involved in a drive-by.
Roomie #2, Felice, was in for wrecking
a Caddie, carjacked at knifepoint.
Roomie #3, Rose, had beaten up
her mother—with the butt of her gun.
Of course, she had a good excuse.
All of us had one thing in common:
a total infatuation with the monster.
Tell you the truth, that scared me
a little. But not that much.
Tough Girls
I let Bree do my trash talking.
Kristina stuck with honesty.
Somehow, Lucinda and I found an odd rapport.
And by the time Chase called my parents
to let me know where they could find me
(can you believe it takes a real parent to get you out of juvie?)
and they released me bright and early, Monday morning,
I was a tougher girl
with a new connection.
Cause and Effect
The admitting clerk was irate.
She had to redo all the paperwork,
using my real name.
She made me wait for almost two hours
while she drank coffee and shuffled files.
The counselor assigned to my case
was unsympathetic. He read my folder,
nodding and hmmming.
He told me being a loser was easy, then
ordered 24 hours community service.
Scott sulked like a pissed puppy. He
would have preferred lockup to my
picking up trash along the highway.
He refused to say one word, and his
silence told me all I needed to know.
Mom manufactured a plethora
of tears to accompany her
long-suffering mother diatribe.
She had plenty to say about deceit,
distress, and sexually transmitted diseases.
Jake was enthralled by the whole
idea of my temporary incarceration,
and the reasons behind it.
He wouldn’t shut up, just kept
asking inane questions.
As for me, I was less than contrite.
Picking up trash wasn’t so bad. There
were ways around GUFN.
And I now had a direct in with a
monster manufacturer.
Back in My Room
My life closed in
around me. I was
no longer my own.
Mom had poured
through all
my stuff, scoured
my journal, letters,
and address book.
She did find a bit
of evidence—a
crumpled Marlboro
wrapper and a new
lighter. Hey, it made
her day to discover
I was a hard-core
tobacco user. More
lectures, more useless
promises on my
end. She went off
to work on her book.
A sudden wave of
exhaustion swallowed
me. I’d walked through
the last few days in a
total haze. My system
had finally purged itself
of “go fast.” It was time
to shut down. I laid down
and surrendered myself
to the comfort of dreams.
Resolutions
I awoke the next morning, semirefreshed.
As I got myself ready for school,
I made the following resolutions:
• One week to the end of the quarter, grades slipping into
gutter, I would ask for some extra credit work.
• I would help out more around the house, show my parents
I was grateful for the many things they’d given me.
• I would write to my Grandma once a week, even if she
might not be sure who the letters were from.
• I would reconnect with old friends. And my dad.
• I would finish up the many projects I’d started while under
the influence—a macramé wall hanging, a portrait of John
Lennon, a song I’d written about my walk with the monster.
• I would never shoot up again. I would smoke less, toot
less, keep my bad habits manageable. (Notice I didn’t say
quit them.) I would also avoid sipping other people’s blood.
• I would go to Planned Parenthood and get on the pill. Making
love with Chase was awesome, and we didn’t need a baby
spoiling that.
The problem with resolutions
is they’re only as solid as the
person making them.
Other Problems
Mess with a teacher,
even one that has always
liked you in the past,
you’re liable to get screwed.
Ditch their classes, they might
give you makeup work, but
they don’t have to. I was four
out of seven toward screwed.
I tried hooking up with
Sarah. She was nice but had
moved on to more reliable
friends. Straight friends.
Trent knew exactly what was
what with his sister, and so
with me. The Avenue most
definitely wasn’t his scene.
On the home front, I couldn’t
buy Scott’s trust by washing
windows or vacuuming. I had
zero idea how to turn it around.
Mom, she wanted her little girl
back. I couldn’t go that far.
She wavered between forgiving,
stern, spiteful, and loving.
I did write Grandma a couple
of times, lively, newsy letters.
She never replied, but I
didn’t really expect her to.
Hopefully, I brightened a few
of her last days. She would pass
away in January, cold and gray
as a San Francisco winter.
When I returned to the macramé,
my fingers struggled over the
knots. I scrapped that project,
but did finish John Lennon.
As for the song, I had lost
the melody and my will to
find it. And the lyrics brought
me back to the fold of the monster.
Crank, You See
isn’t any ordinary
monster. It’s like a
giant octopus,
weaving
its tentacles not
just around you,
but through you,
squeezing
not hard enough to
kill you, but enough
to keep you from
reeling
until you try to get
away. Try, and you
hunger for its
grasping
clutch, the way its
tendrils prop you
up, your need
intensifying
exponentially
every minute you
refuse to admit its
being.
By Wednesday
last period, take me
to the bank. (I had a D
in P.E.; what could one
more ditch hurt?)
The Good …
Seeing Chase’s truck pull
into the far parking lot. Hearing,
It’s been a long four days.
Kissing him, knowing better things
lay in store, right up the road.
I’ve missed you so much.
Detouring to a secluded spot. Gentle
lovemaking, set to romantic sonnets.
It’s never been like this for me before.
Riding into town, head on his
shoulder,
listening to words of love.
My heart will always belong to you.
He was the second person to tell me
that. The first, well, he had his Giselle.
… The Bad …
Noticing the letter lying
open on the passenger-side floor.
I was going to tell you …
Chase had been accepted by USC—
the University of Southern California.
They have an awesome film school …
Early graduation, a full scholarship,
for him, a dream come true.
I’ll leave after Christmas break.
For me, a dream or three, annihilated.
I didn’t know what to say.
Please don’t cry. It’s not so far away.
It might as well be clear across the globe.
Out of sight, out of my mind.
… And the Ugly
I was still upset when
we pulled up to the bank.
