannon has been a complete yo-yo the last three weeks. She’s like the human roller-coaster ride. She does a two- to three-day missing act, which I know is related to a partying drug binge, and then she comes home completely wiped out. It takes her a day or so to recover, and then she puts on this act like everything is back to normal. As if we even know “normal.”

Lately she’s even made some pathetic attempts to cook meals for us, which is a big joke—not to mention an enormous
mess that I usually have to clean up. But during her recovery time, she promises that she’s not going to pull this stuff again. She says things like “I make myself sick!” and “I can’t keeping living like this!” And she asks me to help her, sometimes breaking down in tears, begging me to stand by her. Naturally, I say that I will. But even as I make these promises, I’m not sure I can keep them. I’ve learned from the best that promises are made to be broken.

Still, she almost had me convinced a couple of weeks ago. I’d been considering calling my dad to ask for help. But that night Shannon sobbed and swore that it was her last time and that her “problem” was going to stop and that she was ready to get professional help. So a few sober days passed, and I did begin to feel a smidgen of hope.

I got into my routine of doing schoolwork, hoping to finish this year and take the summer off like other kids. And just when I felt like my feet were back on the ground, Shannon jerked the rug right out from under me and took off again. She told me she was going to NA (Narcotics Anonymous), which actually turned out to be true. But when she finally came home two days later, she confessed that she’d hooked up with an old coke buddy and that they’d gone out partying following the NA meeting. How’s that for networking?

Then a few days ago, shortly after the check from Dad finally arrived, she took off again. At least I’d had the smarts to insist on going to the bank with her. After cashing the
check, she handed me two hundred dollars to go shopping. Yeah, right. The only place I shop these days is the grocery store, where I buy exciting things like biodegradable toilet paper, environmentally friendly laundry soap, and organic food. Then when Shannon finally came home last night, she was (big surprise here) totally broke.

“Have you got any money, baby?” she asked in that slurred and scratchy pathetic voice that sounds like she’s still under the influence. I told her, “Sorry,” that I was broke too, which was, of course, a lie. A self-preservation lie. After that, she closed herself up in her room, and I haven’t seen her since. Not that I care. I am beginning to care less and less… about everything.

I just don’t know how long I can go on like this. Seriously, I feel like giving up. And I felt so desperate this morning that I actually e-mailed my cousin Kim, asking for advice. I told her a little—just a teeny, tiny bit—about what’s going on in my life these days. Of course, immediately after hitting Send, I regretted my confession. I wish I could’ve retrieved the e-mail, but I don’t think that’s possible. Anyway, I haven’t heard back from her yet. I suspect her life is fairly busy. Or maybe my message got lost somewhere in cyberspace. Sometimes that’s how my life feels to me—lost in space.

I guess the part that scares me most—as far as Kim having a glimpse into my life—is that I don’t really know this girl. Oh, sure, she’s my cousin. Not that it counts for anything.
I mean, her mom, my aunt, seemed like a nice person, but Kim is a complete unknown factor to me. What if she can’t be trusted? And yet I’ve just divulged a pretty huge secret to her. What if she tells her dad and they decide to do something really, really stupid—like call L.A. County DCFS? I’ve gone down the road with Children and Family Services before, and I didn’t like where it took me.

When I was thirteen, I actually looked into getting emancipated from Shannon. Things were bad then…but not as bad as now. Naturally, Shannon threw a total hissy fit—she would lose out financially if I was emancipated. No more big checks from my dad. So before the caseworker could come to our house and check things out, Shannon went to a lot of work to put on the appearance of “normal.” Well, as normal as anyone in LA. might be. And don’t forget, the woman is an actress. And her act was convincing. Not that it mattered, because as the caseworker politely pointed out, I wasn’t old enough to be emancipated yet. According to her, the law states that not only must your parents sign off, but you must have a place to live and be able to continue attending school as well as have a job that can support you. Well, duh. What thirteen-year-old can support herself? I mean, besides by heading down to Wilshire Boulevard and selling my body for sex. Like that’s going to happen!

At the time I investigated emancipation, my dad was just beginning to tour again. And naturally, he wasn’t interested
in taking me along for the ride. It didn’t help that Shannon, still in actress mode, had somehow convinced him that I was “simply experiencing a bad case of teenage angst.” She even asked him if he’d seen that film Thirteen. Give me a break! I mean, it’s an interesting movie, but those two girls pretty much go nuts.

