Glass - 02

by Ellen Hopkins

  no, I know—he’ll be generous.

  Homework, baths, then bed!

  Spoken like a true dad.

  We help the girls with their

  assignments, hustle them off

  to the tub and sweet dreams.

  I even read them a bedtime story.

  Once they’ve dozed off, Brad

  knocks on my door. In the mood?

  I know he means for a couple

  of tokes, but something else

  creeps into my warped brain.

  “I’m always in the mood.”

  He smiles, and shows off his new

  stash, as good as or better than the last.

  I’ve been thinking things

  through for a while. After

  several very smooth hits,

  I say, “You know I’m tight

  on cash. I was hoping maybe

  I could off a little for you, in

  exchange for some personal.”

  His response is long, slow.

  Do you know people who you

  can trust? I mean, you’ve been

  out of the loop for a while now,

  and I have to be very careful.

  He is very careful, has to be because

  of his kids, and I understand that.

  “Yeah, I know a couple of guys

  who’d go ballistic if they saw

  meth of this quality. Don’t worry.

  I’d keep you my bestest secret.”

  He grins. I trust you, Kristina.

  I just want you to be careful too.

  You’re the best nanny in Reno.

  I can’t imagine being without you.

  We share a couple more bowls,

  then he stands, kisses me on the cheek.

  Better go. My mind is going places

  it shouldn’t. See you in the morning.

  The door snaps shut behind him.

  My mind is going places

  it shouldn’t too. I call Trey,

  before my body follows.

  The Downside

  About counting on someone else

  to help you do the right thing

  is they’re not always available.

  In Trey’s case, that’s often.

  The downside of smoking ice

  is when you can’t get hold of

  someone, sometimes you get mad.

  In my case, that’s tonight.

  As usual, I get Trey’s message center.

  Tonight, I need to hear his voice,

  live in my ear. Where are you, damn

  it all? Can’t you just once pick up?

  Buzzed, antsy, I try TV for company.

  But late-night tripe won’t backfill

  the gaping hole inside me. The longer

  I sit here, the more cavernous it grows.

  I go into the bathroom, turn on the

  shower, hot enough to redden my

  skin, scrub away the building desire

  in a release of sandalwood steam.

  No such luck. All it does is remind

  me of sharing this small, encapsulated

  place with the person I love, the one who’s

  supposed to love me, but doesn’t call.

  I brush my teeth with the same energy

  I used on my body, notice a streak of blood

  in the spit that spirals down the drain.

  No worries. That’s normal, right?

  Cleansed, scented, hair wet and cool

  down the length of my spine, I feel like

  a goddess, jailed in her Olympus. Little

  wonder, how the gods toyed with humans.

  Toyed with women, to watch

  them squirm, pollinate the seeds

  of despair; toyed with men, to

  satiate their Seven Deadly Sins.

  I know it’s not right, that I have

  no right at all to do what I’m about

  to do. Maybe he’ll say no, send me

  back here to swim in emptiness.

  Wearing Nothing

  But a thigh-length button-up shirt,

  barely buttoned, I creep down the hall.

  Stop outside the girls’ door, poke

  my head inside. Lights out. Totally.

  One step at a time, silent as night,

  I keep going until I reach Brad’s room.

  One ear to the door. Not a sound.

  I knock softly and he says, Come in.

  He’s lying in bed, alone in the dark,

  only moonlight to let me know.

  I hesitate, but Bree gives me a shove.

  [Go on. It’s only between the two of us.]

  Brad draws back the quilt and I slither

  beneath it, into his arms. I was hoping

  you’d come. Now he’s kissing me, and

  it’s nothing like how Trey kisses at all.

  But it’s good. Great. And his strength

  becomes mine. But before we do

  more, I have to tell him, “I know

  this isn’t right, but I need you.”

  And he says, We need each other.

  How can that be wrong? I still love

  Angela, and I know you love Trey.

  Can’t you and I love each other too?

  I haven’t thought past loving Trey,

  never considered loving someone else,

  especially not at the same time.

  Can I love more than one person?

  Would that make me love Trey less?

