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Glass - 02

Page 28

by Ellen Hopkins


  less complicated lives is their only

  goal. Personally, I need to live faster,

  even if it means dying younger. Don’t

  ask me why. As for the guilt, it comes

  and goes. Mostly, it’s gone, right along

  with Mom’s jewelry and a chunk of her

  money. Part of me thinks she deserves

  it. Another part doesn’t know why.

  I Consider That in the Shower

  Scrubbing off yesterday’s sweat,

  last night’s sex. All of a sudden,

  the front door throbs with noise.

  Knocking. Pounding. Thumping.

  Whoever it is wants a reaction.

  But who? The manager? Cops?

  Shaking, I wrap a towel around

  myself, wishing Trey was here

  instead of making a delivery.

  A glimpse out the peephole gives

  no definitive answers. It’s a guy

  in a suit. Detective? If I don’t answer,

  he’ll go away, but I’m guessing

  he’ll be back. At least my semi-

  naked state will give me the excuse

  to go into the other room, dispose

  of evidence if need be. I crack

  the door around the chain. “Yes?”

  Kristina Georgia Snow? He slides

  a sheaf of papers through the opening.

  Consider yourself served. The man

  turns on his heel, leaves without

  threatening to come inside. Not

  a detective. Only a process server.

  Relieved but still shaking, I force

  myself to look at what’s written on

  the papers. Something about Hunter?

  I read further. Despite the hefty

  legalese, I understand the gist

  of the six-page document. Mom

  and Scott have filed for custody.

  They claim I’m an unfit mother,

  cite drug abuse and several instances

  of observed “unstable behavior.”

  They’re asking to be appointed

  legal guardians. Immediately.

  If I Want to Fight Them

  I’ll have to pass a drug test.

  Go to court.

  Talk to a judge.

  Tell him why I’m more

  fit to raise Hunter than

  Mom and Scott are.

  Convince him those instances

  of unstable behavior were justified.

  Or aberrances.

  Do I want to fight?

  Am I more fit to raise him?

  Am I fit to raise him at all?

  Do I want to raise him?

  Am I ready for full-time motherhood?

  The answer to all these questions:

  “How the fuck

  do I know?”

  When Trey Gets Back

  I show him the papers.

  He is kind. Reasonable.

  It’s up to you. I’ll support

  you, whatever you decide.

  But I’ve already pretty

  much made up my mind.

  They’ll take good care of

  him. And it’s only temporary.

  That’s right. I can always

  go to court for him later.

  Meanwhile, we’ll find a nicer

  place. Get our feet under us.

  A bigger place, in a better

  neighborhood. Good schools.

  Please don’t cry. Come here.

  I’ll make you feel better.

  We get high. Make love.

  Lie softly folded together.

  We’re good together, aren’t we?

  And this is just the beginning.

  The beginning of what?

  And why does it feel so much

  like an ending?

  We Live an Endless

  Mindless cycling.

  Buzzed.

  Barely buzzed.

  Crash.

  Buzzed again.

  Recycling.

  Buzzed.

  Barely buzzed.

  Crash.

  Buzzed again.

  Augmented by

  a different cycling.

  Score.

  Pay up.

  Deal.

  Score more.

  Or, depending on

  what’s due when,

  Score.

  Forge checks.

  Pay up.

  Score more.

  I don’t worry about

  getting caught. I don’t

  worry about me at all,

  although I could

  worry about

  Kristina and Mom.

  Kristina and Hunter.

  Kristina and Trey.

  Kristina and the monster.

  Call me stupid, but I do,

  in fact, worry about

  Trey and Angela.

  Trey and casinos.

  Trey, helping himself

  to the contents of the lockbox.

  On a Whim

  I pick up a newspaper.

  Maybe I’ll get a job.

  A new direction.

  A way out.

  Why do I think I

  need that? Doesn’t

  matter. I already

  spent

  the fifty cents for

  the paper. And hey,

  since I bought it,

  might

  as well read it.

  What’s going on

  in the world?

  Perhaps

  a new war?

  New president? Not that

  either event would

  affect me.

  Anyway, Section B,

  page three, I come

  across a photo.

