Crank - 01 (20 page)

I let Bree do my trash talking.

Kristina stuck with honesty.

Somehow, Lucinda and I found an odd rapport.

And by the time Chase called my parents

to let me know where they could find me

(can you believe it takes a
real
parent to get you out of juvie?)

and they released me bright and early, Monday morning,

I was a tougher girl

with a new connection.

Cause and Effect

The admitting clerk was irate.

She had to redo all the paperwork,

using my real name.

She made me wait for almost two hours

while she drank coffee and shuffled files.

The counselor assigned to my case

was unsympathetic. He read my folder,

nodding and
hmmming.

He told me being a loser was easy, then

ordered 24 hours community service.

Scott sulked like a pissed puppy. He

would have preferred lockup to my

picking up trash along the highway.

He refused to say one word, and his

silence told me all I needed to know.

Mom manufactured a plethora

of tears to accompany her

long-suffering mother diatribe.

She had plenty to say about deceit,

distress, and sexually transmitted diseases.

Jake was enthralled by the whole

idea of my temporary incarceration,

and the reasons behind it.

He wouldn’t shut up, just kept

asking inane questions.

As for me, I was less than contrite.

Picking up trash wasn’t so bad. There

were ways around GUFN.

And I now had a direct in with a

monster manufacturer.

Back in My Room

My life closed in

around me. I was

no longer my own.

Mom had poured

through all

my stuff, scoured

my journal, letters,

and address book.

She did find a bit

of evidence—a

crumpled Marlboro

wrapper and a new

lighter. Hey, it made

her day to discover

I was a hard-core

tobacco user. More

lectures, more useless

promises on my

end. She went off

to work on her book.

A sudden wave of

exhaustion swallowed

me. I’d walked through

the last few days in a

total haze. My system

had finally purged itself

of “go fast.” It was time

to shut down. I laid down

and surrendered myself

to the comfort of dreams.

Resolutions

I awoke the next morning, semirefreshed.

As I got myself ready for school,

I made the following resolutions:

• One week to the end of the quarter, grades slipping into

gutter, I would ask for some extra credit work.

• I would help out more around the house, show my parents

I
was
grateful for the many things they’d given me.

• I would write to my Grandma once a week, even if she

might not be sure who the letters were from.

• I would reconnect with old friends. And my dad.

• I would finish up the many projects I’d started while under

the influence—a macramé wall hanging, a portrait of John

Lennon, a song I’d written about my walk with the monster.

• I would never shoot up again. I would smoke less, toot

less, keep my bad habits manageable. (Notice I didn’t say

quit them.) I would also avoid sipping other people’s blood.

• I would go to Planned Parenthood and get on the pill. Making

love with Chase was awesome, and we didn’t need a baby

spoiling that.

The problem with resolutions

is they’re only as solid as the

    person making them.

Other Problems

Mess with a teacher,

even one that has always

liked you in the past,

you’re liable to get screwed.

Ditch their classes, they might

give you makeup work, but

they don’t have to. I was four

out of seven toward screwed.

I tried hooking up with

Sarah. She was nice but had

moved on to more reliable

friends. Straight friends.

Trent knew exactly what was

what with his sister, and so

with me. The Avenue most

definitely wasn’t his scene.

On the home front, I couldn’t

buy Scott’s trust by washing

windows or vacuuming. I had

zero idea how to turn it around.

Mom, she wanted her little girl

back. I couldn’t go that far.

She wavered between forgiving,

stern, spiteful, and loving.

I did write Grandma a couple

of times, lively, newsy letters.

She never replied, but I

didn’t really expect her to.

Hopefully, I brightened a few

of her last days. She would pass

away in January, cold and gray

as a San Francisco winter.

When I returned to the macramé,

my fingers struggled over the

knots. I scrapped that project,

but did finish John Lennon.

As for the song, I had lost

the melody and my will to

find it. And the lyrics brought

me back to the fold of the monster.

Crank, You See

isn’t any ordinary

monster. It’s like a

giant octopus,

weaving

its tentacles not

just around you,

but through you,

squeezing

not hard enough to

kill you, but enough

to keep you from

reeling

until you try to get

away. Try, and you

hunger for its

grasping

clutch, the way its

tendrils prop you

up, your need

intensifying

exponentially

every minute you

refuse to admit its

being.

