“You ain’t got the guts,” said the first girl, taunting us. Her friends laughed.
I held up my left hand, and with my right hand sliced a gash in my palm. The blood spurted out, and I squeezed it so that it dripped impressively on the ground.
“Wanna bet?” I said.
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and I could tell she was scared. “You’re crazy,” she said. “A real nut job.” She turned to the others. “Let’s go.” She threw the doll at me, and it landed at my feet.
I stood my ground as they walked to the exit of the park, and I watched them disappear.
Brittney picked her doll up and dusted her off. Some of my blood had dropped onto the front of the doll’s dress, where her heart was.
“Thank you,” Brittney said.
“No problem.” My hand was starting to throb.
Brittney spit on one of our napkins and tried to wash the blood off of her doll’s dress. It only smeared.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Now she’s kinda related to you since she’s carrying your blood.” Our eyes met.
Then she took the knife out of my hand and made a small cut on her own left palm. “Let’s become blood sisters,” she said.
We shook hands, our blood mingling. We did it because we were the best of friends, and because it was dangerous. We felt wicked cool.
Then we went home, and my mom took me to urgent care. I had to get seven stitches. That scar is still there today. A white crescent moon in the palm of my left hand, that reminds me who my best friend is.
Tommy drives me back to the house. Chloe microwaves a frozen pizza pocket and hands it to me with a bottle of water. My throat hurts, so Tommy gives me some pills to help with the pain.
Then I crawl into bed and sleep like the dead. I never even hear Reg come in.
The next day I’m the first one up. I feel nauseated again, and very weak. I pull aside the curtain of the barred window, and I notice my hands are shaking. It’s a rainy day.
I try to stand, but my legs almost give out. So I sit back down, and put my head in my hands.
What’s wrong with me?
The anxiety is working its way back into my stomach. Fear grips me so hard all the time that it has become familiar. I almost don’t notice it some days, but today it’s terrible.
I look at the clock. It’s 10:30 a.m. Tommy will come get us at noon.
I need something. I’m not sure what. But I need it.
“Reg,” I whispered. She doesn’t move. “Reg?”
She moans and puts the pillow over her head.
I stand again, this time more slowly, and make my way over to her bed. “Reg?”
Still, nothing. I wonder if she has any more of that powder on her. It made me feel so much better last time I took it.
I take a slow, deep breath to keep from throwing up. I’m about to ask her where it is when I decide to let her sleep. Maybe she has some in her nightstand drawer. I quietly open it.
There’s a small plastic bag with some in it.
There’s a water bottle on my own dresser that has a little bit of water left in it. I’m not sure how much to use, but I try to measure the powder out onto a small piece of paper, like I saw Reg do yesterday. I spill a little on the carpet because my hands are so shaky. Then I pour it into the bottle and shake it. I close my eyes and drink the mixture.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but soon the nausea starts getting better, and I notice my hands have quit trembling. I slide down on the ground to sit and think for a while.
— — —
I don’t know when Mom started using drugs. Daddy died when I was ten, and the following year they put her on an anti-depressant. Life went on as normal for a while.
I turned eleven that June, and we had a small party at the house. Brit came, of course, and a few other friends from school. Mom baked me a cake. Then later that week, she started to feel tired. She started to sleep more. Sometimes she’d forget to wake me up for school, and she’d be late for work. Some evenings she went to bed right after dinner.
I thought she was sick. I told Mrs. Hudson about it, and she talked to her. Mom went to the doctor, and all of her bloodwork came back fine.
After that, Mom seemed to rebound. We had a good summer and a good start to the school year. But gradually, as the leaves started to fall, Mom seemed to be closing down with the season. As the days grew shorter and colder, she got quieter. She spent more time sleeping again. Over the winter she let go of her friends, one by one. Mrs. Hudson, Brit’s mom, was the last to go.
“Why doesn’t your mom return my calls anymore?” Mrs. Hudson asked me one day. It was the day before Valentine’s day, and we were sprinkling red sugar on cookies. Mom used to do this with me, but this year she hadn’t even decorated for the holiday. Nothing. It’s almost as if she forgot to get on with life.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s just really tired.”
“I imagine it’s hard being on your own,” Mrs. Hudson said. “She must miss your dad so much.”
I wanted to tell her that Mom wasn’t on her own. She had me.
I had started cooking dinner when she was too tired, following the recipes on the back of the box, or inside the red and white checkered cookbook she and Daddy got for a wedding present.
Mrs. Hudson called more often, and Mom let the answering machine get it. One day she just showed up on our doorstep with a casserole.
“I had extra filling, so I made two,” Mrs. Hudson said. It was March, and she was standing on our porch. The snow fell around her, landing on her shoulders. I stood by Mom as she took the casserole from Mrs. Hudson’s hands.
“Thank you, Roberta. You shouldn’t have,” Mom said.
She didn’t even invite her in.
After that, Mrs. Hudson quit calling. Instead, she used a different strategy, asking me about Mom. Giving me pamphlets about a grief support group at her church. Sending notes home with me that had the phone numbers of therapists on them. I really wasn’t sure how to answer her inquiries about my mother. All I knew was that Mom was tired. All of the time.
