And there I am, sitting in front of them, right in the middle of the photo. I was also wearing a pink dress. And I’m the only one in the photo not smiling. Not that I am frowning exactly. It’s more a look of wonderment—or perhaps I was feeling hopeful, as if I thought that getting this happy family photo taken was a good omen for us. If so, I was wrong. I study my dress, trying to remember how the fabric felt. It was soft cotton with rosebuds embroidered along the hem, probably a Laura Ashley. And although the dress was sweet, it wasn’t nearly as pretty or as pale a pink as Shannon’s. And of course, my hair, eyes, and skin were not as pale as hers either. I know I am a combination of my parents—part Caucasian and part African American-yet it’s my dad’s black heritage that I’ve related to most over the years. In many ways Shannon feels like a stranger to me.
And as I notice my reflection in one of the many mirrors in this room, I realize that I look like a stranger in here too. I stand out against the pale blue walls, and my overalls look dark and out of place against the faded blue and white fabric of the window seat. Everything, from my curly, dark brown hair to my almost-black eyes to my “almond-colored complexion,” as Shannon calls it, does not belong in my mother’s bedroom. I am too dark. I don’t look a bit like my mother’s daughter.
I wonder if that’s part of the reason she sometimes seems to despise me. Yet it was her choice to marry my father. Although occasionally I wonder if she married his fame and fortune as much as she married him. Because once that was gone, or appeared to be gone, she seemed to despise him as well. Or maybe she simply despises herself.
I wonder where she is right now…and if she’s okay. Although I seriously doubt she is “okay.” Not in the real sense of the word. I guess the most I can hope for is that she’s alive. I’m tempted to e-mail my dad again. This time I would tell him the truth—that Shannon is a mess, that she’s doing drugs again, that she’s been gone for three days, and that I’m almost out of money (from my secret stash I keep hidden from her). But I’m afraid it will upset him to hear these things. And it’s important for him to stay focused just now. He’s mentioned several times how vital it is for him to invest all of himself and all of his energy and talent into his career right now. I don’t want to be the reason he fails; that would ruin everything for all of us.
I look at an old photo of my dad. It’s on Shannon’s bedside table, partially buried amid the clutter piled around it—old dusty magazines, empty prescription bottles, a Jack Daniel’s bottle on its side, and a couple of dirty glasses next to it, along with a lacy black bra that’s seen better days. I’m tempted to do some cleaning in here, but that would only create more trouble when Shannon comes home. If she comes home, that is.
Anyway, I study Dad’s picture. It must’ve been a publicity photo because it’s a head-and-shoulders shot with his chin tilted slightly down. He has a partial smile, and those sparkling dark eyes seem to be holding a little something back—a secret perhaps. I’m sure this was taken when Nick Stark was at the height of his career, when his name was a household word and his albums were selling like hot cakes. Probably before I was born, back when my parents thought the money would never stop pouring in.
As I look at this shot, I can see why Shannon might’ve truly fallen in love with my dad. It could’ve had as much to do with his looks and charm and wit and generosity as his fame and fortune. Anyway, I’d like to think that.
It’s hard to believe that so much was lost—and over a relatively short time too, although it seemed longer back when I was little. But after the final fight and my dad moving out, our standard of living plunged steadily. I realize that both my parents are to blame for this. My dad, depressed and angry over the breakup of his marriage, became increasingly reckless and irresponsible with his finances. According to Shannon, he squandered millions. But I think that’s an exaggeration—and probably her way of getting the spotlight off her and all the money she wasted on cocaine. For all I know, that could’ve been millions too.
Shannon used to blame Dad for her addiction problems, and I suppose that’s partially true since he admitted to me that it was one of his music connections who originally brought cocaine into our home. But the truth of the matter is, Nick Stark has always avoided drugs, even marijuana—a habit Shannon didn’t attempt to hide from anyone. Whether it was in our backyard or the living room, my mom wasn’t afraid to just light up when the mood hit her. “It soothes my shattered nerves,” she would say to anyone who questioned her. As if her lifestyle was so very stressful.
