Impulse Read online

  At stake were both our worlds.

  I didn’t care, but it was

  a risk she wouldn’t take.

  Now That I’ve Opened

  That bottle of memories,

  they’re pouring out like wine,

  crimson and bittersweet.

  Ignoring the throbbing pain,

  I think back to a crisp fall

  Saturday morning, my parents

  and sister hundreds of miles

  away in California.

  Cara is my twin, though

  we’re about as alike as

  snowflakes—a general

  resemblance, but peer under

  a microscope, and we’re

  completely different. Cara’s

  in-your-face, while I handle

  things much more discreetly.

  You might call me sneaky,

  though I’d call me clever,

  and on that particular

  day, all by myself, clever

  me was in need of company.

  Emily and I had not

  yet been together, but

  she was most definitely

  on my radar. She was

  far above the usual

  objects of my lust—sleek

  and bronzed, fearless of the star

  raining radiation on

  this ozone-deprived planet.

  The only thing she ever

  feared was our short-lived love.

  I Knew None of That Then

  I only knew she was the

  prettiest thing ever to run

  by our house. She was a falcon

  on the wing, and I wanted

  to fly along. She jogged

  past every morning, around

  eight. That day I stood like

  a fisherman waiting to cast

  his line and reel in something

  worth trawling for. I watched

  her sinewy body run by

  before calling out her name.

  “Emily.” She turned and gave

  a probing look, as if she’d

  never seen me before. And

  here I’d been disrobing her

  regularly in my over-

  active imagination.

  I guess she was lonely too.

  Unseemly fascination

  made her do an about-face.

  Panting gently, she drew even.

  Hello, Conner. How can I

  help you this enchanting day?

  Several things came quickly

  to mind, things to save for later.

  My eyes poked hers. “I just wanted

  you to know I find you quite

  beautiful.”

  Tony

  Dinner’s a Little Late Tonight

  Guess there was some kind

  of problem in the rec room.

  Figures it would be a night

  when I could chow down

  a horse. Okay, maybe not

  a horse. But half a cow.

  Food’s a funny thing.

  When I was a little kid,

  we never had much food,

  but I don’t remember

  being hungry. Wonder

  how Ma managed to feed

  me when I was an actual

  baby. Formula, I hear, costs

  major bucks, and I just

  can’t see her letting me

  snuggle up against her

  titties. Those things

  were bait, and not for

  babies. No sir, I can’t

  imagine how I made

  it past the mewling stage.

  I feel like mewling now.

  At least here, they can’t

  slap you around to shut

  you up. Not that they

  don’t ever touch you

  at all. Takedowns.

  Cavity searches after

  visits from home.

  Once in a while, when

  someone “in charge”

  is in a bad mood, you

  might even catch a “playful”

  kick in the seat, or a teeth-

  rattling shoulder shake.

  But Bloody Cuts and Bruises

  Are not something you’re

  going to see here. No sir.

  Except maybe for Vanessa’s.

  And why is she in my thoughts

  again? I have to admit I’d like

  to peek beneath that bandage.

  I’ll probably see her at dinner

  tonight, not that they let

  the guys and the girls sit

  anywhere close to each

  other. I guess they think

  crappy food is an aphrodisiac.

  A time or two or three,

  I have seen some serious

  make-out sessions—

  male/female, male/male,

  female/female. Love.

  Lust. The need to feel close.

  The need to feel safe

  because someone dares

  to wrap their arms around

  you in this cold, sterile place.

  The need to feel. I even

  half-believe the story

  about Dahlia and Dr. Starr.

  What better way to grab

  preferential treatment?

  Oh my lovely, deep-creased

  psychologist, let me stick

  my tongue dorwn your throat.

  Nothing new for Dahlia.

  Would be nothing new

  for me, either. What’s

  new is that I haven’t

  strayed down that path

  since I’ve been here.

  Mostly Because

  For once in my life, I

  don’t have to have sex.

  No one demands it in

  exchange for drugs,

  ten minutes of disgust

  for a well-deserved rush.

