Sliding Into Home

by Kendra Wilkinson

  I called my dad’s mother and asked to crash with her, but she shot me down. I think I even tried my dad, but that didn’t pan out. Finally, I called my grandmother and explained the situation.

  “Grandma, I took some bad drugs and I nearly died,” I said tearfully. “I’m done. I want to turn things around.”

  She started crying.

  “I want to come home,” I said. “But I can’t face Mom. I can’t look at her.”

  She said she would talk to my mom and explain the situation and try her hardest to get the two of us back together.

  “But even if I talk to her,” she said, “you’re going to have to be an adult and walk back here and apologize face-to-face.”

  I knew she was right, and that it was time to start playing by the rules.

  CHAPTER 8

  All Work and No Play

  I was terrified to go back home. I had left that house a strong girl without a care in the world and I was returning a thin, rundown shadow of my former self. I got to the corner of my block and stopped.

  My mom and grandmother were having a garage sale that day, and they were outside greeting customers. I stood on the corner for a few minutes and watched them. It was symbolic in a way—them getting rid of old their old garbage on the same day I was planning to return home and prove that I wasn’t worthless.

  I took a deep breath and walked toward the house. There was an awkward silence for a second after my mom first saw me.

  “Hi,” she finally said in a tone that was a mixture of anger and relief.

  I fell to my knees. Crying, I begged for forgiveness and promised that I had changed. I had said it before, but this time I really meant it.

  “I swear, Mom, it’s different this time.”

  She looked at me on the ground—I must’ve looked like I was proposing marriage—and saw that I was for real. She said that I would have to get a job and follow every rule she could come up with and treat her and my grandmother with respect. I promised her I would, and I meant it with all my heart. She knew it and, just like that, I was home again.

  Continuing with my plan for a new Kendra, I went back to my high school to enroll for my junior year. First, I had to meet with counselors at the school and give them the same promises that I made to my mom. I said I wouldn’t skip school, I would try my hardest to get good grades, and I would graduate on time.

  They gave me a second chance (actually, it was more like a fourth chance at that point) and after I completed an IQ test filled with puzzles and riddles, the counselors at the school decided that I had a learning disability and had to be put in special-ed classes. Maybe if someone had figured out that I had a learning disability earlier in my life I would have been in the right classes, would have gotten better grades, and would have been more encouraged to do well in school. When I was in regular classes, teachers would laugh at me, and I always felt stupid. I was afraid to ask questions and I would get mad and frustrated when I didn’t understand something. Maybe I should have asked more questions. It’s their job as teachers to answer, isn’t it? If a kid wants to learn, they have to help. But I always felt like I was slowing everyone down, so I never said anything and instead just gave up.

  There was no giving up this time, though. I walked into that special-ed class after lunch and even though I was a little embarrassed, I knew I had to stick it out. There were kids with all sorts of disabilities in the class, but at the end of the day I fit in better there than anywhere else. I held my head high because I knew that I was back at school learning, and that was all that mattered.

  I didn’t care what people thought. So what if I’m in the special class. What the fuck is anyone going to do about it? I would say to myself as I walked through the hallways.

  Half of my daily schedule, including history and science, consisted of special-ed classes, where I could ask all the questions I wanted. After a little while, I didn’t even need to raise my hand anymore. The teachers took time to make sure everyone understood what was being taught, and they helped us if we needed it. They didn’t laugh if I said I wanted to be a marine biologist or make me wear short skirts to get good grades. They were on my side, and I knew it. I loved learning, and it felt great to know I was doing well.

  Making friends was another story. I was basically a loner. I hated the cliquey shit anyway, but I didn’t fit in with the goody-goody kids (even though I was trying to be one), and I wasn’t going anywhere near the druggies or thugs. Worst of all, my best friend Brittany was moved to a charter school, so even she couldn’t help me out during the school day.

  I was actually most comfortable with the kids in my special-ed classes. I had never judged anyone or thought people were cool or not cool by the way they looked or dressed, and the special-ed kids were all the same way.

  I got back into sports and played soccer for the high school team. I tried to get back into softball, too, but that didn’t work out as well. I’d played on the JV team in the beginning of high school and quit when I got into drugs, but now that I was better I thought for sure I would make the team. I did really well at tryouts and knew I was good enough to be on varsity or, at the very least, the JV squad. But when the coaches posted the lists of players, I hadn’t made either team. I hadn’t even made the practice squad! What I think—no, what I know—happened was that there were a lot of politics around the sports teams, and I didn’t fit in with the girls or what they were trying to do. I didn’t really fit into what anyone was trying to do. Even though I loved soccer and this time I was playing with a clear head, wherever I looked for friends—either in class or on the soccer team—I often came up unsuccessful.

  While I wasn’t into judging people, most kids’ parents judged me. San Diego is a big city, but my community was like a small town unto itself, and everybody talked. All the parents knew my history. They had seen me at my worst. I was labeled the bad kid, and even though I was turning things around, nobody wanted their kids hanging out with me. I felt like I had something to prove, so I dedicated my time to school and, staying true to my promise to my mother, I got a job.