Of course, this aggravated my dad. His father was also a musician—and a heroin addict, who died young. I believe that put a genuine fear into Dad’s heart, because to this day he abhors all drugs. I guess my only question is, why does he knowingly allow me to remain with a woman who uses and abuses substances like cocaine and amphetamines? But I know the answer, and it’s threefold: (1) there’s a lot of denial going on, (2) my dad does not like to engage in any unnecessary conflict with Shannon, and (3) he’s just too busy.
Even so, I wonder what Nick Stark’s fans would think if they knew his fifteen-year-old daughter is fending for herself while her mom is out on a three-day drug binge (well, three days so far). Then again, maybe no one would care. After all, this is not a new story. In some ways I can really relate to Nicole Richie. Her story is freakily similar to mine. And yet when Nicole blows it (by anorexic or drunk and disorderly or whatever…) and she makes the front page, it seems as if everyone takes potshots at her. They call her “shallow” and “spoiled” and say she has “entitlement issues.” It’s like no one remembers how she was raised, the things she’s, been through. Why doesn’t anyone care to attribute some of her problems to the fact that she grew up in a very strange family? But then again, maybe it’s really not so strange. Not by my standards anyway.
Sometimes I wonder if the way I’m living might actually be turning into the norm in this country. Maybe it’s simply my fantasy that there are healthy, happy, well-adjusted families out there. Moms who drive kids to soccer and ballet. Dads who come home for dinner. Perhaps a dog or a cat running around. Food in the fridge. Utility bills that are paid. Am I wrong to assume that people like my cousin Kim and her dad are the norm? What if they’re the anomaly?
Even so, more and more I find myself wanting what they have. It’s like a desperate craving, a deep, pathetic longing that will never be fulfilled. Because I can never have what Kim and her dad have—what their little family had before Kim’s mom died. It’s completely out of my reach. I’m like the poor little kid with her nose pushed against the toy store window, just wishing. Only it’s not the toys I want. The sad truth is, I’ve actually had more than my fair share of that kind of junk. When I was little, my dad used to bring home all kinds of things to make up for being gone so much. Nanny Jane was always picking things up and complaining that my room looked more like a toy store than a nursery. And later on, after the divorce, when I’d go to visit Dad, he would use the latest video games and electronic gadgets to pay me off. Only it never worked.
I’ve had all the material things any kid could want. But that doesn’t make up for what I haven’t had, and that doesn’t make me want it less. And writing in this stupid journal only seems to make me feel worse! I think Kim was wrong about the therapy thing. Although writing about the earth is kind of therapeutic for me. So here goes.
Maya’s Green Tip for the Day
The three basic rules for green living are: reduce, reuse, and recycle. Today I’ll talk to you about the first rule. To reduce, you simply make a conscious decision to consume less. That means you don’t buy without thinking. Before you make a purchase, ask yourself: (1) do you really need that item, (2) do you already have something that can serve the same purpose, and (3) can you buy that item in a recycled form and/or recycle it when you’re finished with it? Like instead of buying a new bike, maybe you can find a good secondhand bike. Also, to be really green, you should ask yourself if the item you’re buying will last a long time
and whether it’s made from renewable resources (things that grow, like bamboo or cotton or domestic woods) and where and how it was made (like did they waste energy to make it?).
Four
May 31
Yes, it’s been a while since I picked up a pen to record what’s been going on in my life…and in this particular nut house. But let me start by saying this has been the worst month of my life. And if you knew everything about my life, you would know that means it’s been bad. Seriously bad. That’s the main reason I’ve avoided writing in my journal the past couple of weeks. It’s just too depressing. Even for me. But suddenly I feel the need to document these things. Perhaps I can use this journal in court as evidence of my mom’s inability to parent.
