Glass - 02 (9 page)

The smell of fresh tobacco

almost makes me reel.

Damn, would I love a smoke!

No way can I ask for a pack

now. Kevin knows my age.

But in two more days not

only will I be old enough

to buy them, I’ll have them

at my easy disposal.

Kevin pauses, extends a hand,

so sweaty it threatens to slip

from my grasp.
Welcome to

the team, Kristina. You’ll be

working with Midge there
…. He

points to the middle-aged

redhead behind the blinking

cash register.
Say hello to

Kristina, Midge.

She turns in my direction,

gives me a harder inspection

than Kevin himself did. And,

though she mutters an abbreviated

hi (can’t get much shorter than

that, I know, but it came out

kind of like “h”), the almost

obscene roll of her eyes says

most eloquently,
Oh, great.

Here we go again.

I have my out.

I have my high.

I have more stash

waiting.

I have a job.

Almost have an income.

It is almost time

for an outstanding

eighteenth birthday.

I have earned my wings,

can’t wait for my

test flight to freedom.

My head buzzes,

my body rushes,

electric, anxious.

I want a taste

of flight, a taste

of adulthood, another

small taste of ice

before afternoon dwindles.

The last thing on my

mind is Hunter, waiting

for his mommy.

I don’t want to think

about Mom and Scott,

planning birthday

and baptism parties.

I don’t want to think

about Leigh, who will

arrive soon and want

to spend time with me.

I don’t want to think

that the monster

might have so soon

taken me hostage.

No, I don’t want to think

such a thing

is remotely possible.

It isn’t. Is it?

Do I take a little detour,

drive up the gravel road

toward the quarry, dust

sifting over the LTD,

find a spot under a tree,

and, despite being pretty

damned buzzed already,

take another short stroll

with the grabby monster?

Something is different

this time round, some

little thing that keeps on

nagging at me. The

crystal is better, true,

so I know addiction

is even likelier than

before. That bothers

me some, yes, but like

I said, I’ve managed to

keep my use under control.

Suddenly, as I inhale

a hot, fragranced hit,

it comes to me—the

thing that’s bugging

me. Before, I got high

as a way to socialize, to

fit in with the crowd, feel

less inhibited around guys.

This time, though, I’m

spending more and more

of my time, getting more

and more buzzed, alone.

Into a not-so-accessible

recess of my psyche.

Everything is about to change.

I’ll be out around people more.

Mingling in crowds more.

Interacting with men more.

And I’m not talking Kevin

Stewart or Grady or Slot Man.

But first I have to get through

the challenges of this weekend.

Starting with going home and

pretending I’m a perfect mom,

a decent daughter, and a loving

sister. Leigh will arrive soon,

cheerleader in tow. We’ll all

have a wonderful dinner. (Will

anyone notice me, pushing

meat and veggies around on my plate

until everyone leaves the table?)

I won’t sleep tonight. No way.

So tomorrow I’d better turn my

back on the monster. I’ll need to

sleep before Sunday. Can’t go

to church and stand up in front

of everyone bleary-eyed and

trembling, let alone take a chance

on passing out completely. Oh, yeah.

That would be one for the Good Newsletter!

Park off to one side, where my dusty

LTD won’t be in Mom’s or Scott’s way.

I sit a few minutes, absorbing rock

and roll rhythms, trying to slow

the race of my pulse, the hammering

of my heart. Truth be told, I’m wasted.

Finally I gather the nerve to go on

inside, and when I do, Mom hands

me a couple of large envelopes.

Birthday loot, I’m guessing,
she says.

I open the first—fifty dollars from

Aunt Lou, who lives in Gainesville.

The second holds a hundred from

Scott’s dad, my very cool Grandpa

Bill. The card reads:
Don’t spend

it all in one place. Okay, you can!

I’d hate to tell him it’s already spent,

and I sure couldn’t tell him what on.

Which reminds me of my promise

to myself to return the hundred to

Hunter’s piggy bank. I
will
do that,

won’t I? Yes, of course I will. Someday

very soon. Well…I
do
have to cash

the checks. That could take a few days.

And this,
says Mom,
is from Scott

and me. It would have been more, but

you never returned the hundred from

the other night. You know, the money

you didn’t spend on the hotel. I’m not

sure I want to know what you
did
spend

it on, but anyway, happy birthday….

What does that mean? Do they

suspect the real intent behind

my visit to Robyn? They haven’t

acted strangely at all, but maybe

I have. Have I? I don’t think so.

