A Taste of Utopia

by L. Duarte

  Chapter Two

  BACK TO THE FUTURE.

  On the ride home I related the morning’s events to Jake. He was stupefied.

  “I don’t trust Andrew. You should drop him,” Jake said as I parked my beat-up Mustang in front of our house. Aunt Lace demanded that I left the driveway unoccupied for her guests.

  The cape house was a faded gray that resembled a stormy day. My eyes swept over to an unhinged shutter hanging precariously from the structure. When I first moved in, the burgundy shutter caught my attention in an inexplicable way. It had glared at me sinisterly, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. It was like a warning, an omen of sorts. “Welcome to the bowels of hell.”

  “He’s already here.” Caleb nodded to Serratore’s white Escalade parked on the driveway. We stepped across the overgrown grass, and I collected a few of the empty beer bottles that were strewed on the ground. I tossed them in the recycle bin propped on the back stairs.

  Jake flung the back door open, and we went in. The inside had a suffocating smell of dampness and pot.

  “Hello, Hansel and Gretel.” Serratore greeted us with a smile. His gold tooth gleamed diabolically at us, making me shiver.

  He sat on one of the unmatched kitchen chairs. Aunt Lace was perched on his lap, her tits in display. With clumsy fingers, she started buttoning her shirt and did nothing to conceal her post-coital state of elation. The cigarette hanging from her swollen lips almost fell when she stuttered a hello.

  A wave of disgust rushed through me when I saw a discarded condom on the floor. My heart cried for Jake. “I hate that she’s a crack whore,” he’d confided in me once.

  “What’s up Serratore?” With a quick glance at his mom, Jake retrieved a tin can from the freezer. From inside, he snatched a zipper-lock bag with a wad of cash, and tossed it to Serratore.

  “Do you have our stuff?” Jake inquired dryly. I stayed on the sideline as Jake and our supplier did the transaction.

  “It’s in the oven.” Serratore licked his thumb and started to count the bills.

  I opened the oven and took a toll of the drugs: cocaine, pot, ecstasy, and Ritalin. Those were the favorites amongst our clientele. I nodded to Jake.

  “Always a pleasure dealing with you,” Jake said without making eye contact. We stomped to his bedroom to find our hideout for the drugs.

  The sound of Aunt’s Lace drunk laughter trailed behind us. In my peripheral, I saw Jake’s jaw tightening. If school was purgatory, home was hell.

  “Tell me about Friday’s plan,” Jake asked, most certainly as a subterfuge to forget the image of his mother’s half-naked chest.

  I turned the radio on to an angry-sounding rap station, loud enough to muffle the sounds from the kitchen, but low enough that we could talk.

  After we organized and hid the drugs, I texted three of my “hook-ups,” the code word for clients, to set up a “date.” After the quick dates, I returned home to get ready for my volunteer gig.

  The news that I do volunteer work may come as a shock to many. However, I recall a disclosure where I declared to be smart. Yes, I realize “drug dealer” doesn’t necessarily scream intelligence. In my defense, I didn’t opt for the temporary career because I wanted to make easy money. (Side note: it was not easy money.) Unforeseen circumstances had forced me. I’ll explain, in detail, at a later time.

  Anyway, there was a stupid old saying that went like this “when life gives you lemons . . .” That’s what I did. I made a shitload of lemonade out of the lemons life had offered me.

  While at that time, I sold drugs and lived in a hellhole, I did have a second plan. It included college, and a future where I earned an honest living. But, most importantly, it included taking Jake away from this life.

  Once I turned eighteen, I would have the financial means to achieve that. Dad had seen to it. But a series of things had to be in place before then. Which brings me to the volunteering gig. I needed an acceptance letter from a university. My GPA was a perfect score, thank you very much, and I was confident my SAT score wouldn’t be bad either, but I knew it wasn’t enough for the school I was applying to. Since I wasn’t part of any school clubs, it was critical to have an extensive volunteer history. So, four to five days a week and most Saturdays, I volunteered at an animal shelter.

  I removed all facial rings, wiped my face clear of heavy makeup, and showered. I shrugged into a clean white tank top, a pair of khakis, and beige Converses. I combed my wild hair into submission and put it in a smooth ponytail. After I had applied a clear layer of lip gloss, I examined myself in the mirror and nodded in approval.

