Traffick (18 page)

up. “I don't have your ear,

Dad. I can see both of them,

one on either side of your

head, and they look firmly

attached.” I smile, signaling

humor, but he doesn't get it.

All right then. Let's go

outside for a while.

“You don't have to come

with me. I'm fine on my own.

I'll just go find a place to sit

in the sun and watch people

behave badly for a while.

Catch up to Mom and Kyra,

and text me when you're ready

for lunch. I'm getting hungry.”

To leave me on my own, but

I convince him a few minutes

solo are just the medicine

I need. Awkward thought:

What I wouldn't give for that

oxy right now, or better yet,

a ticket to the Land of Nod.

Stop it, Whitney. Guess I'd

better consider finding a sponsor

after all. Weak moments like this

are exactly why they invented

them. I step out into the cool

coastal morning, where the sun

hints at its presence behind

a gray mist. There's really

no place to sit, except on

the sidewalk—too dangerous

today. So I lean back against

the side of the building, take

deep breaths of sea-flavored air.

Suddenly, a familiar laugh

comes floating toward me from

the parking lot. The annoying

nasal giggle belongs to Paige,

my onetime best friend. I squint

to find her. Yes, there she is,

and she's with . . . Skylar?

That it's been almost eight months

since Paige and I went to the party

that basically ruined my life—

the one I left, destroyed by finding

Lucas cemented to Skylar. The one

Paige was too busy making out

with some random guy to take me

home from, so I called Bryn, who

was all too happy to use the excuse

to worm his way into my pathetic life.

But Paige and Skylar are as different

as blue and red. Or at least they were.

Can people change so much so quickly?

Backpedal.

Of course they can.

I pretty much define the concept.

I've been to hell and back.

As they near, it's easy to see who

did the changing. Paige, who always

carried a spare few pounds, is thin

enough to wear those skinny jeans

well. Her hair's styled into short

spikes, and her makeup is plastered

on. Head to toe, she's Skylar's

twin, except if anything, despite

the weight loss, her boobs are even

bigger. Skylar, it pleases me to witness,

has yet to grow an observable pair.

As they hit the sidewalk

together, almost straight

in front of me, yet somehow

don't seem to notice I'm here.

Better fix that. “Hey, Paige.

Long time no see, huh?”

Her jaw totally drops.

Whitney? Oh my God,

girl, where have you been?

Skylar can't help herself.
Yeah.

And what happened to you?

You look so . . . so rough.

Rough? My hair has grown

out. My skin's mostly clear.

And I'm wearing a cute long-

sleeved sweater, which covers

the tracks. I ignore the bitch.

“Most recently, I've been in rehab.

Before that, I was in Las Vegas.

With Bryn. Remember him?”

Paige wrinkles her forehead.

You mean the photographer

guy? The one who was stalking

you here last year? What were

you doing with him all that time?

I have to be careful. Whatever

I say
will
get around. “Modeling,

of course. He had a lot of contacts

in Vegas. But you know it's a dirty

business. Lots of drugs and stuff.

I kind of got in over my head,

so I ended up in rehab. Old story.”

Wow. Sounds exciting. I want

to hear more. Are you coming

back to school?
asks Paige.

“That's the plan.” I wince at

the hard nudge Skylar gives her.

Before they escape, I have to dig,

“How's Lucas? You two still together?”

Not like I don't know the answer.

Skylar shakes her head.
Nah.

I decided he's not my type.

We have to go. See you around.

Call me,
says Paige, turning

her back. As they walk away,

I hear her say,
Wonder what

kind of drugs she got into.

Wonder what kind of modeling

she was doing,
responds Skylar.

Wouldn't she like to know?

That's what I told him.

Did he believe it was a lie,

or could he look through

the windows of my tears,

see beyond the words to

the truth

behind them? I wanted

to know what it was like

to fall in love, conveniently

forgetting the facts

of my

sister's disappearance.

Incorrigible. That's what

my parents called Eden when

they tossed her to the jackals,

where her limited

experience

did not equip her for what

followed. I know because

they've done the same to me—

forced me into isolation

at Tears of Zion, where Father

is

the heavy hand of God,

or so he claims. All I did

was give my heart away.

Punishment like this is

incomprehensible.

On a personal level, it is the first

I've ever spent away from home,

where the pattern never deviated.

Papa hates turkey, so Mama

put a huge ham in the oven

at ten a.m. exactly. Then the Streit

family went visiting faithful church

members to remind them that thanks

is better shared. We prayed together,

Papa collected a Thanksgiving

offering, and often we left with

food, too, most generally homemade

rolls or pie or maybe even a sweet

potato casserole. By the time we'd get

home, the ham was ready and Mama's

cooking was finished. It was brilliant,

really, and, of course, the whole

plan was Mama's idea. Cooking,

especially baking, isn't her favorite

pastime. And after all that earlier

praying and talking and collecting,

we'd sit at our own dinner table

in silence, which is how most meals

at our house are experienced.

