Crank - 01 (17 page)

I Gave Up the Bus

in favor of rides with Robyn,

with a detour or two along

the way to indulge

in some Homework Helper.

(Like it really helped!)

A couple of afternoons she

had cheerleading practice.

(How could she do back flips

and cartwheels

without killing herself?)

Those days, Chase came by

to take me home and stop

by the park for a good long

make-out session.

I invited him to share my stash.

He took a snort or two,

but declined

the tinfoil routine.

I let him get away

with it the first time.

On his second refusal,

I asked why not.

He shrugged.

I’ve set boundaries.

I Meant

to analyze

Chase’s limits

that very weekend,

to learn

just how far

I could stretch

him at the edges,

to judge

how wide

I might warp

his self-imposed

morality.

Don’t ask me

why I felt the

incredible need

to test

this person that

meant so very

much to me,

to fathom

his most

personal thoughts,

coolly dissect

his psyche.

I only know it was

on the table for

that Saturday until

fate intervened.

Okay, the Air Races Intervened

September is Air Race month

in Northern Nevada—four

fabulous days of warbirds,

jets, and homebuilt aircraft,

racing wingtip to wingtip,

balls out, around pylons.

It’s a must-see event, and

           we’d made it a family event

           every single year since Jake

           was a tiny baby, snoozing

           soundly in his stroller, despite

ear-splitting military flybys.

We always went on weekends

           and I always begged for more,

           so it would have looked pretty

           damn suspicious to say I didn’t

           want to go. Besides, I did want

to go. I just wanted to go high.

So when Mom reminded us at

dinner that we’d have to get

up early and dress in layers, I

cleared my throat as if to protest.

Instead I asked if I could invite

my friend Robyn to come along.

Again, I’d made the perfect

           preemptory strike. Mom was

so happy I would participate

without incident that she not

           only gave her blessing, but

let me ride in Robyn’s car.

Robyn Was Game

Scott’s company had box seats

and plenty of tickets. Robyn got

comp tix, with a can’t-beat view.

But that was only for starters.

You bet I’ll go. Those flyboys

are soooooo cute!

You can guess what we did on

the drive north of town. We

arrived, diamond-eyed,

behind dark sunglasses.

Aviator glasses. Ha! Hope those

pilots aren’t as wired as I am.

I hoped so, too. We sauntered

down the flight line in tight

jeans and tiny tank tops, turning

more than a few heads.

You’d think they’d never seen girls

before. Maybe they think we’re lezes.

You thought I was a vamp!

I couldn’t come close to

Robyn. Even Bree had to

work hard to keep up.

Wanna give ’em a show?

Have you ever kissed a girl?

The only girls I’d ever kissed were

relatives, and only lip-to-cheek.

Lip locking another female? Never!

And in public? No way!

Come on. It’s just for fun. Promise

not to slip you the tongue.

OMG. If I hadn’t been so

wound, I would have died on the spot.

Instead, I jumped right into

Robyn’s shameless game.

Wolf Whistles

made me pull away,

completely red-faced,

but LMAO.

(You do know what that means, right?)

Okay, my a-double-s was still

attached, but I couldn’t

quit laughing.

(In retrospect, it wasn’t
that
funny.)

At the time, it seemed

like the funniest thing

I’d ever done.

(What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever done?)

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m completely hetero,

and that experience proved it to me.

(I decided that later, when I had much too much

time on my hands to think about such things.)

But seeing the look

on people’s faces—some

horrified, some fascinated—

made my day.

(How would you look, seeing two

pretty teenaged girls making out,

right there on the tarmac?)

We Found Our Box

took seats behind Mom, Scott,

Jake, and a couple of guys Scott

worked with. Robyn nudged me

as Mom leaned over, showing off

cleavage to the cute young blond.

He took a good, long look, then

whispered something no doubt funny

and off-color into Mom’s ear. She

giggled and flirted and carried on

like Scott wasn’t even there.

Worse yet, Scott pretended not

to notice. Or maybe, tied up in

conversation about the latest

microchip technology stocks,

he in fact didn’t notice. He turned

the tables nicely when his boss

and Mrs. Boss (in a very short

skirt) joined the lineup. My parents

set an extremely poor example

for us impressionable (ha ha) kids.