  I have no answers now, need no

  answers now. Except one.

  “Are you saying you love me?”

  He Doesn’t Answer

  Not with words, as if

  vocalizing his response

  would give it too much

  weight. His silent reply

  is heavy enough.

  Silent, but for the shush

  of skin against skin;

  the sigh of heightened

  senses; the exclamation

  of bodies, no longer

  strangers.

  The Problem with Sex

  Is that it changes everything.

  Brad and I are still friends.

  But we’re a different kind

  of friends. More than pals.

  More, even, than fuck buddies.

  It’s like we’re stand-ins

  for the true loves of our lives.

  And the only way to be that

  is to let ourselves love

  each other.

  When you love someone,

  you don’t want to hurt

  them, even if they deserve

  to be hurt. When you love

  someone, you want to hurt

  them, even when they don’t

  deserve to be hurt. It’s totally

  messed up, and so are Brad

  and I. Totally messed up

  because of—and over—

  each other.

  We don’t talk about the future.

  Don’t talk about what will

  happen when Trey comes

  back, or if Angela decides

  her husband and children

  mean something to her,

  after all. We’re taking things

  one day at a time. One night

  at a time.

  The Problem with Meth

  Is similar. It changes

  everything. The monster

  and I are still friends.

  But we’re a different

  kind of friends. More

  than pals, fuck buddies.

  Six months since we met up

  again, we are inseparable,

  an intricate weave.

  No longer do I believe

  this is a temporary fling.

  More like total commitment.

  More like I have walked

  down the aisle, holding

  hands with the monster.

  I don’t think about the future,

  or wha
t life would be like

  without crystal. It’s almost

  always here, within easy

  reach. I don’t think about

  what it might be doing to

  my brain, or my heart.

  I know people die from doing

  too much. But I’m in control.

  Okay, mostly in control.

  I am thin. But that’s how

  guys want girls to be, right?

  I do grind my teeth, and

  every now and then I lose

  a chip from one. But those

  can be fixed, right? Probably

  the worst thing is how I’m

  kind of edgy. Sometimes

  I lose it completely. Once

  in a while, I even scream

  at the girls. But kids can

  be obnoxious and a nanny

  should keep them in line.

  Right?

  Relax

  It’s not like I hit them. I can stop myself

  before things get that out of hand. The most

  physical I’ve gotten is giving Devon a good shake.

  She deserved it. I mean, she was crying—

  freaking out—because I said no to ice cream

  after she got home from school. Ice cream?

  I told her to go watch TV while LaTreya did

  her homework. Devon screamed, Mommy

  would give me ice cream and then she just

  stood there, yowling like a dying cat. Nerves

  frayed, I stomped across the kitchen,

  grabbed her cheeks in one hand, squeezed.

  “Shut the hell up.” But would she? No!

  She looked me right in the eye. I’m gonna

  tell my daddy. Definitely not the right

  thing to say. I took her by the shoulders,

  shook until her head snapped back and forth.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Her eyes

  went wide and snot flew everywhere. But

  she finally shut up and went to watch TV.

  Okay, it wasn’t nice. Blame it on the monster.

  Part of My Snappish Behavior

  Is being stuck here, no way to go

  anywhere unless I walk, or wait

  until Brad can take me. It’s like

  being stuck in childhood again.

  Fixing the LTD will make life

  easier, and everyone happier.

  I called around, and Pick ’n’ Pull

  has a used radiator and fan I can afford.

  I just have to find a way to get them,

  then talk someone into installing

  them for me. I happen to know someone

  who’s tool-friendly, and Brad is cooperative.

  I’ll pick them up on my way home.

  It will give me something to do

  this weekend. Oh, I’m getting a new

  shipment, so if you still think you

  know someone you can off some to,

  you might want to give them a call.

  My car is getting fixed, and so

  is my dwindled stash. Life is good.

  I Know Exactly Two People

  In Reno who would be interested

  in scoring some killer ice. Well,

  I might know more, but two for sure.

  Both, however, are problematic.

  I’ll have to get hold of Grade E

  at the Sev. And I can’t do that until

  after eleven. And if he wants some,

  I’m not sure how to arrange a meet.