Quietly communing with ourselves.

Noise fills the dining room—

girls talking and laughing and

sharing stories of Thanksgivings

past. The majority of those aren't

beautiful, yet they are comforting

because of experiences they have

in common. For many, the best

thing about the day is their pimps

understand that men usually spend

it with their families, rather than

trolling for sex. Fewer customers,

less money, not the girls' fault,

they get a pass. By the time we

get to dessert, everyone's guard

is down, and Rhonda, who's

usually standoffish, offers

a memory.
My mama, she all into

skag and she spend a lot of time

in jail, so I had to take care of

my little brother. That's why I'm

on the track. I don't know nothing

else. Quit school in sixth grade.

Had to, you know? Never had no

pimp, only me. Mama, when she not

locked up, she work the streets,

and she told me what to do, and

where to find johns, and how much

to make 'em pay. It's not so hard,

not usually, but you know sometimes

a guy go a little crazy or whatever.

So one time, one Thanksgiving,

Mama was gone and Oscar was

hungry, no food but stale cereal

in the cupboard. I tell him to watch

TV, I'll be back soon. I go out,

and yeah, it was real slow but after

a while along come a black-and-white,

and this old cop stop to see what's what.

“What you doing out here?” he ask.

“Don't you know what day it is?”

I tell him, yeah, but I gotta feed my kid

brother, hoping maybe he let me go,

maybe for a blowjob or whatever.

He say, “Get in,” and that made me

scared, but you know what he did?

He drove to Denny's, bought four

turkey dinners, two pieces of pie,

gave it all to me, and a twenty, too.

Didn't ask for nothing. “Feed your

brother,” he say. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

A lot of cop stories are passed

around, few enough as feel-good

as Rhonda's, though there are some:

Cops who looked the other way.

Cops who offered numbers to

services and rescues like Walk

Straight. One cop who played

protector when he saw a john

on a rampage. But mostly, we hear

about cops who were quick to haul

the girls in. Cops who let them off

in trade for squad-car sex. Two girls

told of cops who chose the role of

pimp, both eventually busted and

made to leave the force. Across

the board, what the girls learned

was not to trust men who wore

badges. Back home in Boise, most

cops I met were fresh-faced hometown

boys, and friendly enough, at least

on the surface. Wonder how many

were hiding dark secrets. I go back

to my room, plop into bed, thinking

about the lies people carry, and

what's to gain by shedding them.

Lead to a night of underwater

dreams—struggling to swim up

from the deep without drowning,

finally sputtering to the surface

just about daybreak. On the far

side of the room, my new roommate,

Hana, snuffles softly. Tia, my last

roomie, snored like a bulldozer.

She's been gone two weeks now—

decided the straight and narrow

wasn't for her, and went back to her

pimp, despite the fact that she wore

the scars of his cigarette burns and

his tattoo on the back of her neck,

signifying his ownership. We weren't

close, but I hope she'll be okay, or at

least as okay as you can get, renting

out various parts of your body.

Hana is a soft-spoken Korean American.

She's been here four days now and

I still don't know her whole story.

We're just getting used to seeing each

other in the mirror, and to the unique

sounds of our voices and breathing

patterns. The rest will come with time.

How much time I have left

here. Just got unhappy news

from my counselor, who finally

heard from Mama. Apparently,

she's decided to arrange a reunion.

She'll arrive tomorrow.

Sarah's eyes hold sympathy.

I tried to ask about emancipation.

She told me her relationship

with you is none of my business.

“Of course she'd say that.”

Dread drops into my stomach.

“I'm not ready to go, Sarah. Oh

God, I'm so afraid. Will I have

to leave with her if she insists?”

Unfortunately, you would.

Walk Straight can't keep you

if either of your parents wants

you with them instead. Not unless

we can prove extenuating

circumstances like sexual abuse

or neglect. But from what you've

told me, there was neither in

your home. As for Tears of Zion,

that's a different can of worms.

If my parents couldn't send me

back there, could I deal with living

at home for a year? If I had to,

yes. “What about Tears of Zion?

What if I brought charges?”

After we last talked, I did

a little research. Tears of Zion

calls itself a religious retreat

center, not a boot camp or

rehabilitation facility, which

complicates things. The easiest

way to shine a spotlight on

the place would be to allege

that one or more staff members

were responsible for abuse.

The problem with that is, unless

the director—what's his name . . . ?