Eventually, my caseworker told me that if my home life was really so terrible, my best option might be to get on a waiting list for a group foster home. Okay, I’ve heard about the foster-care system in our state, and that scared me even more than living with Shannon. So I just shut my mouth and decided to bide my time. Now I’m wondering if fifteen is old enough to be emancipated. But then there’s that pesky job thing and those other legal details. Still, it might be worth looking into. Although it would help if I were sixteen and could drive. Unfortunately, my birthday isn’t until December.

Even so, I wonder if I could get a job. There are places close enoughto walk or ride my bike to, but would they hire a fifteen-year-old? Although I’ve been told I look old for my age.

After searching online and the classifieds and after making a few inquiries, I quickly discovered that the only places fifteen-year-olds can find work in our neighborhood is at fast-food restaurants or by doing yard work, housecleaning, or
baby-sitting. I cannot work in a restaurant, because I refuse to handle animal by-products. I would gladly do yard work, but so far no one has returned my calls. I think it’s because I’m a girl, which seems like discrimination to me. Speaking of discrimination, when I called about housecleaning, the woman spoke to me in Spanish, and even though my Spanish is okay for a gringa, she didn’t sound the least bit interested in interviewing me. They probably only hire Latinos. And my only experience with baby-sitting was when our neighbors’ eighteen-month-old grandbabies came to visit last summer. The twin boys, Liam and Rye, were adorable, from a distance anyway, but after two weeks of changing diapers and chasing down screaming toddlers, well, I still cannot bear to think of it.

If I’m going to work toward being on my own, I need to find work. And based on Shannon’s erratic behavior this past month, I need to make a plan. So on my way to the Market Basket, my favorite natural food store (who is not hiring), I notice a Help Wanted sign in the window of a rather chichi clothing boutique. Now honestly, the last thing I want to do is sell overpriced designer clothes to overspending, undernourished, shopaholic women (not unlike my mom), but maybe they just want a stock girl. That might not be too torturous.

So I hurry to gather my tofu products, nuts, a fresh loaf of vegan bread, and organically grown fruit, and I carefully
pack these groceries into my reusable canvas Earth bag and come directly home, put them away, and then begin to make a plan.

Shannon, once again, is gone. I had hoped it was just an ordinary date, since the guy who picked her up seemed halfway decent, but when she didn’t make it home, I had to assume she was out getting high again. In a way, this is lucky, because this allows me to borrow a few things from her packed closet—a walk-in closet that’s bigger than some people’s bedrooms. Although she has all kinds of storage, things are heaped in piles, and she won’t even notice if a few items go missing.

It’s not as if I don’t have clothes that would be appropriate for working in a clothing boutique. I have lots of things I never even wear—“stylish” rags that Shannon gets me whether I want them or not. Drugs aren’t her only addiction. But after checking out my closet, I know I need to bring it up a notch or two. I am not stupid. As soon as I walk into that boutique and ask for a job application, eyes will be narrowed, and my outfit will be scrutinized. And I know that I have to measure up to their shallow standards.

Okay, part of me is screaming, Why are you doing this, Maya? Why are you compromising yourself? Why are you becoming a hypocrite? I mean, not only am I willing to work in a business I do not respect. I am willing to carry a bag made of leather! What is wrong with this picture? The answer is
simple: I’m desperate. I’m nearly broke again. This is the first step in my emancipation plan, so I’ll bite the bullet and just do it.

Picking up the application actually went fairly smoothly today. A stick-thin woman named Em was friendly enough. She had short, choppy hair that was dyed jet black and tipped with midnight blue.

“We can use some help right now,” she told me as she set some white boxes down beside the register. No one else was in the shop just then. “Have you worked in retail before?”

“No.” I gave her my most confident smile. “Well, other than shopping.”

She laughed as she handed me an application. “Make sure you put that on your application. Vivian takes customers more seriously than employees.”

“Vivian?”

“The owner. She’s at lunch, but she should be back by two.”

“Should I fill this out here and then wait…do you think?” Suddenly I realized how inept I am at this sort of thing. I am clueless. What is a person supposed to do to get a job?

“I don’t know…” Em frowned at her red plastic watch. “Viv’s two can sometimes turn into three or four. Why don’t you take the application and fill it out at your convenience, then drop it by later?”

I nodded. “Sure, of course.” I adjusted the strap of Shannon’s Dolce & Gabbana purse over my shoulder and stood straighter.

“Great bag,” Em said.

“D ’n’ G,” I said, sounding more like Shannon than ever.