Traffick (5 page)

smashed flat into the ground

beneath the feet of the Lady.

The person helping me weather

those first few days

was the very woman I blame

for chasing me away from home

and into the arms of the man

who would become my pimp.

I expected my mom's scorn,

not her apology.
Oh, Whitney.

Thank God you've come back

to me. I'm so sorry. If I had

lost you forever, I don't know

what I would have done. Please,

Whitney, whatever your reasons

for leaving, for . . . for . . .

She couldn't finish, could

not bring herself to put into

words the things the cops

must've told her, the awful

things their evidence showed—

that I'd been turning tricks

in a stinking apartment

in a disgusting neighborhood

in America's filthiest city.

I still don't feel even close

to dirt-free five weeks later,

despite the pristine living conditions

here at Clean Slate, a five-star rehab.

I doubt you could find a better

one, or one with a higher

maintenance fee. That's what

they do here—maintain our sobriety.

You get what you pay for, yes

you do, and as the Clean Slate

brochure describes this place:

The buildings are sleek modern,

with big, open rooms flooded

with natural light gleaming

against polished ceramic tile

and walls painted in rich earth

tones. Client bedrooms are all

private, with windows that open

to invite the Pacific breezes inside.

Right. For a quote-unquote

lockdown rehab, the shackles

and bars are mostly invisible.

Clean Slate
is
close to the beach

near Santa Cruz, which used to be

where I lived. Those Pacific

breezes smell like home, and

the perfectly manicured grounds

remind me, too often, that I'll go

back there once they decide

I'm capable of reentering

mainstream teenager-hood.

Consists of group and

individual therapy.

Schoolwork to catch me

up to where I was when

I nose-dived into the bottomless pit.

Exercise, to keep my mind off

the ever-present craving

for the Lady. Exercise!

Man, after doing little but trolling

for johns for so long, my body

was slack. I chose yoga,

and have to admit it's helping

both muscle tone and relaxation.

Everyone on staff here, from

teachers to trainers to therapists,

looks like they stepped out

of a TV soap—cute, fit,

with pretty smiles they offer freely.

Most of the residents match

that description, too, minus

the smiles, which we're stingy

with. Of course, drugs of one kind

or another are largely responsible

for our collective willowy-ness,

which for many is exacerbated

by eating disorders.

Drug-free but fucked up—

that's the umbrella we share.

By rehab regulars that some

facilities encourage the use

of maintenance meds—

methadone or suboxone,

which allow substitute euphoria

without later withdrawal.

But Clean Slate expects

a total system scrub.

As Guru Naomi says,

Relying on a substance

to keep you off another

substance won't make you

self-reliant, and that's our

goal. Weather the pain,

the gain is greater.

I am currently one-on-one

with so-cute-she-gags-me Naomi

who, if her looks accurately

represent her age, must be

right out of Therapist School.

Not the smartest woman, but

I think she thinks she cares.

Can we talk about why

you first started using?

Too much stress at home?

Unrealistic expectations?

Why your perceived need

to escape reality?

Escaping reality wasn't

a choice. It was necessity.

I've avoided opening

this box of memories,

but now that I can sleep

again, nightmares visit

regularly. Maybe talking

about it will help.

“I didn't use before I went

to Vegas. Well, a little weed

and alcohol, but everyone

I knew got high once in

a while. No big deal.

It was just having fun.”

But it became a big deal,

and when it did, it almost

killed you. Do you think

you might've made better

decisions had you avoided

substances completely?

Ack. I hate when she asks

questions with obvious

answers. I know I shouldn't

respond, but my resident

interior smart-ass (RIS) has

a big mouth. “Do
you
avoid

substances completely?”

No, I don't, Whitney. But I'm

thirty, not fifteen, which is how

old you were when you embarked

on the journey to nowhere,

right? Fifteen years makes a huge

difference, as does experience.

Thirty? No way. Talk about

well-preserved! “What do you

want me to say? Of course I

would have made better decisions

had I not gotten high to begin with.

Or was that a trick question?”

Shut up, RIS. You aren't

being very helpful. “Look.

I wasn't hooked on weed

or booze. I don't even have

an addictive personality or

whatever. You can't
not
get

hooked on heroin, you know?”

Some people can use it once

or maybe even a couple of

times without developing

an addiction, but it's rare.

Obviously it didn't work like

that for you. Are you ready

to talk about Las Vegas now?

All goofy-eyed and pertly

ponytailed. How can I admit

to
her
the raw things I've seen,

the slimy things I've done?

