Crank - 01 (24 page)

How could Bree have possibly survived,

stuck in Kristina’s daily existence?

The Funny Thing Was

Bree solved the meth dilemma on a family

trip to Wild Waters, Scott’s annual

company picnic. Sarah came

along to spend time with

Kristina. But Bree

had other things

in mind.

The first was

a truly gorgeous

lifeguard. Turned out

Brendan wasn’t so pretty

on the inside, but even Bree, who

thrived on intuition, was clueless. Hard

on the make, Brendan shared booze, cigarettes.

But one guy wasn’t quite enough. I

also ran into Chase Wagner that

day. His outside wasn’t as

attractive, but inside he

was fine. Of course,

I didn’t know

that yet.

I found out

soon enough that

both Chase and Brendan

knew the score—and both

were interested in me. Brendan

only wanted sex; Chase offered love.

Either way, I had my path to the monster.

Later, I discovered that Robyn, my

old friend Trent’s sister (not to

mention an “in” cheerleader),

tweaked to stay thin

and “pep up.” She

taught me how

to smoke it.

It didn’t take

long to immerse

myself in the lifestyle.

Didn’t take long for school

to go to shit; for friendships and

dedication to family to falter. Didn’t

take long to become a slave to the monster.

My Mom and Stepfather

Tried to stop me before

it all went completely wrong.

Kristina spent almost a whole

year GUFN—grounded

until further notice.

But Bree was really good

at prying open windows

at night, lying with a straight

face, denying she had

slipped so far downhill.

Nothing slowed me down.

Not losing my virginity

to Brendan’s rape. Not

spending a few days

in juvenile hall.

The only thing that kept

me sane was Chase’s love,

despite all I put him through.

He even swore to love me

when I told him I was pregnant.

Pregnant. And Brendan

was the father. Bree considered

abortion. Exorcism. Kristina

understood the baby was not

the demon. His father was.

But you know this part

of the story. You followed

me on my journey through

the monster’s territory.

We wound up here.

Who am I now, three

months after I left you,

standing on the deck

with me, listening to my

new baby, crying inside?

I told you then, the monster

is a way of life, one it’s

difficult to leave behind,

no matter how hard you try.

I have tried, really I have.

Maybe if Chase had stayed

with me, instead of running

off to California, in search

of his dreams. Then again,

I told him to go.

Maybe if I had dreams

of my own to run off in

search of. I did once.

But now I have no plans

for a perfect tomorrow.

All I have is today.

T for Today

I’d really like to tell you I have a nice little place with

a white picket fence, flowers in the garden, and Winnie-

the-Pooh, Eeyore, and Tigger, too, on baby blue nursery

walls. I’d like to inform you that I am on a fast track to

a college degree and a career in computer animation—

something I’ve aimed for, ever since I found out I could

draw. I’d love to let

you know I left the

monster screaming

in my dust, shut my

ears, scrambled back

to my family, back to

my baby, my heart. I

could tell you those

things, but they’d be

lies—nothing new for

me, true. But if all I

wrote was lies, you

wouldn’t really know

my story. I want you

to know. Not a day

passes when I don’t

think about getting

high. Strung. Getting

out of this deep well

of monotony I’m

slowly drowning in.

Be sure to read

Ellen Hopkins’s

PERFECT

Perfect
is the story of four high school seniors, all of whom have friends, siblings, and a drive to attain “perfection.” They each have very different goals, and very different ways of achieving them. Meet Cara, whose parents’ unrealistic expectations have already sent her twin brother spiraling toward suicide; Kendra, a pageant girl who stops at nothing in her pursuit of runway modeling; Sean, who uses whatever means necessary to win a baseball scholarship; and Andre, whose real talent seems destined to languish. Just how far does someone have to go to be
perfect?

Cara Sierra Sykes

Perfect?

How

do you define a word without

concrete meaning? To each

his own, the saying goes, so

why

push to attain an ideal

state of being that no two

random people will agree is

where

you want to be? Faultless.

Finished. Incomparable. People

can never be these, and anyway

when

did creating a flawless facade

become a more vital goal

than learning to love the person

who

lives inside your skin?

The outside belongs to others.

Only you should decide for you—

what

is perfect.

Perfection

I’ve lived with the pretense

of perfection for seventeen

years. Give my room a cursory

inspection, you’d think I have OCD.

But it’s only habit and not

obsession that keeps it all orderly.

Of course, I don’t want to give

the impression that it’s all up to me.

Most of the heavy labor is done by

our housekeeper, Gwen. She’s an

imposing woman, not at all the type

that most men would find attractive.

Not even Conner, which is the point.