  No one expects it in

  exchange for food,

  just a burger and fries,

  please; for a hot shower

  to wash off the streets,

  a warm bed to crash in.

  Most of all, no one is

  forcing me to. I try

  not to look back on

  the moment when

  my pitiful life turned

  unbearable. Unthinkable.

  Try to blot it out, scrub

  it out, rip it out of my

  brain completely.

  But you can’t forget

  something like that,

  no matter how much you

  drink, snort, or shoot into

  your veins. The memory

  stalks you forever and

  creeps up to maul you

  like a rabid dog, when

  you least expect it.

  Like now.

  Vanessa

  Thank God

  The intercom squawks.

  Okay, Happy Campers,

  dinner is served.

  Happy Campers?

  Must I join that sorority?

  Doesn’t much matter.

  My days of dinner

  arriving by burly butler

  have come to a Level One end.

  My (non) performance at group

  today has netted me a trip

  to the communal dining

  room. Mmmmm. Can’t wait

  to share meat loaf or fish sticks

  with a table of friendly, smiling faces.

  Like Dahlia’s and Lori’s.

  I wonder how you make friends

  with people who think

  everyone is out to get them.

  What is friendship, anyway?

  I have no clue, never

  lingered long enough

  in one place before,

  not with Dad in the military.

  We only settled down

  in Reno when Mama got so bad

  she couldn’t find enough white space

  to grocery shop or get us to school,

  l
et alone make sure we

  bathed and brushed.

  Grandma, the fool, stepped up

  to the plate, volunteered to look

  out for Bryan and me.

  Poor woman had no idea what

  she was getting herself into—

  that Daddy had not only

  married a gear shifter

  but fathered one too.

  I Didn’t Realize It Myself

  Until a couple of years ago.

  Interesting, considering

  I’d watched Mom

  straddling that seesaw

  for as long as I could

  remember. Except her highs

  and lows lasted for days.

  So when I started shifting

  gears three or four times

  in a twenty-four-hour period,

  at first I blamed hormones.

  Didn’t PMS make

  you irritable? Didn’t boy

  trouble drop you to your knees

  (in more ways than one)?

  Normal adolescent

  feelings, right?

  Well, no, see … not

  when your mother’s

  a stark raving psycho.

  For years she went

  undiagnosed.

  “Bipolar” had no

  meaning when I was

  a little girl, and “schizo”

  wasn’t short for

  schizophrenic, not

  in the clinical sense.

  It only meant that some

  days Mama was fine—

  eyes not muddied, hair

  combed into submission,

  speech precise.

  Those days, her hugs

  and kisses were warm

  as summer rain,

  washing away the hurt.

  The hurt that was sure

  to fall again.

  We just couldn’t guess

  exactly when.

  When It Fell

  It was a rock slide,

  crushing, smothering,

  bruising, bone twisting.

  By the time I was ten,

  I knew to hide when Mama

  started talking to the air.

  Don’ worry, Nessa,

  He’s an angel. Can’t you see

  him, standing just there?

  I figured if someone was

  there, invisible and all,

  he must be more demon

  than angel, especially

  when Mama started yelling.

  Go away, you bastard. I’m tired

  of listening to you.

  You make my head hurt.

  That was the thing

  about her manic phases.

  They didn’t always make

  her feel what you might

  call good. Sometimes

  they made her head hurt.

  He’s pounding nails

  into my brain. Stop!

  Make him stop!

  Angel. Demon. Whoever

  he was, inside her head,

  his pounding made

  her rage. Rant. Weep.

  Sometimes, to make herself

  feel better, she took

  to hitting things with her fists.

  Walls. Doors. Herself.

  Me.

  Conner

  Ten Days Now

  All by myself in this

  peppermint green room,

  nothing to do but read,

  eat, collect lint, reflect

  on afternoons lazily

  spent, in the arms of my

  Emily. Yeah, yeah, I’m

  focused. Bent. Obsessed.

  I have to see her again,

  which means I’ve got to lie

  my way out of here, make

  the perfect self-sales pitch.

  Dr. Starr will never buy

  into “Conner the saint,”

  but Dr. Boston might

  award me that honor.

