Crank - 01 (10 page)

It did look better,

but it still didn’t look good—

a bright pink, semi-heart-shaped thing,

blue ink hiding somewhere beneath my skin,

not an easy thing to hide in an itsy bitsy bikini.

Band-aids were problematic. A little

one wouldn’t cover it, but one of those big

square dudes would draw everyone’s attention,

guaranteed. Besides, have you ever seen a Band-aid,

floating in a swimming pool? Would you want to

be responsible for such a disgusting thing?

And even if one did manage to stay

on midst gushing gallons of chlorinated

water, what would all that wet

wildness do to the just forming

scab and retreating infection?

Still, I couldn’t beg off.

Wild Waters Day was important

to Scott’s “leg up the management ladder.”

It was Mom’s day to strut her stuff in

her own itsy bitsy bikini.

And it was always a summer hit for us kids.

If I said I didn’t want to go,

Mom would check for a fever for certain.

Even if she didn’t find one, it

would open the door for questions

I really was in no mood to answer.

Questions I knew I’d have to answer soon.

As I Pondered

my problem, the telephone rang.

Jake happily informed me—not to

mention everyone else—it was

Adam/Buddy on the far end of the line.

His Idea of Love

sure didn’t mesh with mine.

“I love you, let’s see other people.”

Interesting

sentence structure.

“Lince’s coming home.

Let’s see other people.”

Unusual

paragraph construction.

My face flushed

tears poked my eyes,

scar tissue twisted my heart,

wrapped itself around arteries,

closed tight around my jugular.

I coughed pain.

I never went to Albuquerque

expecting to find love.

I thought it had found me there,

followed me home.

I never came home,

expecting to lose

love in the space

of one brief

telephone call.

Is it always so short-lived?

Mom Knocked on My Door

I found that strange.

She never knocked.

May I come in?

Never asked for permission

to come in. Permission.

That word again.

We haven’t had a chance to talk

since you got home.

Then she looked at my face,

all puffy and pissed, read

everything she needed to there.

Looks like we’ve got a lot to talk about.

But maybe this isn’t the best time?

I wanted to talk. Needed to.

But how could I possibly talk

to her? She was my mom.

I know I’m your mom and not always

easy to talk to. But I’m here for you.

I was ready for a lecture.

Why did she have to choose

that moment to try “nice”?

I want to hear all about your trip. Let

me know when you’re ready.

Big girls don’t cry, especially

not in front of their mommies.

But a cloudburst threatened.

I hope you’re hungry. I’m making

your favorite—lasagna and garlic bread.

I was hungry (somehow).

I was tired (still). I was hurting (inside and out).

And more than ever, I wanted to walk with the monster.

Over Lasagna and Garlic Bread

I talked about airplanes.

I talked about lonely seatmates,

third-run movies, and pretzels

(for this price!) in place of meals.

I talked about Albuquerque, bowling alley

etiquette, Los Alamos-grown cockroaches,

and walk-ups in decidedly bad neighborhoods

(omitting the part about my own little nighttime foray).

With some prodding, I talked about Dad,

his job, and (lack of) girlfriends;

I talked about his philosophy, somehow sadly yet

to ripen into something resembling maturity.

With a lot more prodding,

I talked about Adam aka Buddy

(omitting everything of use to anyone

interested in blackmail).

Considering his recent treachery,

it was easy enough not to gush

about his hot bod, wildcat eyes,

incredibly perfect lips, and intuitive hands.

And, mostly because everyone knew

it anyway, I talked about how, despite

his undying love, he had given us both

permission to date other people.

Leigh Knew

there was a

whole lot

more

to the story,

of course.

But I’d never

told her

secrets,

and trusted

completely

she would

never betray

mine.

Still, just in

case, I

never dared

mention

sex,

interrupted

by periods;

Lince;

interrupted by

drugs;

or my own

infatuation with

the monster’s

spectacular

rock and roll.

No, these

secrets

belonged strictly

in my own

private closet.

Later

Leigh climbed into my bed,

moved very close to me,

her proximity strangely

unsettling.

Want to talk? I do.

I miss how we used to talk.

I recalled a time, not so long

ago, when snuggling with

my big sister was

comforting.

Tell me more a bout Adam. Is he

really your very first boyfriend?

So why did it bother me now,

when I so needed

the consolation

of touch?

I’ll tell you about Heather. She’s

not my first, but she tops the list.

Heather? Lesbians had names like

Bobbi or Jo, didn’t they?

“Heather” belonged to a

model or cheerleader.

She’s a cheerleader. Well, a song

leader, and pretty much perfect.

Leigh was almost perfect herself.

If she were taller,
she
could be

a model. Picture-perfect

lesbians. I had to laugh.

What are you laughing about? Didn’t

know cheerleaders were my type?

Didn’t know cheerleaders could
be

that type. Which got me thinking.

What else might those peppy

cheerleaders do?

I Tucked That Away

and tried to focus on my                                                sister

going on and on about being in                                       love

with a girl:

their meeting,             touching

accidentally,              connecting

immediately,              interwoven

hand in hand,             heart-to-heart.

And even though I loved my                                           sister

had accepted her                                                           eccentricities

I found it hard

to listen to                  detailed

descriptions,               abstract

ambitions,                   relevant

observations,               hers and mine.

Wild Waters Day Dawned

Mom and Scott

wandered over to the group

picnic area to join the company

brownnosers and nibble.

Leigh and Jake went off together,

racing to see who could reach

the top of Black Widow first.

Trent hit the wave pool.

Sarah hit the bathroom—she always

showered before entering the pool.

I opted for an inner-tube float along

the Lazy River, mostly because of this

very cute lifeguard, perched overhead.

And there was Bree, smiling seductively,

and I swear that poster boy lifeguard

smiled right back.

And in that righteous moment, complete

clarity. Bree was not an invention,

not a stranger.

Bree was the essence of me.

Whether That’s Good or Bad

I can’t say. I just know it’s true.

Rather Than Face

total embarrassment, I

told Trent and Sarah I’d

meet them at Black Widow.

They looked at me,

looked at what I was looking at,

hard-bodied and tan on his tall tower.

Trent gave me a thumbs-up.

Sarah broke out in giggles.

Then they graciously provided space.

I invited Bree to take over while

Kristina took cover. She bent forward

from the waist, shook her dripping hair,

straightened, flipped it backward,

and without a single thought to the

puffy pink heart on her thigh

(let alone its artist), she marched right

over to that lifeguard tower, looked up

and, without drooling at all, asked,

“Do you get a lunch break?”

Before Bree

that would never have happened.

Whatever she’d done to me,

for me, and basically

in spite of me,

she’d given me a whole