  My first real job was at Papa John’s Pizza. It was the worst damn job ever. I knew that jobs weren’t meant to be fun—at least that’s what my mom reminded me almost every day—but this was exceptionally bad. I flipped pizza, answered phones, worked the register, and made boxes, all while the management yelled at me and found other bitch work around the restaurant for me to do. I was running around doing everything, getting cuts on my hands from the boxes, while they sat in the management office and talked on the phone. It sucked, but I made a solid $6.50 an hour and I valued every penny. I loved getting that paycheck, no matter how little it was worth. I was never into fancy things—okay, maybe shoes—so I was a really good saver. I put every check right into the bank.

  I wasn’t perfect, though. I still smoked weed every now and then, but after what I had been through I figured that was nothing. Plus, to stay calm and get through the day at Papa John’s, it was necessary.

  One time I went to work really high. It was Super Bowl Sunday or some other huge pizza-delivery day, and we were swamped with orders. I was answering phones, flipping pizzas, and juggling a bunch of other tasks all at once. The amount of work mixed with the weed caused me to screw up a lot, and a customer called with a complaint. Of course I was the one who answered the phone.

  “Um, excuse me, miss, but our pizza doesn’t have any cheese on it,” he told me.

  Oops. Turns out I’d forgotten to put cheese on some of the pizzas. The customer and my manager were equally unhappy. As you can expect, I was still in a good mood.

  For the most part, junior year was going really well for me, and then one day it got even better. When I wasn’t working, studying, playing soccer, or being an all-around amazing daughter, I often went down to Mission Beach to hang out. One weekend I was there with a girlfriend, walking around on the beach and checking out men with muscles, when two guys pulled up next to us on their motorcycles. They did
some smooth talking and eventually convinced us to go for a ride with them. I hopped on the back of a bike belonging to Zack, a blond-haired white boy, and cruised around the bay and Pacific Beach. I was nervous about trusting this complete stranger with my life, but he seemed to know what he was doing. There was also something special about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. We had a spark between us, and it was a great feeling.

  He was twenty years old at the time, so I told him I was an eighteen-year-old senior. Of course I was still sixteen, but who was counting?

  After that day we started talking on the phone pretty regularly. He was a good guy; he didn’t drink or smoke, and I loved that about him. My whole world before Zack was about doing drugs and seeing how fucked up I could get on any given day. For a long time I didn’t care about school. I didn’t care about life. And just when I was really turning things around, up rides Mr. Charming on his motorcycle.

  It was fate.

  When we officially started dating, Zack would pick me up from school every day on his motorcycle. I always thought that was cool. I never hung out with any of the kids in my school, so no one was going to blow my cover with the whole lying-about-my-age thing. Besides, at the time I felt like I was over high school. I had been through so much already that I couldn’t really relate to the high school kids who were just starting to experiment with certain things.

  Zack and I were perfect together, and even though I’d had my share of experiences, I considered this to be my first real relationship. We would go to his house after school, which was about ten minutes from where I lived. He lived with his parents, who were still together, and they were really nice people. They were a happy little family, and I liked that. It’s what I wanted.

  When my birthday rolled around in June, I had to tell Zack I was actually just turning seventeen. He was mad at first, but he got over it. We were in love, so he couldn’t stay mad for too long.

  My mom loved Zack. She saw that he was a good person, and that I was a better person around him. He also had a real job: he worked for his dad in a family business—and my mom liked that he wasn’t just some bum without an income. I was allowed to do whatever I wanted with him because she trusted him and, more important, she trusted me again.

  That summer Zack and I spent a lot of time together, taking trips to the beach and two-hour motorcycle rides to Universal Studios that would make our asses raw. We also went on a trip to Las Vegas with our families, where we did all the touristy things together and joked that when our families weren’t looking we would run off to a wedding chapel and get married. Obviously we were kidding, but we both really thought that we would get married one day.

  By the start of my senior year, everything was working out for me. I had a boyfriend. I had a great relationship with my mom and grandmother. I had a job—a crappy job, but a job nonetheless. My grades were good and I was actually moved out of special-ed classes and into regular classes with the smart kids. I had set a goal to turn my life around, and I was doing it.

  During senior year, I basically lived with Zack. I still went to my mom’s house all the time, but I spent most nights with him.

  By that point I really needed a car. I had saved a good amount of money, but it wasn’t enough to buy one. Well, it might have been enough for just any car, but I wanted a specific 1995 Mitsubishi Eclipse we found in Chula Vista for $4,000. It was my dream car.

  I had gotten really into cars and racing over the past few months so I knew exactly what I wanted. This car was a souped-up stick shift, with all black exterior and white rims, and lowered like a race car. It was the coolest car ever, and because I was doing so well, my grandmother bought it for me. It was the single greatest thing anyone had ever done for me. After I stole from her, scared her half to death by running away, did drugs under her nose, and betrayed her trust, she still found it in her heart to not only forgive me but also to give me the gift of a lifetime. It was enough that she even agreed to talk to me again after all I had put her through; I couldn’t have been more grateful for the car. I promised that she wouldn’t regret it, that I would use the car to get to work, and that I’d graduate with good grades and make her proud.