She only wants to obtain

my confession because it's her

job. Wonder if it will earn

her a bonus. Still, what have

I got to lose? It might even

be fun to freak her out.

“What do you want to know?”

She looks surprised.
Everything.

According to the police report,

you were likely prostituting

yourself. Is that accurate?
At

my nod, she asks,
But why?

“For love, at least at first.”

I reward her with a shortened

version of how I met my former

pimp outside the Gap. How

he rescued me from a party where

my so-called boyfriend was groping

another girl. How he promised

to put me to work modeling,

convinced me to run away

to Vegas with him, set us

up in an apartment. How

modeling segued into sex

in front of a webcam, then . . .

I think I've heard this story.

He needed you to earn some

money so you could have

a nicer place. “Just once,

for me. Oh, and try a little

taste of heroin. That will make

everything easier.” Before

you knew it, you were hooked,

and doing whatever you had

to do to keep supplied.

She
has
heard this story.

How many girls like me

there must be in the world!

And some of them leave it

in awful ways. At least

Bryn didn't hurt me, not

physically, the way some

pimps do. “That's pretty

much it,” I admit. “Then I

found out he kept a whole

stable of ‘models.' I was just

another one of his girls.”

That stings to say. And while

he never beat me, he scarred

my heart. I doubt I'll ever be

able to trust a guy again.

As for love, what's the point?

Okay, maybe a little. Instead,

Naomi's jaw stiffens like cement

setting up, and her eyes take

on a serious chill. Total

transformation.
Let me ask

you this. Why would you leave

a cushy life in a nice home,

with a family who supported

you? Why would you let them

worry for months that you might

be dead? A little selfish, yes?

Whoa. She can be downright

mean. Come on, RIS, think of

something to say. “You don't

know anything about my family.

All my mom cares about is her

country club and taking my sister,

Kyra, shopping. All my dad cares

about is work. They probably didn't

even notice I was gone for a week.”

And Kyra no doubt threw a bon

voyage, good riddance party.

Sometimes there's a decent bit

of distance between perception

and fact, especially when it comes

to teenagers and their parents.

Did you ever stop to consider

you might have been wrong?

Not until Mom's barrage

of apologies in the hospital.

Of course, Dad showed up

all pissed and disgusted.

And Kyra, my loving sister?

All she cared about was

her
reputation.
How could

you do this to me? What

happens if my friends find out?

So, “No, Naomi, I'm pretty

damn sure I was spot on.

No one noticed me when

I was there. Why would they

miss me when I was gone?”

The universe doesn't revolve

around you. Me, me, me.

Tiresome. I've talked to your parents,

and your sister. If you'd died,

they would've been devastated.

Did you know your mom spent

hours and hours e-mailing

your photo to law enforcement

agencies? That's how the police

knew who you were when they

found you, lying there frothing.

Had you been just another hooker,

who knows how hard they would

have tried to resuscitate you?

By dimpled blond Naomi.

So much for sympathy.

So much for trying to justify

the dumb moves I made.

I'll try to pacify her, paint

my face with contrition.

“You're right. I was totally

selfish, and I'm sorry I hurt

my family.” As the words

fall from my mouth, I realize

they're maybe true. “I'm just

a stupid girl who fell in love

with the wrong man.”

Tell me about him. What

was so special about this

guy that made every ounce

of common sense desert you?

“Br—Bryan is to die for.

Cute. Smart. Drives a cool

car. Mostly, he treated me

like I was the most amazing

girl he'd ever met. He swore

I was beautiful, and made me

believe it. No one else has

ever done that for me.”

Okay, that sounds lame. Totally TV.

To Naomi—I call him

Bryan. Bryn is a peculiar

name, one that stands out,

and even as hurt and pissed

as I am, getting him in trouble

(he could go to prison

for a very, very long time)

isn't on my “to do today” list.

Don't ask me why not.

Part of me would genuinely

enjoy seeing him locked up

in a cell with some beefy guy,

looking for a little action.

I'd probably pay to watch.

Despite that, the biggest

piece of schizo me remains

head-in-the-clouds in love

with the bastard. How is that

possible? I'll never forget

hours and hours, curled up

in a corner, stomach knotting,

body shaking beneath beads of salt

sweat, waiting for him to bring

powdered relief, cursing the day

I met him, weeping at my need

for him, screaming into the silence,

“Please come, Bryn. Please

come and make love to me!”

No one to hear

the brittle cries

but shadows thrown