Glass (12 page)

I wake to voices in the hallway.

[Don’t move. Pretend you’re still asleep.]

Mom:
I’m going to wake her up.

Leigh:
Let her sleep. I’ll take care of Hunter.

Heather:
She did look exhausted last night.

Exhausted barely covers it.

[And now you’ll be swamp-headed.]

Mom:
I don’t know what’s up with her lately.

Leigh:
Having a baby so young can’t be easy.

Heather:
Her dieting must take a toll too.

Okay, she definitely knows.

[But is she going to tell?]

Mom:
Dieting? What do you mean?

Heather:
She barely touched dinner last night.

Leigh:
And you know how she loves Italian.

Heather barely touched dinner either.

[Yeah, but she’s a better bullshitter.]

Mom:
She
has
lost a few pounds recently.

Leigh:
Rapid weight loss isn’t good, though.

Heather:
I’d love to know how she’s managed it.

I’m going to kill her.

[You don’t, I definitely will.]

Recedes and I tug myself out of bed.

I thought I did a good con job at dinner

last night. Now I’ll probably catch

an earful about rapid weight loss from Mom.

Heather is definitely on my shit list.

But apparently the loosening

of my jeans has not escaped notice.

Now if I can just run into Trey.

I’d call him about scoring for Dad,

but Stockton is too far away. So

last night, when everyone wandered

off to their bedrooms, I called Grade E.

I kept the request cryptic, of course,

and asked to meet away from the Sev.

Wouldn’t do to get busted there, where

I’m supposed to start work on Monday.

Speaking of Grady, what time is it,

anyway? The clock says ten thirty.

Crap! I was supposed to meet him

at ten. I jump into clothes and dash

for my phone. Great. A message.

It’s Grady, and he isn’t happy.

Where the fuck are you? It’s ten

fifteen. You’ve got five minutes!

I hit call return, fingers crossed.

“Hey, Grady, it’s me. Sorry I’m late.

I…uh…got hung up with my mom.

I can be there in a couple of minutes.”

He agrees to meet me at the state

park.
But I’ll want a taste.

I hope he means a taste of crystal,

not a taste of Kristina.

Get out the front door without

someone stopping me. One excuse

comes easily to mind. I locate

my keys and the money Dad gave

me and don’t even stop to brush

my teeth or hair. [Ugly picture!]

I hear everyone in the kitchen.

Perfect. “I’ll be right back,” I call,

stowing the excuse for later.

I go straight for my car, jam

the key into the ignition, and as

I back out, I notice Mom at

the door, hands on hips. Her lips

are moving, but I wave and keep

going. Within a quarter mile

my cell rings. Caller ID says it’s

Mom, and I consider letting

it go to voice mail. Better not.

“Hi, Mom. Yes, I know I was rude.

Yes, I’m grateful Leigh volunteered

to get up with Hunter. Yes, I know

we’ve got lots to do today. Yes, I

understand how important tomorrow

is. Where am I going?” [Thought

she’d never ask!] “I woke up

majorly on the rag and out of

tampons. Had to get some ASAP.”

She mentions the obvious—

that she has a box in her

bathroom. Couldn’t I have

asked instead of taking

off like a bandit in the night?

“Heh-heh, yeah, I suppose

I could have, huh? Sorry for

being so dense, Mom.” I hold

my breath and, lucky me,

she goes for it, hook, line, and

bobber. (I hate sinkers. My

bait always gets stuck in

the muck when I use them.)

Anyway, I shouldn’t waste

a lot of time doing blow

with Grade E. He’s parked

at the far end of the parking

lot. And guess what.

He’s not alone. From

a distance I can see

two guys, bobbing heads.

They’re doing toot, and it

looks to me like they’re

doing it the old-fashioned

way—with a straw and mirror.

Wonder whose crank

they’re snorting. Wonder

how short the ball will

be. [The two-hundred-dollar

price tag makes sense now.

We’re getting street crank,

not ice.] Wonder how cut

it will be. I pull into a near

parking spot, and when I do,

the face that jumps into view

makes me forget about every

question I had only seconds

before. He’s dark

and cute and he looks like Hunter.

It’s Brendan, and I want to puke.

I can’t

turn and run and

I can’t

look weak and

I can’t

even get nasty until the

deal

is done.

Brendan flashes a smile laced

with

evil. I can’t stand him. I despise

him.

And now I have to look

him in the eye?

I won’t

give him the satisfaction of turning away.

I won’t

get in his face, or out of his face.

I won’t

give up my secret.

No, I will never,

ever,

not in a billion years,

confess

the unimaginable result

of his despicable act,

that

it created beauty.

Will never confess that

my son

[can evil be genetic?]

is his son.

Never to see Brendan again,

but I guess it just goes to show

that as much as Reno has grown,

it’s still a compact city. And just

my luck, Brendan still lives in it.