  I kept my promise for the most part, but I also used the car to go to local illegal street races. At that time in San Diego, street racing was the thing to do. I was finally a good kid, but I still needed some excitement.

  Word would spread that a race would be taking place somewhere around town—there were four main spots where the races would go down—and everyone would gather at the spot, with their souped-up cars, between midnight and four A.M. I would always be there on weekends, sometimes with my Eclipse, which by that point had huge house speakers in the trunk so I could blast music wherever I went, but usually I went in Brittany’s red Ford Mustang with her. It was just like The Fast and the Furious—there was a starter girl with a flag, and the races would go on until the cops came and everyone scrambled to get out of there.

  I raced a little, but mostly I was just there to watch. My car didn’t have an engine built for it, and my skills as a driver weren’t really up for racing.

  In fact, when I first got the car I didn’t even know how to drive a stick. I had one of my racer friends come over and teach me how to drive. That day I had him drive us to a Denny’s parking lot to practice. He was pulling around to the back of the restaurant when the driver in front of us forgot to put his car in drive and reversed right into my car. I jumped out and screamed like I have never screamed in my life. It sounded like someone was getting murdered. I was punching the ground and yelling at the top of my lungs, and people were holding me back because I was ready to kill the guy. I loved my car.

  The driver paid to get it fixed, but all I wanted to do was show up at school in my new ride, and the next day I had to drive my damaged car into the parking lot. It wasn’t exactly the moment of glory I had been looking forward to, but even with the dents I felt like a queen rolling up to school. It was still my dream car.

  I continued to drive my awesome new car to school and to work every day, but after about a year and a half working at Papa John’s, I’d had enough. I promised my grandmother I would continue to work, but I had to get out of there.

  I started calling in sick all the time, and one day I just didn’t show up to work. My boss called looking for me, and I told her I was done. She was pissed.

  “You are worthless,” she yelled. “You’ll never work at another Papa John’s again in your life.”

  “You are damn right I won’t,” I fired back.

  I acted tough, but inside I was freaking out because I needed a job—not just because I’d promised my grandmother, but because I needed the money. I was saving so I could get my own place after graduation.

  Luckily I had my senior project to keep me on a career path. At the beginning of the year we had to pick a career and spend the entire school year researching it, and at the end of the year we had to give a report on what we’d learned. The goal was to have us pick something we were interested in and then, hopefully, we’d work toward starting down the path to that career once graduation came.

  I decided to do my project on registered nurses because my mom was working at an orthopedic center and I had easy access to nurses. Plus, my dreams of being a marine biologist had long since disappeared.

  Working hard on the project but still in need of a paying job, I stumbled upon the career center at school one day. (I know, I was as shocked as anybody that I actually set foot in that place. I was a fun girl who still went to parties and races and stuff; I didn’t do drugs anymore, but I was still not the career-center type.) I figured, What the hell? I went in and found an application to be an assistant at a dentist’s office. The only requirement was that we had to be on a college path; the job would provide all the necessary training. It sounded cool so I applied, but a bunch of other students had applied as well, so I didn’t really think much of it. When I got called in for an interview, I was shocked—and extrem
ely nervous.

  The interview was scheduled for after school, so the day I had to go for my meeting I went to school wearing one of my mom’s sweaters, a nice skirt, and heels, and I did my hair. I looked so professional. I felt like every head was turning and looking at me as I walked through the hallways, and I loved it. Everyone was just stunned.

  When I arrived for the interview I had to wait in the children’s waiting room. I sat in a tiny chair, shaking, until the dentist was free to see me.

  Just be yourself, I kept repeating in my head.

  Eventually I calmed myself down and when I was called in I gave it my all. I went into the interview and wowed the dentist with my professionalism. He didn’t see some girl who screwed up all the time. He saw someone with potential who knew how to speak and sit properly (my mom taught me that just before the interview). He thanked me for coming in and told me that I would be hearing from him soon.

  I left that office with my head held high, feeling like I’d kicked some serious ass in there. A couple of days later the phone rang, and I found out I’d gotten the job. Shut the fuck up!

  This was a real-ass job, and I was making nine dollars an hour. Suck on that, Papa John’s! I was so proud of myself. They had interviewed kids from four different schools and probably had so many smarty-pants people walk in there, but they chose me, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

  I learned how to do everything at the dentist’s office: the fluoride, the cleaning, the X-rays—anything a dental assistant with a degree would do. I asked tons of questions about teeth and the dentist really trained me well. I’d go in there with my gloves, all ready to work, and when I was done I’d run home and tell my mom about what I’d done that day. It really motivated me.

  One time the father of a girl I played softball with came in to the office and I was told to put a crown on him. I thought, Hell no! I couldn’t do that on a stranger, let alone someone I knew. Plus, he recognized me, so it was really awkward. But I’d been asked to do something, and it was my job, so I told him to open his mouth. My hands were shaking as I scraped along the inside of his gums to get all the shit off. I ended up putting the crown on, but I was way more comfortable teaching kids how to brush their teeth. That was my favorite part of the job—that and the paycheck, of course.