By Wednesday

last period, take me

to the bank. (I had a D

in P.E.; what could one

more ditch hurt?)

The Good …

Seeing Chase’s truck pull

into the far parking lot. Hearing,

It’s been a long four days.

Kissing him, knowing better things

lay in store, right up the road.

I’ve missed you so much.

Detouring to a secluded spot. Gentle

lovemaking, set to romantic sonnets.

It’s never been like this for me before.

Riding into town, head on his shoulder,

listening to words of love.

My heart will always belong to you.

He was the second person to tell me

that. The first, well, he had his Giselle.

… The Bad …

Noticing the letter lying

open on the passenger-side floor.

I was going to tell you …

Chase had been accepted by USC—

the University of Southern California.

They have an awesome film school …

Early graduation, a full scholarship,

for him, a dream come true.

I’ll leave after Christmas break.

For me, a dream or three, annihilated.

I didn’t know what to say.

Please don’t cry. It’s not so far away.

It might as well be clear across the globe.

Out of sight, out of my mind.

… And the Ugly

I was still upset when

we pulled up to the bank.

I was a ton more upset

when the teller informed

me that Mom had restricted

my access to my own account.

Okay, it had dwindled considerably.

But I had to have cash the next day.

You should not stand

a guy like Roberto up.

And I was in serious want

of a fabulous bender.

I’m not sure which one of

the two made me more panicky.

I asked Chase if I could

borrow some money.

But when I told him why, he told

me I was nuts and took me home.

I didn’t even say good-bye, just slammed

the door and went to check the mailbox.

I figured I’d better keep checking

it until my report card arrived.

It wasn’t there. But something a whole lot

better was—two letters from Citibank.

Inside one was Mom’s new credit card.

Inside the other was a PIN.

I Did Think Twice

about using that Visa, maybe

even three or four times.

But it was just so easy, like fate

had mailed it directly to me.

Mom wouldn’t miss it for weeks.

And then I would deny ever

having laid eyes on the thing.

Robyn gave me a ride to meet

Roberto. He didn’t look near

as scary as he really was.

The buy was a piece of cake.

Except for one thing.

Roberto wouldn’t deal less than

half-ounce quantities. That much,

straight from the source, was relatively

cheap. And Visa paid for it.

I didn’t need it all, of course.

The plan was to sell some,

so my own stash would be free.

Every dealer thinks that until

their nose gets busy.

That’s what I became that day. A dealer.

I had just taken a very big step up

in the hierarchy of the monster.

I Became an Instant Celebrity

out on The Avenue.

The crank was superb.

And I, being new to the deal,

didn’t know enough to cut it.

I sold it like I bought it—rich,

yellow, moist, and stinky.

I offed the half, went

back for more, offed that, too.

My friends were happy.

Roberto was happy—

enough to front me even more.

And I was nonstop wired.

Nonstop tired.

I needed more and more just to get through the day.

More and more just to feel okay.

Who knows how much I’d be doing now?

Who knows how much money I might have made?

Who knows if I would

have smoked up all the profits?

Who knows if I would have

ended up in prison—or worse?

But one morning in early

November, I woke up

and the moment I got

up, I heaved until I hurt.

It might have been the flu

or a bad reaction to Mom’s sloppy Joes.

But it wasn’t.

Clear Blue Easy

I Went Through

the next few days

pretty much like

a zombie.

People wanted crank.

I sold it to them.

Teachers wanted homework.

I gave it to them.

Jake wanted to razz me.

I let him.

Mom wanted to know what was wrong.

I had nothing to say.

The monster called to me too.

For once,

I refused to answer.

Friday night, I crawled into bed,

sank way, way low.

Submerged myself

in a world of watery dreams:

Tears. An ocean of tears.

And a baby, a boy,

afloat in that salty sea.

He cried out to me.

Could I swim away solo?

Would I drown saving him?

Saturday

I spent the day:

Throwing up.

Sweating speed.

Shivering.

Shaking.

Tingling all over.

And otherwise fighting

the symptoms of withdrawal.

Sunday

I spent the day:

Throwing up.

Sweating speed.

Off-balance.

Confused.

Weeping.

Tumbling end over end,

deeper and deeper

into the throes of depression.

Monday

I spent the day:

Throwing up.

Eating.

Emotional.

Dazed.

Lost.

Alone.

Finally, I went to the pay phone