  I swung my canvas bag over my shoulder, and before I left, my fingers glided over the blue birdhouse hanging from the ceiling. “I miss you, Daddy,” I said in a nostalgic whisper.

  I hopped in the car and drove to the shelter. Driving always calmed me. It allowed me to clear my mind.

  I recalled Megan’s remark about me being bipolar. Well, I had to admit that my life was twisted and marred with many inconsistencies. At all times, one side of me tried to eclipse the other, leaving me wondering which side would eventually win the constant tug of war.

  In my defense, it didn’t happen overnight. I didn’t wake up and just decide to be a jackass. No, it evolved gradually, curling up on me like fog slowly swallowing everything along its path.

  I know I promised to keep flashbacks to a minimum, but I need to tell you how it all began. The drug dealing, I mean.

  Before I transition into the flashback, allow me to give you a tidbit of the old me. Dad taught me integrity. Another thing I learned from him was not to defend my actions with excuses. Therefore, I’m not seeking understanding or forgiveness. My intent is to relate my path. In life, we all make choices based on a variety of reasons. My choices weren’t the ones many would have made, but it was what I had to do at the time. I own them.

  On July 4, 1776, Thomas Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence that we all had “certain unalienable rights;” rights that no one could take away, rights to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  Don’t be surprised, I was a stellar student. And besides, I have a point. I knew I had a sacred right to fight for an existence where happiness abounded. Although my dad raised me to place a hand over my heart and sing the Star Spangled Banner, to respect my elders, and to be a law-abiding citizen, in order to achieve that goal, I had to break the law.

  My interpretation of the rights under the Declaration became self-serving. But, hey, life can be an unfair bitch. Boo hoo! I could name many reasons why I did what I did. The list was endless, being an orphan, hunger, physical abuse, yada, yada, yada. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you a sudden death caused by boredom. However, I’ll say this, in life we fight with the weapons handed to us.

  Picture this: someone dumps you inside a deep well in a deserted, forlorn area, no rope, no food, no water, no one to listen to your pleas for help. It’s hot during the day and cold at night.

  One day, two days, three days . . .

  . . . starvation, thirst, hallucination, desperation.

  The flesh and bone ache. The conscious mind demands that you curl up and wait for death’s rescue. However, a voice from deep within whispers encouragement, lighting a small ember of hope. This feeble murmur refuses to be ignored, and persists until it bursts forth, blazing energy, supernatural power, mystery. It’s no longer a soft suggestion; it becomes a command. It demands action.

  And though warfare is terrifying, we obey the voice, we engage in battle. We claw, our nails to the walls, and we crawl out. The process may damage us beyond repair. Regardless, we do it. Why? It’s a complex reaction simply called survival.

  But, I digress . . . back to the flashback.

  Two years prior . . .

  “You’re up to something, and you’re gonna tell me,” I said, pacing Jake’s room.

  “And what’s this awful smell?” I headed to the trash can. “You have to toss your garbage. Whew, gro
ss.” I wrinkled my nose as I tied the waste bag and put it by the door. I turned to him. “Spill it, Jake.”

  Jake raked both hands through his hair and sank on to his unmade bed. “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

  “Is this clean or dirty?” I held up his boxers with the tip of my fingers.

  “It’s laundry. Do you want to know or what?”

  “I’m listening,” I said, as I dropped the boxers in the hamper.

  “Remember, last week when Mom got beat up?”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Hmm-hmm.” I abandoned the cleaning task and sat beside him. Something in Jake’s tone scared me.

  “It was Serratore’s men. It was the first warning. ‘Pay up or next time we’ll end you.’” He propped his elbow on his knees and held his head in between his long hands. Jake had just hit a growth spurt. And even though he was only thirteen, two years younger than me, he was already several inches taller than I was.

  “Oookay, and how much does she owe him?”

  “Thousands of dollars. They’ll come back for the money in a week.” His face crumpled with fear.

  I brought my hand to my mouth to muffle my gasp. We both knew what would happen upon their return. I didn’t want to increase Jake’s fear.

  “What about the money Mr. Bakosi sends?”