Shannon has been a complete yo-yo the last three weeks. She’s like the human roller-coaster ride. She does a two- to three-day missing act, which I know is related to a partying drug binge, and then she comes home completely wiped out. It takes her a day or so to recover, and then she puts on this act like everything is back to normal. As if we even know “normal.”
Lately she’s even made some pathetic attempts to cook meals for us, which is a big joke—not to mention an enormous mess that I usually have to clean up. But during her recovery time, she promises that she’s not going to pull this stuff again. She says things like “I make myself sick!” and “I can’t keeping living like this!” And she asks me to help her, sometimes breaking down in tears, begging me to stand by her. Naturally, I say that I will. But even as I make these promises, I’m not sure I can keep them. I’ve learned from the best that promises are made to be broken.
Still, she almost had me convinced a couple of weeks ago. I’d been considering calling my dad to ask for help. But that night Shannon sobbed and swore that it was her last time and that her “problem” was going to stop and that she was ready to get professional help. So a few sober days passed, and I did begin to feel a smidgen of hope.
I got into my routine of doing schoolwork, hoping to finish this year and take the summer off like other kids. And just when I felt like my feet were back on the ground, Shannon jerked the rug right out from under me and took off again. She told me she was going to NA (Narcotics Anonymous), which actually turned out to be true. But when she finally came home two days later, she confessed that she’d hooked up with an old coke buddy and that they’d gone out partying following the NA meeting. How’s that for networking?
Then a few days ago, shortly after the check from Dad finally arrived, she took off again. At least I’d had the smarts to insist on going to the bank with her. After cashing the check, she handed me two hundred dollars to go shopping. Yeah, right. The only place I shop these days is the grocery store, where I buy exciting things like biodegradable toilet paper, environmentally friendly laundry soap, and organic food. Then when Shannon finally came home last night, she was (big surprise here) totally broke.
“Have you got any money, baby?” she asked in that slurred and scratchy pathetic voice that sounds like she’s still under the influence. I told her, “Sorry,” that I was broke too, which was, of course, a lie. A self-preservation lie. After that, she closed herself up in her room, and I haven’t seen her since. Not that I care. I am beginning to care less and less… about everything.
I just don’t know how long I can go on like this. Seriously, I feel like giving up. And I felt so desperate this morning that I actually e-mailed my cousin Kim, asking for advice. I told her a little—just a teeny, tiny bit—about what’s going on in my life these days. Of course, immediately after hitting Send, I regretted my confession. I wish I could’ve retrieved the e-mail, but I don’t think that’s possible. Anyway, I haven’t heard back from her yet. I suspect her life is fairly busy. Or maybe my message got lost somewhere in cyberspace. Sometimes that’s how my life feels to me—lost in space.
I guess the part that scares me most—as far as Kim having a glimpse into my life—is that I don’t really know this girl. Oh, sure, she’s my cousin. Not that it counts for anything. I mean, her mom, my aunt, seemed like a nice person, but Kim is a complete unknown factor to me. What if she can’t be trusted? And yet I’ve just divulged a pretty huge secret to her. What if she tells her dad and they decide to do something really, really stupid—like call L.A. County DCFS? I’ve gone down the road with Children and Family Services before, and I didn’t like where it took me.
When I was thirteen, I actually looked into getting emancipated from Shannon. Things were bad then…but not as bad as now. Naturally, Shannon threw a total hissy fit—she would lose out financially if I was emancipated. No more big checks from my dad. So before the caseworker could come to our house and check things out, Shannon went to a lot of work to put on the appearance of “normal.” Well, as normal as anyone in LA. might be. And don’t forget, the woman is an actress. And her act was convincing. Not that it mattered, because as the caseworker politely pointed out, I wasn’t old enough to be emancipated yet. According to her, the law states that not only must your parents sign off, but you must have a place to live and be able to continue attending school as well as have a job that can support you. Well, duh. What thirteen-year-old can support herself? I mean, besides by heading down to Wilshire Boulevard and selling my body for sex. Like that’s going to happen!