I was a ton more upset
when the teller informed
me that Mom had restricted
my access to my own account.
Okay, it had dwindled considerably.
But I had to have cash the next day.
You should not stand
a guy like Roberto up.
And I was in serious want
of a fabulous bender.
I’m not sure which one of
the two made me more panicky.
I asked Chase if I could
borrow some money.
But when I told him why, he told
me I was nuts and took me home.
I didn’t even say good-bye, just slammed
the door and went to check the mailbox.
I figured I’d better keep checking
it until my report card arrived.
It wasn’t there. But something a whole lot
better was—two letters from Citibank.
Inside one was Mom’s new credit card.
Inside the other was a PIN.
I Did Think Twice
about using that Visa, maybe
even three or four times.
But it was just so easy, like fate
had mailed it directly to me.
Mom wouldn’t miss it for weeks.
And then I would deny ever
having laid eyes on the thing.
Robyn gave me a ride to meet
Roberto. He didn’t look near
as scary as he really was.
The buy was a piece of cake.
Except for one thing.
Roberto wouldn’t deal less than
half-ounce quantities. That much,
straight from the source, was relatively
cheap. And Visa paid for it.
I didn’t need it all, of course.
The plan was to sell some,
so my own stash would be free.
Every dealer thinks that until
their nose gets busy.
That’s what I became that day. A dealer.
I had just taken a very big step up
in the hierarchy of the monster.
I Became an Instant Celebrity
out on The Avenue.
The crank was superb.
And I, being new to the deal,
didn’t know enough to cut it.
I sold it like I bought it—rich,
yellow, moist, and stinky.
I offed the half, went
back for more, offed that, too.
My friends were happy.
Roberto was happy—
enough to front me even more.
And I was nonstop wired.
Nonstop tired.
I needed more and more just to get through the day.
More and more just to feel okay.
Who knows how much I’d be doing now?
Who knows how much money I might have made?
Who knows if I would
have smoked up all the profits?
Who knows if I would have
ended up in prison—or worse?
But one morning in early
November, I woke up
and the moment I got
up, I heaved until I hurt.
It might have been the flu
or a bad reaction to Mom’s sloppy Joes.
But it wasn’t.
Clear Blue Easy
I Went Through
the next few days
pretty much like
a zombie.
People wanted crank.
I sold it to them.
Teachers wanted homework.
I gave it to them.
Jake wanted to razz me.
I let him.
Mom wanted to know what was wrong.
I had nothing to say.
The monster called to me too.
For once,
I refused to answer.
Friday night, I crawled into bed,
sank way, way low.
Submerged myself
in a world of watery dreams:
Tears. An ocean of tears.
And a baby, a boy,
afloat in that salty sea.
He cried out to me.
Could I swim away solo?
Would I drown saving him?
Saturday
I spent the day:
Throwing up.
Sweating speed.
Shivering.
Shaking.
Tingling all over.
And otherwise fighting
the symptoms of withdrawal.
Sunday
I spent the day:
Throwing up.
Sweating speed.
Off-balance.
Confused.
Weeping.
Tumbling end over end,
deeper and deeper
into the throes of depression.
Monday
I spent the day:
Throwing up.
Eating.
Emotional.
Dazed.
Lost.
Alone.
Finally, I went to the pay phone
and made two calls. One to
Planned Parenthood. The other to
Chase.
My Appointment Was at Two
Chase picked me up at noon.
Pale, shaky, I climbed
in beside him.
Hi. You look awful.
I smiled. “Whose fault is that?”
We laughed at the not-funny joke
and headed into town.
Are you okay?
I shook my head. “I’m pregnant,
remember?” I leaned into
my hands, let the tears flow.
Please don’t cry. I’m here for you.
Here? He was going off to sunny
Southern California. I didn’t need
him anyway. Did I?
I love you. More than I realized.
“I love you, too. But I’m scared,
Chase.” He pulled to the side
of the road.
I’ll take care of you. The baby, too.
Was he giving me another choice?
Could I make that decision?
I was only 17.
Marry me, Kristina.
My knees buckled. My stomach
churned. Chase had stepped up to the plate.
The pitch was up to me.
Planned Parenthood
was a cinder-block
nightmare. It felt
like prison without
the comfort of bars.
Ugly in orange,
the waiting room
made me want to
throw up. So I did.
A dozen women
gave sympathetic
looks as I returned
from the bathroom.
One by one, they
disappeared as a
stern woman in white
called their names.
Chase held my hand
as we watched them
reappear, one by
one, ashen as ghosts.
A procession of
wraiths, that’s what
it was. And I was in
the back of the line.
I rocked against the
hard plastic chair.
Finally the woman
called, “Bree Wagner.”
Chase flinched, then
whispered in my ear:
I prefer the sound
of Kristina Wagner.
I Already Knew My Options
I listened patiently as the saccharine
Ms. Sweetwater outlined them again.
She did confirm that should I choose
abortion, my parents would not
have to know. All I needed was $500
and someone to drive me home.
She gave me the name of a
local adoption agency,
urged me to consider placing
my baby in a loving home.
And then she asked me
the date of my last period.
Hard as it was, I thought
back to a night up at
Chamberlain Flat, when I used
that period as an excuse to say no.
It was the weekend before school
started. Add a couple of weeks and …
I gained a terrible insight.
Chase was not the baby’s father.
Brendan was.
The Realization
was like jamming a
paper clip
into a light socket:
profoundly stunning;
like cinching
a garbage bag tight
around my neck:
completely suffocating.
A mad surge
of blood rushed
to my brain,
pounding temples and eardrums
before draining
away completely.
My face went Arctic,
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