  Definitely

  [an ugly] me, cashing

  a check at a local bank.

  The caption reads:

  Does

  anyone know this

  woman? Fuck me.

  Someone out there

  definitely does.

  First Things First

  Trey and I decide our abode is no longer

  a safe place to stay. Not only does the greed-

  fed manager know us, but a process server

  has lately been by. I’m not real sure he got

  a good look at me, but you never know.

  That guy is no doubt always on the prowl

  for an easy buck. Secret Witness is painless

  pickings. The major bummer is, we just paid

  the rent. But such is the not-pretty life of

  a dealer/burglar/forger. What a mouthful!

  An ugly mouthful of crap, defining me. But

  no worries. We toss most of our belongings

  into suitcases and boxes. Two suitcases.

  Three boxes. Trey plus me equals: not

  a whole lot more shit. We have to write off

  most of the furniture. Garage-sale, oh well.

  The best thing to do would be to go far, far

  away. But we’re glass-heavy, cash-light.

  Trey has the solution. We’ll sleep in the car

  until we’re off the meth. Then we’ll score one

  more time. A big one, before we take off.

  I hear ice is a big commodity in the Midwest.

  Good plan. One we settle on. We move into

  the Mustang. Sell a shitload of crystal.

  Go to Fernley for one final score. A major

  one. Cesar is happy to front us a half pound.

  After all, we’ve always made good on his fronts.

  Always come back for more. Always…

  But This Time

  We have no plans to come back.

  No plans to pay up. No plans

  to stay in this place. The only

  place I’ve ever known as home.

  An ending.

  But we won’t head east. We’ll

  go west, to California, where

  meth was f
irst invented and

  remains the drug of choice. Is this

  a beginning?

  I wish I could feel. Or maybe

  not. If I could, I would feel loss.

  Hunter. Mom. Jake. Leigh. Even

  Scott, who has always been there

  for me.

  They say meth affects the brain.

  Destroys the pleasure center.

  Could it smash the pain center too?

  Would feeling pain be better than

  feeling numb?

  Homeless

  Out of Nevada, we touch down

  in California. Unsure of where to go

  from here, we decide we need food.

  McD’s okay? We should

  probably eat cheap for a while.

  We’re on a downswing.

  Sleepy. Hungry. Empty. “Cheap

  is good, as long as there’s a lot of it.”

  Ronald would be proud.

  Big Macs and fries, times two?

  “Times two, twice.” Fuck it.

  I can invest a few calories. Not

  like I’ve eaten a whole lot lately.

  Okay. But you know I’m not

  real fond of Two-Ton-Tessies.

  “Love me fat, love me skinny.

  Just keep loving me. Hey,

  sounds like a song. Love me—”

  You might want to work on it

  before you try out for American Idol.

  We locate a McDonald’s off

  the freeway, go inside to pee,

  order our fifteen-dollar feast.

  Let’s eat in the car. Looks like

  they’re getting ready to close.

  It is pretty late. Trey pulls

  the Mustang back into a dark

  corner of the parking lot.

  No one will bother us here.

  Oh, man, this shit tastes great.

  He’s right. It does. And as

  my belly fills with greasy

  food, my eyes grow heavy.

  We shouldn’t swing for a room.

  Let’s sleep in the car, okay?

  It’s not the comfiest bed. But

  it is free. And we don’t dare

  drive anywhere this tired.

  We’ll make L.A. tomorrow.

  We can bunk with a buddy then.

  Cool. Whatever. Meanwhile

  I’m just going to close my

  eyes, slip into Dreamville.

  Tap-Tap-Tap

  Tapping on the glass. Glass?

  Where am I? And who’s knocking?

  Come on. Wake up!

  Car. I’m in a car. Trey’s car.

  And he’s here too, arms around

  me, trying to wake up, just like I am.

  I don’t want to. I want to sleep.

  Hello? Open the window!

  Just a minute. Just a freaking

  minute. I manage to open my eyes.

  The guy outside the window, the one

  who’s been knocking, wears a uniform.

  His flashlight parts the darkness,

  seeks immediate information.

