Crank - 01 Page 7
What did that make Adam?
Watching his dad choose
the monster,
seeing his
brother lie down for the demon,
how could he want to party too?
Buddy’s all I’ve got left. I pray
to the good Lord he makes
better decisions.
And, knowing all these things,
perhaps more intimately
than I ought
to, what did
that make me?
I thought about praying too.
Changed
The Phone, Still in My Hand, Rang
I jumped, like a bee had just
given me a nasty hello.
I returned the favor
with a totally foul, “Yessss?”
(Then thought,
jeez, what if it’s Adam?)
Hey, Kristina. It’s Sarah.
How are you? How was your
trip? Tell me all about it!
How was your dad? Sweet?
Did you meet any cute boys?
Sarah—my best friend since
4th grade. Crazy smart,
pretty in an Irish sort of way,
with embarrassing freckles
and wicked red hair she was
forever trying to tame.
Was is hot down there?
It’s been miserable here!
Did your dad have a pool?
Did you get a tan?
What did you do for fun?
What could I tell her?
How much did I dare?
That is, if she ever gave
me a chance to talk.
How much did she
really want to know?
Did you do any shopping? I
already got school clothes.
What did you do for the 4th
of July? We went
up to Virginia City.
What day was today? The 10th!
Dad never said a word
about fireworks.
The 4th of July had slipped
on past, with me held
fast in the grip of the monster.
We’re going camping.
Want to come? My mom
said it’s okay. I hate to spend
a whole week, alone
with my parents and little sister.
I told her I’d ask and call later.
My brain needed a rest—not
to mention my left ear.
Kristina could listen
to Sarah talk for hours.
Bree was ready to scream.
At Least I Had the House to Myself
I downed an ampicillin,
splashed peroxide on my
wounded
thigh, which actually
looked a little better, the
heart
more pink than violet,
the pain more a soft
pulsing
reminding me with
a steady beat of an
emptiness
so complete I had
no clue how to fill it,
loneliness
so heavy I had
no idea how to lift it,
need
so intense I had only
one way to relieve it:
a bitter drink
of its very source—
the deep well
of the monster.
I Considered
the Reno crank scene,
or what I knew of it.
Legit entertainment—
music,
magic,
comedy clubs.
Legal and semilegit—
gaming,
sports betting,
light night carousing.
Legal, semi-immoral—
adult revues (aka “titty shows”)
gay clubs, strip clubs, swap clubs,
beyond-the-city-limits prostitutions.
Such activities,
24-7,
practically invited
the monster’s
participation.
Remote desert
dwellings, travel
trailers and
sad, little
shacks, went up
in flames regularly,
victims
of ether-fed fire.
Oh, yes, there was
crank in Reno,
waiting
for me, calling
out to Bree.
All that was left was
to find it.
Suddenly, However
all those days with little
or no sustenance hit me in one awful instant.
Lucky me! Mom’s kitchen
was a whole lot better stocked than Dad’s.
(Not to mention a whole lot cleaner—
no mega-cockroaches allowed!)
Summer fruit.
Garden veggies.
Leftover roast beef.
Homemade bread.
Hand-churned ice cream.
I’d almost forgotten how great a cook
Mom was, at least when she wasn’t
too busy writing or going through one
of her “I’m not your damn servant!” phases.
Double lucky me.
It seemed she was going through one of her
Suzy Homemaker stages.
Fresh salsa.
Homemade chips.
Leftover chili.
Cherry pie.
I felt like I’d died and
gone to God’s grocery store
in the sky!
My Luck Ran Out
’Cause after I
finished pigging out, I
really wanted
a cigarette.
Nicotine’s a
strange addiction. I
didn’t even realize I
was hooked until I
couldn’t have one. No
one at my house
smoked, at least not
so you’d notice. Not
my mom. Smoking
causes wrinkles. Not
Scott, who had
a family history
of emphysema. Not
Leigh, who said
they made
your hair smell
like an ash
tray (only true
if you don’t
smoke). Surely not
Jake, the
ministud athlete. Nope
I
was most definitely
out of luck.
For the moment
anyway.
It Got Worse
because just about then,
my mom came home.
Good. You’re up. You looked dead
to the world, so we let you sleep.
Leigh shadowed her
through the door.
“Feeling better? We went shopping.
I needed a new swimsuit in the worst way.”
Mom put an armful of bags
on the counter, ignoring
my crumbs.
I got you one too. Your old one
is pretty ratty.
Leigh reached into
a Macy’s bag, extracted
it for approval.
“Cute, huh? She wanted to get you a tank. I
insisted on a bikini. You do still like pink?”
Mom looked at the hot pink
crochet, as if for the first time,
shook her head and clucked,
Better try it on. Can’t show too much
skin at Scott’s company picnic.
Leigh glanced down
at my T-shirt hem,
barely covering our
sisterly secret.
“Nope, wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t
do at all.”
All Thoughts of Bad Habits
I Went to Try On the Swimsuit
Few things are quite as
humblin
g
as cinching yourself up
in a completely
revealing
bikini and standing
in front of a full-length
reflection
rotating like a bird on
a spit, trying to admire the
naked truth
staring back at you:
body slim but not
fine-tuned
boyish hips, just
barely qualifying as
curves
uncertain breasts,
cup size
stalled
somewhere between
A (plus) and B (minus),
womanhood
desperately trying
to escape,
succeeding
once a month,
like it or not,
ready or not.
(At least that wasn’t
currently a problem!)
The Tattoo, However, Was
It did look better,
but it still didn’t look good—
a bright pink, semi-heart-shaped thing,
blue ink hiding somewhere beneath my skin,
not an easy thing to hide in an itsy bitsy bikini.