I’ll take the high road and if

the low road seems necessary,

I’ll let Bree get behind the wheel.

One thing for certain, though,

I’m not getting into Grady’s car.

I roll down my window; Brendan

does likewise and I speak past him.

“Hey, Grady. Thanks for waiting.

Come over here, will you please?

I’d rather handle this in private.”

Aren’t you going to say hi?

Each of Brendan’s words is

a stab.
I heard you had a baby.

Deep stabs, severing arteries.

You look good, anyway.

Ever chivalrous, that would be

Brendan. “Hi, Brendan. Yes,

I had a baby. And you look

exactly the same. Grady,

will you please come here?”

Grade E obliges. I shut my

window, turn my back on

Brendan. [Why didn’t you do

that before?] Bree? Lecturing

me? Am I totally schizo or what?

Brendan knows I’m back in the monster’s snare.

And what a coincidence. [Coin cide is two

four-letter words!] Shut the hell up, Bree.

“I didn’t know you and Brendan were friends,”

I say as Grade E slithers into the front seat

beside me. “I didn’t know he
had
any friends.”

I wouldn’t exactly call us friends.

More like business acquaintances.

Grady winks, hands over a bindle.

Even without opening it, I know

it’s short, and I can feel it’s mostly

powder. What kind is uncertain.

The look on my face must say

volumes.
It isn’t the best

crank I’ve ever seen, but it works.

“You got this from”—I wag my head

backward—“him? Did he know it

was for me?” [You mean for Dad.]

The thought brings meager satisfaction,

especially after Grady says,
Um, I might

have told him. What’s up, anyway?

I shrug. “We have a history.

And it wasn’t exactly romantic.”

[Nope, not with him. Never was.]

Grady gets down to business.
Ahem.

So the eight ball is two hundred.

Are you going to share a little?

I open the bindle. Short, okay.

Bree handles the clod. “Looks to me

like you already took your cut. Yes?”

His face flares but he has to admit,

We did a couple of lines. Not much

of a finder’s fee, if you ask me.

“Not asking. Thanks for taking

care of this. Now I’ve got to run.

Mom’s on a regular rampage.”

Grady pauses a beat or two,

as if he’s got something to say.

But then he exits the car silently.

Good damn thing. Not sure

I have the
cojones
(or even

that I want them!) to tell the jerk

off, but Bree most definitely does.

Let her out of her box and no

telling what might happen.

I drive away without looking back.

No good-byes for either of them.

I’ll never deal with Grade E again.

As I drive home, it occurs to me

that this might just have been

for the best. Not seeing Brendan.

No, that will never be a good thing.

What I mean is, the pitiful state

of this meth. I’ll go out tonight

with Dad and Linda Sue.

We’ll blow through this awful

eight ball. Then I’ll move

on without the monster

breathing against my neck,

begging me to do one more

little whiff. That’s it, okay.

One more all-nighter, then

I’ll quit cold [lukewarm] turkey.

Dad’s picking me up in an hour.

We’re supposed to have dinner,

but I’m betting food is the last

thing on his mind. Mine, too,

for that matter. After looking at

Grade E’s ten-watt crank, I want

a toke of my hundred-watt ice.

And I don’t want to share it. It’s

my
birthday. I don’t have to share,

do I? Hey, it
is
my birthday. At

last, today, I’m the big one-

eight, so why don’t I feel any

different? Because I’m still

treading quicksand, that’s why.

Okay, I need to get high, totally

out-of-my-head wasted, so I

don’t keep thinking about

the same old shit, only

compounded by all that’s

going on around here, not

to mention hearing about

Adam and having Brendan forced

down my throat [not for real, only

figuratively], all in the space

of twelve hours. Talk about

mega déjà vu, of the not nice

type. Happy fucking birthday

to me. Come on. Let’s celebrate!

Lucky me, I’m [not even close]

almost alone in the house. Mom

ran to the store, Scott ran to

pick up Jake from his [girl-]

friend’s house, and Leigh took

Hunter for a stroller walk around

the block. Heather? Who knows?

Who cares? I’m birthday partying

with the monster, and we’re

starting right this minute.

OMG. The rush is beyond

what I expected—hot then

cool, and my head lights up

like casino neon. Startling.

Another whiff. Double or

nothing, two somehow more

than twice as good as one.

I open my window to

let the smoke escape,

notice Scott’s car come

puttering up the street.

Can I get away with one

more? [Go for it, quick!]

I turn on a fan, spray a

big dose of Ozium, dash

to the bathroom to do

the big three—you know,

shit, shave, and shower.

Crude? Yeah. And bound to

get cruder as the evening

progresses. It’s Bree’s

birthday too, and for

a change I’m going to

let her cut loose. After all,

you only turn eighteen once.