  I’ve almost got her right

  where I want her—on her

  knees, my hands caught in

  her silky blond hair as she

  whispers, I want you, Conner.

  Let me chase away thoughts

  of your Emily. Come to me

  when you get out of this place.

  I’ll show you how a real

  woman makes love to men

  such as you, and I don’t give

  a damn how high the stakes are.

  Think it’s all smoke and

  mirrors? Perhaps. But at

  our last session, I noticed

  a small lapse of judgment.

  It Was Our Second Session

  The first session, I’d pouted,

  told her nothing except that life

  was tough at home, and I

  was sick of being controlled.

  She didn’t give much ground.

  Rules are a pan of our lives,

  Conner. Only children and

  fools believe they’re immune.

  I also noticed her slate

  gray eyes and how they kept

  assessing me, in an intensely

  provocative way.

  I mulled that over for two

  days, decided it must have

  been sexual attraction,

  plotted the coming chase.

  I arrived at our second

  session prepared to win

  her sympathy. I opened

  my head, bared my brain—

  or what was left of it after

  a major dose of Prozac.

  “When Emily refused to see

  me anymore, it almost

  broke me in two. I loved

  her like Romeo loved his

  Juliet, and I know that

  lightning won’t strike again.”

  Her eyes held sympathy.

  Feeling loss is normal.

  Conner. Attempting suicide

  isn’t dealing with it so well.

  She Wanted to Know

  All about Emily, exactly

  what made her so outstanding,

  so necessary, that I’d rather die

  than unknot myself from her.

  “She made me feel like the world

  turned in my hands, like I could

  walk on clouds.” Talking about

  her, my body churned desire.

  Dr. Boston took notice,

  on one level or another.

  Her own hands trembled,

  and she spun her chair toward

  the bookcase. When she turned

  back around, the top button

  on her Jaclyn Smith blouse

  had found a way to open.

  A hint of cleavage drew

  my stare. Why disguise my

  obvious interest? I

  swear she did it on purpose.

  Lots of guys lose girlfriends,

  Conner. Most just go out and

  find someone new. Please try

  to trust me enough to explain.

  I closed my eyes, ignoring

  both request and décolletage.

  “I can’t think about her

  anymore.” Distressed, I stood.

  Dr. Boston rose, neck-

  line dipping. It ’s hard to share

  secrets. Trade, next time? One

  of yours for one of mine.

  Right.

  Tony

  Today, They Tell Me

  My dad is coming to visit.

  Wanting an accounting of

  what his money’s buying, is

  my best guess. No doubt

  he’ll be disappointed.

  I’m still just crazy Tony.

  I remember the last time

  I saw him. I was nine,

  and peeing my pants,

  waiting for the judge

  to tell me what a bad

  boy I’d been. Oh yes.

  I’d been very bad, and

  Dad stood at the back

  of t
he courtroom, hat

  in hand, a tear in his

  eye. ’Course, if he’d

  really cared, I wouldn’t

  have been there to start

  with. He never once

  came to visit after he

  heard my sentence:

  Nine years (the max) in

  a juvenile detention facility.

  They let me out early due to

  good behavior and funding

  cutbacks. Seemed the voters

  didn’t give two cents about

  feeding and schooling hardcore

  kids. Rather than build

  bigger facilities, so they could

  lock up more kids longer, as

  space was needed, they cut

  delinquents loose early.

  Lucky me, they didn’t care

  who the kids happened to be.

  I Learned a Lot

  In juvie, before they sprung

  me. Learned when to shut

  my mouth, when to scream;

  how to glom on to the guys

  with power, tap into it and

  suck real hard, suck them

  inside out. Learned to play—

  sports, people, the system;

  learned that there was no

  such thing as love, only

  lust. I knew about lust

  already. I’d grown up

  immersed in it, and it was

  at the core of my young

  incarceration. Ma never

  admitted her part in that,

  never even acknowledged

  that the whole thing happened.

  Larry is a decent man,

  she said, when I told her

  about it the first time.

  A bit rough around the edges,

  yes, but he’d never ever