My twin has a taste for older

women. Before he got himself

locked away, he chased after more

than one. I should have told sooner

about the one he caught, the one

I happened to overhear him with,

having a little afternoon fun.

Okay, I know a psychologist

would say, strictly speaking,

he was prey, not predator.

And, in a way, I can’t really

blame him. Emily is simply

stunning. Conner wasn’t the only

one who used to watch her go

running by our house every

morning. But, hello, she was

his
teacher.
That fact alone

should have been enough warning

that things would not turn out well.

I never would have expected

Conner to attempt the coward’s way

out, though. Some consider suicide

an act of honor. I seriously don’t agree.

But even if it were, you’d have to

get it right. All Conner did was

stain Mom’s new white Berber

carpet. They’re replacing it now.

Kendra Melody Mathieson

Pretty

That’s what I am, I guess.

I mean, people have been telling

me that’s what I am since

I was two. Maybe younger.

Pretty

as a picture. (Who wants

to be a cliché?) Pretty as

an angel. (Can you see them?)

Pretty as a butterfly. (But

isn’t

that really just a glam bug?)

Cliché, invisible, or insectlike,

I grew up knowing I was

pretty and believing everything

good

about me had to do with how

I looked. The mirror was my best

friend. Until it started telling

me I wasn’t really pretty

enough.

Pale Beauty

That’s what my mom calls the gift

she gave me, through genetics.

We are Scandinavian willows,

with vanilla hair and glacier blue

eyes and bone china skin. Two

hours in the sun turns me the color

of ripe watermelon. When I lead

cheers at football games, it is wearing

SPF 60 sunblock. Gross. Basketball

season is better, but I’ll be glad

when it’s over. Between dance lessons

and vocal training and helping out

at the food bank (all grooming for Miss

Teen Nevada), I barely have time for

homework, let alone fun. At least

staying busy mostly keeps my mind

off Conner. I wish I could forget

about him, but that’s not possible.

I tumbled hard for that guy. Gave him

all of me. I thought we had something

special. He even let me see the scared

little boy inside him, the one not many

other people ever catch a glimpse of.

I wonder if he showed that boy to

the ambulance drivers who took him to

the hospital, or to the doctors and nurses

who dug the bullet out of his chest. Sewed

him up. Saved his life. I want to see him, but

Cara says he can’t have visitors. Bet he doesn’t

want them—scared he might look helpless.

Sean Terrence O’Connell

Buff

Don’t like that word.

Not tough enough to describe

a weight-sculpted body.

“Built”

is better. Like a builder

frames a house,

constructing its skeleton

two-by-four

by

two-by-four, a real

athlete shapes himself

muscle group by muscle

group, ignoring the

pain.

Focused completely on

the gain. It can’t happen

overnight. It takes hours

every single day

and

no one can force you to

do it. Becoming the best

takes a shitload of inborn

drive.

Drive

That’s what it takes to reach

the top, and that is where

I’ve set my sights. Second

best means you lose. Period.

I will be the best damn first

baseman
ever
in the league.

My dad was a total baseball

freak (weird, considering

he coached football), and

when I was a kid, he went

on and on about McGwire

being the first base king.

I grew up wanting to be

first base royalty. T-ball,

then years of Little League,

gave me the skills I need.

But earning that crown

demands more than skill.

What it requires are arms

like Mark McGwire’s.

I Play Football, Too

Kind of a tribute to Dad.

But, while I’m an okay

safety, my real talent

is at the bat. I’ll use

it to get into Stanford.

The school’s got a great

program. But even if

it didn’t, it would be

at the top of my university

wish list because Cara will

go there, I’m sure. She says

it isn’t a lock, but that’s bull.

Her parents are both alumni,

and her father has plenty of

pull. Money. And connections.

Uncle Jeff has connections, too,

and there will be Stanford

scouts at some random (or

maybe not so) game. I have

to play brilliantly every time.

Andre Marcus Kane III

Bomb

Give most girls a way

to describe me, that’s what

they’d say—that Andre

Marcus Kane the third is

bomb.

I struggle daily to maintain

the pretense. Why must it be

expected—no, demanded—of

me

to surpass my ancestors’

achievements? Why

can’t I just be a regular

seventeen-year-old, trying to

make

sense of life? But my path

has been preordained,

without anyone even asking

me

what I want. Nobody seems

to care that with every push

to live up to their expectations,

my own dreams

vaporize.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I do understand my parents wanting only

the best for me.

Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept

that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable

fun with a fast-

flowing stream of money carrying you

along. I like driving a pricey car, wearing

clothes that feel

like they want to be next to my skin.

I love not having to be a living, breathing

stereotype because

of my color. Anytime I happen to think