Good thing Jake wasn’t sitting

behind them. Clueless, he
ooh
ed

at every aerial maneuver. Robyn

and I observed the whole show

(including the terrestrial maneuvers

in our box) with pure enjoyment. It’s

always great to watch the world’s

best pilots fly, and better yet to see

adults behave like juvenile delinquents.

Three Races

and two stunt performances

later, Robyn and I excused

ourselves for a trip to the outhouse.

We hustled off to the car to

“powder our noses,” then hurried

to pee before we were missed.

As we headed back to our seats,

a familiar form came striding

in our direction. Brendan.

Attached, as if sewn on, was a girl,

not more than 14, with a fashion doll body

and child actress face.

Her shorts, cut high on the thigh

and low on the hips, revealed a stud

in her navel. I thought about

turning around or ducking into

the swirling crowd but without warning,

Bree took over. “Hey, Brendan!

Great to see you again,” she gushed.

“Raped any schoolgirls lately?”

He maintained his frosty cool as he leveled

his eyes.
Can’t rape the willing.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” I turned to his sidekick.

“How about you? Are you willing?”

Still locked to Brendan, she quite obviously

deflated, and her face paled beneath

an overdose of cover-up and cheap blush.

“Well, have fun you two. Don’t do anything

I wouldn’t do.” I started away, calling

over my shoulder, “Watch your back, Barbie doll.”

Robyn Wanted the Whole Story

I told her, then she shared her own sordid tale:

I started crakin’ to keep up with schoolwork

around gymnastics, cheerleading, student

council, and other extracurricular crap.

You’d be surprised how many brownnosers

get high, and with so much around, I thought it

would always be easy to score. Sometimes it goes dry.

During one particular drought spell, I was hurtin’

for certain, and went looking for a new source.

Found him in a casino arcade, cruising for fresh meat.

He flashed a bindle and I followed him out to his car.

I still can’t believe I was stupid enough to get inside.

He drove east of town, all the way out in the desert past Mustang.

After a couple of snorts, he was all hands, all over me.

When I told him to stop, he said, “It’s a long walk back,

even if you don’t get lost. Anyway we both know what kind

of a girl you are.”

That stung, but not much. All I could do was ask for more

crank so maybe I could halfway enjoy it. I didn’t. He was dirty.

Smelly like he hadn’t showered in days.

And after he started, he got mean.

He did things to me—terrible things, I’ve still got the scars—

things no sane person would ever do. Of course,

he wasn’t exactly sane.

Afterward, neither was I.

Now, You Might Think

an experience like that

would serve as a stern

warning, make a person

do a quick about-face and

sprint in the other direction.

Didn’t happen like

that for Robyn.

Didn’t happen like

that for me.

Before I Met the Monster

But   Now   Nothing

Problem Number One: School

Getting up in the morning,

was it only moments after finally falling

into a state of semisleep?

Finding clean clothes

(I was supposed to put my dirties

in the laundry room, but who could remember?)

Sucking down coffee, nibbling a half cup

of honey-sweetened corn flakes

for a slight rush of caffeine and carbs.

Catching a ride with Robyn or one

of my Avenue buds, coaxing myself

mostly awake with a whiff of white.

Twenty minutes on the Avenue

before the bell rang, tempering

my morning buzz with nicotine.

Stumbling into homeroom, most likely tardy,

hoping Mrs. Twedt wouldn’t notice

and reward me with detention.

Making some classes, cutting others,

deciding which would be which

by which was which the day before.

And somehow I managed to convince

myself life with the monster

was not routine.

Problem Number Two: Relationships

Old friendships, tucked away

like treasures,

relegated to tokens of yesterday.

New friendships, faulty ground

to cultivate

and build a future upon.

Old boyfriends, a very short list,

abbreviated

further by definition and distance.

New boyfriends, one definite

but distracted,

and no shortage of Avenue wannabes.

Siblings, one too close and curious,

the other much

too far away to serve as confidant.

Parents, ever-present shade, dimming

my sparkle,

kryptonite to quell my bid for superpower.

Teachers, counselors, preachers,

scaffolding,

crumbled by the weight of my monster.

Problem Number Three: Connections

How to get high

and stay that way?

(Coming down was a bitch and a half.)

Finding crank

wasn’t really difficult.

Most of my new crowd knew

someone who dealt

(or knew someone who

knew someone who did).

Getting what you paid for