At the time I investigated emancipation, my dad was just beginning to tour again. And naturally, he wasn’t interested in taking me along for the ride. It didn’t help that Shannon, still in actress mode, had somehow convinced him that I was “simply experiencing a bad case of teenage angst.” She even asked him if he’d seen that film Thirteen. Give me a break! I mean, it’s an interesting movie, but those two girls pretty much go nuts.
Eventually, my caseworker told me that if my home life was really so terrible, my best option might be to get on a waiting list for a group foster home. Okay, I’ve heard about the foster-care system in our state, and that scared me even more than living with Shannon. So I just shut my mouth and decided to bide my time. Now I’m wondering if fifteen is old enough to be emancipated. But then there’s that pesky job thing and those other legal details. Still, it might be worth looking into. Although it would help if I were sixteen and could drive. Unfortunately, my birthday isn’t until December.
Even so, I wonder if I could get a job. There are places close enoughto walk or ride my bike to, but would they hire a fifteen-year-old? Although I’ve been told I look old for my age.
June 5
After searching online and the classifieds and after making a few inquiries, I quickly discovered that the only places fifteen-year-olds can find work in our neighborhood is at fast-food restaurants or by doing yard work, housecleaning, or baby-sitting. I cannot work in a restaurant, because I refuse to handle animal by-products. I would gladly do yard work, but so far no one has returned my calls. I think it’s because I’m a girl, which seems like discrimination to me. Speaking of discrimination, when I called about housecleaning, the woman spoke to me in Spanish, and even though my Spanish is okay for a gringa, she didn’t sound the least bit interested in interviewing me. They probably only hire Latinos. And my only experience with baby-sitting was when our neighbors’ eighteen-month-old grandbabies came to visit last summer. The twin boys, Liam and Rye, were adorable, from a distance anyway, but after two weeks of changing diapers and chasing down screaming toddlers, well, I still cannot bear to think of it.
If I’m going to work toward being on my own, I need to find work. And based on Shannon’s erratic behavior this past month, I need to make a plan. So on my way to the Market Basket, my favorite natural food store (who is not hiring), I notice a Help Wanted sign in the window of a rather chichi clothing boutique. Now honestly, the last thing I want to do is sell overpriced designer clothes to overspending, undernourished, shopaholic women (not unlike my mom), but maybe they just want a stock girl. That might not be too torturous.
So I hurry to gather my tofu products, nuts, a fresh loaf of vegan bread, and organically grown fruit,
and I carefully pack these groceries into my reusable canvas Earth bag and come directly home, put them away, and then begin to make a plan.
Shannon, once again, is gone. I had hoped it was just an ordinary date, since the guy who picked her up seemed halfway decent, but when she didn’t make it home, I had to assume she was out getting high again. In a way, this is lucky, because this allows me to borrow a few things from her packed closet—a walk-in closet that’s bigger than some people’s bedrooms. Although she has all kinds of storage, things are heaped in piles, and she won’t even notice if a few items go missing.
It’s not as if I don’t have clothes that would be appropriate for working in a clothing boutique. I have lots of things I never even wear—“stylish” rags that Shannon gets me whether I want them or not. Drugs aren’t her only addiction. But after checking out my closet, I know I need to bring it up a notch or two. I am not stupid. As soon as I walk into that boutique and ask for a job application, eyes will be narrowed, and my outfit will be scrutinized. And I know that I have to measure up to their shallow standards.
Okay, part of me is screaming, Why are you doing this, Maya? Why are you compromising yourself? Why are you becoming a hypocrite? I mean, not only am I willing to work in a business I do not respect. I am willing to carry a bag made of leather! What is wrong with this picture? The answer is simple: I’m desperate. I’m nearly broke again. This is the first step in my emancipation plan, so I’ll bite the bullet and just do it.
June 6
Picking up the application actually went fairly smoothly today. A stick-thin woman named Em was friendly enough. She had short, choppy hair that was dyed jet black and tipped with midnight blue.
A Not-So-Simple Life Page 3