  Good evening. May I see some ID?

  Trey politely offers his license.

  Something wrong, Officer?

  Don’t you know you can’t sleep here?

  Sorry. We had no idea. It’s just

  that we got off the freeway…

  The cop shines his light in our eyes.

  Then he speaks directly to me.

  How ’bout you, miss? ID?

  The cop takes our licenses back

  to his car. I’m getting a very bad

  feeling. Trey notices. Don’t panic.

  Eventually, the uniform returns.

  Please step out of the vehicle.

  Holy shit. There can’t be an APB

  out for me already, can there?

  Someone would have had to identify

  me, right? Could it happen this fast?

  You say you’re just passing through?

  Okay, maybe it isn’t an all points

  bulletin. Maybe he’s just being nosy—

  doing his job. “That’s right.” I give him

  my best smile. “We can just be on our way….”

  Mind if I take a quick look inside?

  He wants to search the Mustang.

  The meth is in the lockbox, under

  the front seat. It would take a warrant

  to unlock that. Maybe he won’t bother.

  Maybe he won’t even see it. Trey

  must be thinking the same thing.

  He looks over at me, gives a small

  shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

  A Second Patrol Car

  Joins the party as Cop

  Number One leans inside

  the Mustang, flashlight

  at the ready. It takes

  about two seconds for

  him to find the lockbox,

  extract it, place it on the seat.

  Surprise! It isn’t locked.

  And talk about surprised.

  One of Sacramento’s finest

  has just discovered a half

  pound of 90 percent pure

  crystal methamphetamine.

  You should see the look

  on his face. He’ll be the talk

  of the locker room for days.

  No surprise. We’re fucked.

  Cuffed

  Totally busted.

  We are stuffed

  into separate cars,

  hauled off to city

  jail. It’s a short ride,

  not even long enough

  to think about what

  will happen next.

  Poked. Prodded.

  Grilled. Well done.

  Through it all I stay

  calm. Silent. The ball

  is in—ha-ha-ha—

  their court now.

  I’m allowed a call.

  Need to call some

  one, let them know

  where I am. What’s

  happened. But who?

  Mom? Don’t think

  so—like she needs

  more ammunition.

  Brad? Uh-uh. He

  never bothered to

  check up on me.

  One person might

  actually care. One

  person might

  actually answer

  his phone.

  “Hello, Quade…?”

  Jail Regulars Will Tell You

  Not to get busted on Friday

  night. Law demands arraignment

  within forty-eight hours. But

  weekends don’t count.

  Four days

  before we might

  be granted bail. (Highly

  doubtful. We’re not only

  flight risks, but mostly broke.)

  Four days

  before we can get a feel

  for our future. Four days to

  come to grips with the thought

  we might be here awhile.

  Four days

  without a cigarette.

  Smoke-free lockup. Whose

  stupid idea was that? Inmates

  in deep withdrawal. Idiotic!

  Four days

  without the monster,

  and that withdrawal doubles

  me over. Makes me sweat. Shiver.

  Puke, in and out of the toilet.

  Four days

  wishing I were dead, instead

  of screaming back at the monster.

  Dead, instead of running from

  the demons. Demons, rampant

  in this Godless place.

  The Officers on Duty

  Do keep an eye on things.

  But they don’t exactly

  come rushing to my rescue.

  Don’t worry. You’ll survive,

  says one, a woman about

  the size of a steer.

  Frigging tweakers are all

  alike.
Whiners. Sweat that

  shit out of your system,

  you’ll be good as new, ’cept

  for lacking a few brain cells.

  You wanna see ugly, watch

  a wino in lockup, fighting

  d.t.’s. Oh, mama, now that

  is some scary shit.

  I’ve heard hard-core alkies

  can die without booze. That

  they bring ’em fixes, so they

  don’t croak in custody. I call

  that out-and-out prejudice.

  Injustice. Maybe I should sue.

  I Don’t See Trey

  Until the arraignment.

  We share the defendants’ table,

  the public defender who stands

  with us. Share a “not guilty” plea

  to several charges, including

  possession of and trafficking

  methamphetamine, importing

  it across the state line.

 

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