Band-aids were problematic. A little
one wouldn’t cover it, but one of those big
square dudes would draw everyone’s attention,
guaranteed. Besides, have you ever seen a Band-aid,
floating in a swimming pool? Would you want to
be responsible for such a disgusting thing?
And even if one did manage to stay
on midst gushing gallons of chlorinated
water, what would all that wet
wildness do to the just forming
scab and retreating infection?
Still, I couldn’t beg off.
Wild Waters Day was important
to Scott’s “leg up the management ladder.”
It was Mom’s day to strut her stuff in
her own itsy bitsy bikini.
And it was always a summer hit for us kids.
If I said I didn’t want to go,
Mom would check for a fever for certain.
Even if she didn’t find one, it
would open the door for questions
I really was in no mood to answer.
Questions I knew I’d have to answer soon.
As I Pondered
my problem, the telephone rang.
Jake happily informed me—not to
mention everyone else—it was
Adam/Buddy on the far end of the line.
“Hello?”
Hey, Gorgeous. I miss you.
Melted butter.
“Oh, Adam. Me too.”
I can’t stay on long. Phone bills, you know.
Hot butter burned.
“Okay.”
Just want you to know I love you.
Burned good.
“Me too. Always.”
Lince is coming home tomorrow. She’ll be okay.
Burned bad.
“I’m glad.”
Bree? I’ve been thinking. We’re a long way apart …
Sizzled.
“I know.”
So I think we should give each other permission to see other people.
Spattered.
“You want my permission?”
You have mine. Just think of me from time to time.
Welted.
“I don’t need your permission, Buddy. And you obviously don’t need mine.”
Well, okay then. Better go. Keep in touch. I really do love you.
Scarred.
His Idea of Love
sure didn’t mesh with mine.
“I love you, let’s see other people.”
Interesting
sentence structure.
“Lince’s coming home.
Let’s see other people.”
Unusual
paragraph construction.
My face flushed
tears poked my eyes,
scar tissue twisted my heart,
wrapped itself around arteries,
closed tight around my jugular.
I coughed pain.
I never went to Albuquerque
expecting to find love.
I thought it had found me there,
followed me home.
I never came home,
expecting to lose
love in the space
of one brief
telephone call.
Is it always so short-lived?
Mom Knocked on My Door
I found that strange.
She never knocked.
May I come in?
Never asked for permission
to come in. Permission.
That word again.
We haven’t had a chance to talk
since you got home.
Then she looked at my face,
all puffy and pissed, read
everything she needed to there.
Looks like we’ve got a lot to talk about.
But maybe this isn’t the best time?
I wanted to talk. Needed to.
But how could I possibly talk
to her? She was my mom.
I know I’m your mom and not always
easy to talk to. But I’m here for you.
I was ready for a lecture.
Why did she have to choose
that moment to try “nice”?
I want to hear all about your trip. Let
me know when you’re ready.
Big girls don’t cry, especially
not in front of their mommies.
But a cloudburst threatened.
I hope you’re hungry. I’m making
your favorite—lasagna and garlic bread.
I was hungry (somehow).
I was tired (still). I was hurting (inside and out).
And more than ever, I wanted to walk with the monster.
Over Lasagna and Garlic Bread
I talked about airplanes.
I talked about lonely seatmates,
third-run movies, and pretzels
(for this price!) in place of meals.
I talked about Albuquerque, bowling alley
etiquette, Los Alamos-grown cockroaches,
and walk-ups in decidedly bad neighborhoods
(omitting the part about my own little nighttime foray).
With some prodding, I talked about Dad,
his job, and (lack of) girlfriends;
I talked about his philosophy, somehow sadly yet
to ripen into something resembling maturity.
With a lot more prodding,
I talked about Adam aka Buddy
(omitting everything of use to anyone
interested in blackmail).
Considering his recent treachery,
it was easy enough not to gush
about his hot bod, wildcat eyes,
incredibly perfect lips, and intuitive hands.
And, mostly because everyone knew
it anyway, I talked about how, despite
his undying love, he had given us both
permission to date other people.
Leigh Knew
there was a
whole lot
more
to the story,
of course.
But I’d never
told her
secrets,
and trusted
completely
she would
never betray
mine.
Still, just in
case, I
never dared
mention
sex,
interrupted
by periods;
Lince;
interrupted by
drugs;
or my own
infatuation with
the monster’s
spectacular
roc
k and roll.
No, these
secrets
belonged strictly
in my own
private closet.
Later
Leigh climbed into my bed,
moved very close to me,
her proximity strangely
unsettling.
Want to talk? I do.
I miss how we used to talk.
I recalled a time, not so long
ago, when snuggling with
my big sister was
comforting.
Tell me more a bout Adam. Is he
really your very first boyfriend?
So why did it bother me now,
when I so needed
the consolation
of touch?
I’ll tell you about Heather. She’s
not my first, but she tops the list.
Heather? Lesbians had names like
Bobbi or Jo, didn’t they?
“Heather” belonged to a
model or cheerleader.
She’s a cheerleader. Well, a song
leader, and pretty much perfect.
Leigh was almost perfect herself.
If she were taller, she could be
a model. Picture-perfect
lesbians. I had to laugh.
What are you laughing about? Didn’t
know cheerleaders were my type?
Didn’t know cheerleaders could be
that type. Which got me thinking.
What else might those peppy
cheerleaders do?
I Tucked That Away
and tried to focus on my sister
going on and on about being in love
with a girl:
their meeting, touching
accidentally, connecting
immediately, interwoven
hand in hand, heart-to-heart.
And even though I loved my sister
had accepted her eccentricities
I found it hard
to listen to detailed
descriptions, abstract
ambitions, relevant