I gradually took over more of the housework, the cooking, and the shopping. Then, when I was fifteen, Mom started to rebound. She just got happier and started taking over the duties. She became Mom again, only not really. She was perkier, but her eyes had a strange, glassy stare to them.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when the Hudsons met me at my house one day after school. They told me my mom had been arrested for stealing drugs from the hospital.
The courts didn’t send her to jail, but she had to go to outpatient rehab and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. For a while after that, I got my Mom back. The mom I had known for the first ten years of my life. The mom I had before Daddy died.
“I want to get better for you,” she said. “You are my reason to live. I want you to have a good life.” And for almost a year, things were awesome.
That was the first time. The second time she lost her job.
Now Mom is alone. She’s back on drugs, not going to therapy, and I don’t even know if anybody is bringing her groceries.
I wonder who she’ll get better for now that I’m gone. What if she doesn’t get better this time? Or what if she takes one too many pills by mistake?
My stomach tightens in a knot as I remember. Who will take care of her now that I’m gone? Will my mother die because I ran away for the weekend? Because I lied to her?
Tommy opens the door to our bedroom, and I realize that I’m still sitting on the floor in my t-shirt and undies. I blink, wondering where I’ve been. Reg is dressed and has her makeup on.
“You have five minutes to get ready to leave,” Tommy says to me. With heavy legs, I slowly stand. The drugs have taken full effect now, and I feel pretty awesome. I see some of the powder on the rug and quickly brush it in to the carpeting with my foot. I’m not sure what Reg will do if she sees that I’ve used some.
“Let’s go,” Tommy yells from the living room. I sh
rug into a black dress and grab a pair of heels. And then I grab the little white baggie of pills that I keep under my pillow.
And I head out the door.
Serena is gone again, with Tommy’s man Sal (Thug Two), so it’s just the three of us in the backseat. Chloe is in between me and Reg. As soon as Tommy starts the car, Reg glares over at me.
“Thief,” she hisses. Her eyes are narrowed, and she’s showing her teeth.
I know she means the cocaine. But because she looks so mad, I play dumb.
“What?” I say and shrug.
“You know what. I said the first one was free. The others you have to pay for.” She holds out her hand, palm up.
“Reg,” says Chloe in a soothing voice. “You know she ain’t got no money. She doesn’t deal.”
“She’d better come up with some. Or else.”
I swallow, feeling some fear, but the coke is numbing it. So I lean across Chloe and narrow my own eyes. “Or else what?” I say. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, but I feel I need to take a stand.
Chloe puts a hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me back. “You don’t want to find out,” she whispers.
Reg is leaning across Chloe. She whispers to me. “Tonight you die.”
But Chloe puts a hand on Reg and gently pushes her back. “Reg, honey, she don’t know,” Chloe says. “She won’t do it again. Right, Heather?”
“What are you girls talking about back there?” Tommy yells from the front seat.
“Nothing, Tommy. Just work stuff,” says Chloe. She lowers her voice. “She’ll pay you back, but you have to give her time.”
Reg’s eyes are glaring at me and look pretty deadly. I feel the fear inside of me stirring again. It wouldn’t be a stretch for me to believe she’d actually kill me. I didn’t exactly consider her my friend, but I thought we were at least on the same side. Apparently only if I keep my hands off of her stuff.
Chloe is reaching down inside her small purse. She pulls out a joint. “Here, Reg. Take mine.”
Reg grabs it. “This isn’t blow,” she says.
“It’s better.”
Reg and Chloe stare at each other for a moment. I realize then that my life is hanging in the balance. I forfeited it when I took Reg’s drugs. Chloe is trying to buy it back.
After a beat of silence, Reg shrugs and stuffs the joint in her bra. “Fine. Whatever. This time I’ll let it slide. This time.”
Chloe turns to me and gives me a tight smile.
“But what are you going to do now that you gave me your stuff?” Reg says to her.
Chloe shrugs. “I’ll manage.”
I think of the baggie of pills I have in my own bra. Tommy refilled them for me. I should offer Chloe some of mine. Because that’s how we get through the day.
I start to open my mouth to speak, but Chloe quickly pats me on the knee. “I’m good,” she says.
And then we’re quiet for the rest of the drive.
Despite the coke in my system, my throat is still sore and the bruise under my eye is tender. I also have a bruise around my neck, which Tommy isn’t too happy about. He likes for us to look pretty. And I suspect if we look beaten, it will arouse suspicion. Not that I think any of the creeps who come to us for sex really care.
I look out the window at the people on the streets. It’s rainy and cold, and most of them aren’t clothed well. Only one that we pass has an umbrella.
There are mothers waiting at the bus stop, with little kids in tattered clothes and no coats. They look cold. On the street corner just before our hotel, I see two young women standing, selling themselves. On another corner is a man who is holding a tin can, hoping for a handout from people who have nothing to give.
It makes me think of Brit. She would open her purse and dig into the depths of it until she found a few loose coins or a stick of gum. Or now that she’s older and has a job, some actual green cash.