  “It vaporizes as quickly as the crack in Mom’s pipe.”

  “Oh, boy.” I drummed my fingers on my thigh. “What about the money she gets from social security?”

  “Take a look around, Luna, the electricity’s been shut off for the last three weeks, the phone is disconnected, and what was the last meal we ate in this house? Do you think the money she gets for you would be enough to cover our expenses and sustain her drug habit?”

  On cue, my stomach grumbled. The only meal we usually ate was at school.

  I didn’t answer; the wheels in my mind were turning. I had five grand tucked in the blue birdhouse. I had promised Dad I would only use the money for an emergency. This constituted an emergency.

  “How much does she owe?”

  “Six grand.”

  “Come with me,” I said, tugging him behind me.

  I opened the door and turned. “Promise me you can keep a secret.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Promise me.”

  “Okay, okay. I promise.”

  I climbed on my bed and retrieved the blue birdhouse hanging from the ceiling.

  “Sit down.” I sat with my legs crossed. With an intrigued expression, Jake sat facing me.

  I removed the sky painted roof and slid my hand inside, disassembling the false floor. My fingers trembled when I pulled out the small board and clasped the wad of money.

  “Wow.” Jake eyes widened like saucers. “Where did you get all this money?”

  “Part of Dad’s savings.”

  Jake stood and paced to the window, his back to me. “You can’t. We can’t.” His knuckles turned white as he gripped the windowsill.

  “Of course we can. In fact, Dad would’ve done the same. What are we supposed to do, let them kill Auntie Lace?”

  A shudder shook Jake’s shoulders. “No. Hell, no. But I have a solution. I’m gonna fix this.” Silence followed.

  “Well . . .” I raised my brows. I had a feeling I knew where that conversation was headed.

  Facing me, he leaned against the windowsill and crossed his skinny arms. “I’m gonna ask to sell some of his shit.”

  “Drugs?” I gaped.

  “No, just pot,” he said with a shrug.

  “You’re kidding. Please tell me this is a joke. You can’t do this. You could go to jail, Jake.”

  “No shit, Luna. Thanks for the support.”

  “This is serious, Jake. We can just use my money. I’ll call Mr. Bakosi and ask for . . . I don’t know, some advance, or I’ll find a job. We’ll find a way.”

  “Yeah, and then what? The money will gone and we’ll be back to the same shithole.”

  He had a point. I bit the inside my cheek raw. A web of ideas started to form in my mind. In hindsight, I could say I was noble, acting to protect Auntie Lace. Little did I know that the decision I made that day would be one that I paid with bitter blood.

  “I’ll do it,” I blurted out. “I’ll sell the drugs.”

  “No fucking way.” Jake shook his head.

  “Language, Jake. Please.” Yeah, it does sound unrealistic, but even a badass like me had to have some kind of standard.

  “Fuck me for my language. Come on, you can’t stand me cussing, yet you want to be a pusher?” he said with a bitter laugh.

  “Fuck you, Jake.” I planted my hand on my hips. “There! Are you fucking happy? I happen to choose not to use foul language. But you, better than anyone, know what I’m capable of.”

  Jake paled. It was a low blow to remind him, but I needed to get my point across.

  “Okay, let’s plan this right. You’re in middle school, which makes it ridiculously risky to sell drugs,” I said.

  “Pot, Luna. Pot!”

  “Whatever. So, here is what we’re gonna do. Since I’m in high school, I’ll sell it for now, and when you reach ninth grade, if we still need the money, you can sell too.” I dared dreamed our situation would miraculously have changed by then.

  “I don’t see why I can’t sell it,” Jake said with a pout.

  “Because, middle schoolers are a bunch of babies. They’ll tell on you.” I put the money back and hung the birdhouse.

  “Thank you for doing this for Mom.”

  “I’m not doing it for her. I’m just tired of being hungry.” I dropped to my bed. “But here’s the deal. After expenses, we save the rest, and when I turn eighteen, we’ll hit the road.”

  “And go where?”

  “Far away from this hellhole.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “She won’t mind, Jake. She’ll be thrilled to be relieved of the burden of having us around.”

  Sorrow clouded Jake’s eyes. He sighed, a sigh so sad it made me want to wrap my arms around him.