Either way, she gives me a card

with daisies and puppies on the front

and two hundred dollars inside.

I can’t look her in the eye—not

with pupils the size of dimes—and

I’m afraid if I hug her she’ll catch

a solid scent of ingested crystal.

So I stand at a distance and say,

“Thanks, Mom. I promise to spend

it wisely. Maybe I’ll even put it

in my savings account. Maybe it can

even stay there, now that I’ve got a job.”

So you got the job at 7-Eleven?

She waits for my affirmative nod,

then adds,
I hope this doesn’t mean

you won’t finish up your GED. You

need that to get anywhere, Kristina….

Tears interrupt.
You could have gone…

I know she cares about me, wants

what’s best for me. But we already

went through this once today. Anger

carbonates inside me, bubbles hot

and red, and if I let Bree have her way

right now, she’ll say something I shouldn’t.

I gentle the big quilt

from its place of honor

on the living room couch,

shake it onto the floor

beneath the big picture

windows, marveling

for about the thousandth

time at the patience Mom

must have had to patch

the pieces all together.

Then I go get Hunter,

lay him in the center

of the colorful fabric

potpourri, lie down

next to him, and marvel

for about the millionth

time at how stunningly

handsome he is. Pride

inflates inside me, before

segueing to massive guilt.

I feel spectacular. I feel

shitty. I feel on top of

the world. I feel like I’m

on my way to hell. The

ball’s in my court. What

do I do? Serve? Volley?

Concede? I want to be a

good mom. I don’t want

to be a mom at all. But

what choice do I have?

Hunter coos and drools

sweet-smelling baby spit,

and I stroke his soft,

soft cheeks. “Mommy loves

you, Hunter.” I really do,

and he loves me, too,

with a purity that makes

my eyes sting. What have

I done? And more: What

will I continue to do?

Watching dust motes play

in the afternoon light,

Hunter drifts off. I know

Mom et al will be home soon,

which gives me a small window

of opportunity to hook up with

the monster one last time.

I step out onto the patio, where,

shielded from the westerly

breeze, I can easily take a toke

and let the evidence escape

into the lengthening shadows.

Denying any earlier sense

of guilt, I ask the monster to

up to the plate, hit an inside-the-skull

home run. It doesn’t disappoint me.

Then I go to shower, douse myself

with deodorant and mouthwash.

Finally I hear the approaching party.

I zoom to meet them, at light speed.

And it suits her almost

as much as shedding several

suits me. (You’d be surprised

how much weight you can

lose in two weeks when you

barely eat enough to keep

a very small rodent alive.)

Anyway, it’s awesome to see her

again. She hasn’t visited since

before Hunter’s birth. I know

she was mad at me for everything

that happened, and maybe she

had a right to be. Or maybe not.

I mean, she isn’t exactly

the perfect daughter herself.

Here she comes, waltzing

down the hall on her lover’s

arm—a stunning lesbian pair,

acting like they belong here.

[Belong here, together. Not

much room for us anymore!]

Bree talking, again.
Shut up!

I tell her, and run to give Leigh

a mega mojo hug. [Good trick,

with Heather hanging on to her

like a monkey to a tree branch.]

Shut the hell up,
I silently shout

to the bitch who lives in my brain.

Out loud I say, “God, I’ve

missed you. You look great.

Must be…” [the extra five

pounds or maybe the one

hundred twenty pounds

cemented to your right arm]

“…did you change your hair?”

Don’t be silly. My hair has

looked exactly like this my

entire life. Although it is a

little bleached from being

out in the sun this summer.

Heather tries to tell me

it’s bad for my skin, but I’m

not always so good at following

orders. Oh! I almost forgot

to introduce you. Kristina, Heather.

[Following orders? Can you

believe that?] I stow Bree and

give Heather a wary once-over.

“Good to finally meet you,” I

venture. “Leigh has told me so

little about you….” That

was mean, okay? [Not really.

Want to see “mean”?]
No!

Heather maintains her grip

on my sister’s arm.
Really?

Well, she’s told me just

about everything about you.

Much more than I’d ever

choose to know, in fact.

What does that mean? Okay,

maybe I’ll just have to let

Bree out of her bottle after

all. If anyone can debate

the Cheerleader from Hell,

it’s Bree. [Yeah, let me out.]

Can’t. This is supposed to be

a celebration, not an insurrection.