Brittney liked causes.
The first cause she took on was when we were in third grade. My parents took me to the Humane Society to get a kitten. They invited Brittney to come along because we did pretty much everything together. Also, Brittney had always wanted a kitten too, but her parents didn’t. This was probably as close as she would get to picking out her own.
There were so many kittens to choose from! I narrowed it down to a little gray kitty with white paws, and a tabby with a white chest. Both were female, and both were very cuddly. I couldn’t decide, and my parents told me I could only have one.
“But they’re sisters,” Brittney said. I’m not sure if that was true or not, but the kittens were sharing a cage.
“We can’t separate them,” I said, now determined to have both kittens. I couldn’t imagine the kitten leaving her sibling or her best friend.
But Mom still said no.
Dad, though, got that funny smile that he got when he had a plan. He stepped out into the hallway, and I saw him pull out his cell phone.
I was holding the little grey kitten, and Brittney was holding onto the tabby. Both were purring loudly and cuddling happily in our arms.
“Which one do you like best, Mom?” I asked. I could tell her resolve was weakening.
She reached out and scratched the tabby behind the ears. It rubbed its face against her hand. Then she reached over to the gray I was holding and scratched under its chin. It lifted its little head in pleasure and purred louder.
I could tell Mom was swaying in her opinion of only one kitten. Brittney and I exchanged hopeful glances.
“I wish I could have one, too” Brit said, cuddling the little tabby closer.
“You can come visit it,” I said.
Dad stepped back in the room, then. He had a huge smile on his face.
“I just spoke to your parents, Brittney,” he said. “They think you should probably take one of the kittens home with you so it’s not missing its sister too much. They can visit that way.”
“What?” Brittney’s whole face lit up and we both squealed, startling our kittens.
“You mean she gets one, too?” I asked, hardly believing our luck.
Daddy nodded and Mom smiled. I could see the relief on her face.
We were so excited. We decided to take the kittens we each were already holding, so I got the gray one, and Brit took the tabby.
A volunteer took our kittens into the back to put them in a travel box, while we went up front to fill out adoption papers. There was a lot of paperwork, and Dad paid the fees. Then, after what seemed like forever, the volunteer carried our kittens out in separate boxes and handed them to each of us.
We stopped at the store up front to buy water bowls and litter boxes and some food for the kittens. We even picked out a toy mouse for each of them.
As we were getting ready to leave, Brittney saw a sign on their bulletin board. It was a photo of a kitten who’d had his back leg amputated. “HELP SAVE WALDO” it said. He needed further rehab, and they were asking for funds. There was a small box for donations.
“Mr. Thomas, look,” Brittney said, pointing at the poster.
Daddy paused and read it. “That’s so sad,” he said. “But I can’t donate anything today. I’ve already spent enough money, and I’m out of cash.”
Our kittens were unhappy in their boxes, so Mom suggested we get them home.
Later that evening, after she got the kitten settled in her home, Brittney came over. She had a bag full of crayons, scissors and paperboard. “We’re going to raise money for Waldo,” she said.
“How?” I asked.
“We’ll start with a lemonade stand,” Brittney said.
So we worked to make signs that evening. My kitten, which I named Gracie, helped us by standing on the paper and batting at the crayons.
That weekend we set it up and made $10. My dad drove us to the Humane Society’s store to put it in the donation box. Later that week, Brittney called and learned that Waldo had gotten everything he needed and would eventually go out to a foster home.<
br />
That was the beginning of Brittney’s causes.
She started raising money every summer for the Humane Society, usually through lemonade stands and garage sales. In the winter she helped with the soup kitchen that her church had once a month.
In fifth grade, when they were going to cut down the 100-year-old oak tree near our park to build a swimming pool, Brittney started a campaign to save it. The township moved the pool over several yards to accommodate the tree.
In middle school, she started volunteering at a little kids’ camp in our neighborhood, and in ninth and tenth grade she went back as a camp youth counselor.
She did what she could to help causes.
— — —
The streets that we drive down today are full of causes. There are so many people for Brittney to help, I wonder where she would start.
Maybe she would start with me.
Daddy died when I was ten, just six months after I got Gracie. It was December eleventh. The snow had all melted, and he was going out for a run.
It was a Saturday morning, and I was watching Scooby-Do Mystery Incorporated on television. I had a bowl of cereal on my lap, and Gracie was cuddled up next to me, hoping for a taste. Mom had started a load of laundry.
“I’m going for a run, Heather-bear,” Daddy said. I nodded but didn’t say anything because I was sucked into my show. They were about to solve the crime and reveal who the monster was.
I heard him leave, and Mom came from the basement, where our laundry room was. “Did Daddy go for a run?” she asked.
I nodded.
Mom grabbed a dust cloth and started in on the furniture in the living room, careful not to block my view of the television. Then she moved into the other rooms, and I heard her humming.
My show ended, and another episode started. I finished up my cereal and flipped the channels until I found another show to watch. About halfway through it, Gracie curled up on my lap, and I was cuddling her, watching television and thinking how good life was.
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