  The second person is one I hate

  with every ounce of my being. One

  I swore never to talk to again. Can

  I get past all that to make a deal?

  [Why not get back at him the only

  way you can—make a bundle

  off his greed.] It’s a delicate dance,

  but using him has a certain appeal.

  Despite whatever brain cells

  the monster has eaten, I remember

  his number. Dial it? Don’t? God,

  I hate indecision. Kick me, Bree!

  [If you don’t deal with him, Grady

  will. Why not be your own middle

  man?] All it takes is a glance in my

  lockbox. Empty, but for a few bucks.

  Fine. I’ll call. But he’d better not

  get the wrong idea. The phone rings

  and rings, and I’m starting to think

  that’s the way it should be, when

  he finally answers. The sound

  of his voice sends chills through

  my body. And not good chills.

  Your dime. Start talking.

  And I’m trying to, really I am,

  but my own voice sticks in my

  throat like a big wad of taffy.

  At last I manage, “Hello, Brendan?”

  I’ve Tried to Get Over

  What happened that night.

  Tried to blame the meth.

  The booze. The situation.

  I even tried to forgive him

  because Hunter is an angel.

  But I can’t forgive him.

  Can’t forgive that he forced

  himself on me, inside me.

  If he’d only been patient,

  I probably would have

  said yes. Okay. Let’s.

  But I was scared, and

  he knew it, and my

  being afraid pushed

  some kind of on button.

  And it seems to me

  if that happened once,

  it will likely happen

  again. I should have

  called the cops. Turned

  him in, seen to it he’d

  never get the chance

  to flip that on button

  again. And if it wasn’t

  for the monster, I would

  have. So who is really

  to blame? Brendan?

  The monster? Or me?

  Hey, guess what. It

  doesn’t matter, anyway.

  We Set Up a Tentative Meet

  For tomorrow evening. Barring

  complications, my car should

  be running by then. I guess

  I should be a little scared,

  but I’m not. It’s not like he can

  rip off my virginity twice.

  Later I’ll call Grady, who’d

  jump in front of a moving

  train to score glass like this.

  Hmm. Maybe I should have

  arranged to meet Brendan

  down by the railroad trench.

  Next time. Meanwhile, looks

  like I’ve gone into business

  for myself. Entrepreneurship,

  the American Way. Although

  I doubt Warren Buffett ever had

  anything like this in mind.

  It’s simple. [If not exactly legal,

  but then neither is that insider

  trading shit.] It doesn’t take a

  college degree. [Or even a GED.]

  And it’s lucrative. [Only if you’re

  not dipping into the profit margin.]

  Therein lies a major problem

  for me. Wonder, if I quit using

  and kept the profit, if I could

  actually make some money, save

  it up, even. Wonder if I could

  quit. [Don’t make me laugh.]

  Have You Ever Tried

  To quit

  a bad habit, one

  that has come to

  define you?

  To cease

  using a substance—

  any substance—

  that you not only

  need but enjoy?

  To stop

  yourself from

  lighting up that

  cigarette? It’s going

  to kill you, but hey,

  you’re going

  to die

  someday anyway,

  why not
die happy,

  why not die buzzed,

  why not die

  satisfied? Why not

  die sooner, with

  fewer regrets, than

  later?

  Sooner Than Later, Brad Follows Through

  He picked up the radiator on

  his way home last night, and

  he’s already out in the garage

  working. Okay, we were up

  all night, so he got an early start.

  The new stash is all it should be.

  Good thing Brad is handy with

  tools, and the LTD presents few

  surprises. Bolt this here, screw

  that there, new hoses, new fluid.

  Voila. The car is ready to go by

  noon. He comes into the kitchen,

  all greasy. I smile at the black

  gunk smeared across his forehead

  and dotted at the end of his nose.

  “I owe you one. I mean, another

  one.” And he just looks so cute

  I can’t help but go over and kiss

  him. We’re lip-locked, temps

  rising, when all of a sudden,

  Hey! What are you doing?

  You can’t do that with Daddy!