Crank - 01 (9 page)

your lungs, your muscle twitches, your heart;

in fact, in symphony with your heart, allowing it

to feel love. Pain. Jealousy. Guilt. I wonder if it’s the

same for people, lost in comas. Is there really such a thing

as brain death?

Silence

shook me awake.

I groped into

consciousness

room dark,

blinds closed,

shadows

undulating in

air-conditioned

waves.

Midday,

I thought, house

emptied

of people,

of pets,

of life,

Nobody home.

Just me for

company,

no one

demanding

conversation

or explanations.

I was

alone,

and I liked

it that

way.

On the Nightstand

I found a prescription bottle

and three notes.

The first was from Leigh:

Had some antibiotics I forgot to finish.

You won’t get a whole treatment, but

they haven’t expired. Not the way you’re

supposed to do it, but couldn’t hurt!

The second was from Mom:

Your father called to make sure you made

it home okay. You are okay, aren’t you?

I told him everything was fine.

It
is
fine, isn’t it?

The third was from Jake:

Some guy named Adam called. At least I

think his name was Adam. He also said

Buddy? First he asked for Bree, then

changed it to Kristina. Who’s Bree?

Good question.

I Went Straight for the Phone

dialed Adam’s number, forgetting

the area code was different.

Got some

creep’s cell

phone by mistake, and asked

for the man of my dreams.

Don’t think I know him, but if

you talk real dirty,

I can fake it.

Bree giggled. Kristina wanted

to puke, thanked him anyway,

tried again.

Head dizzy,

hands shaky, 505 area code

inserted correctly, I got his mom.

Buddy’s at the hospital. Lince

opened her eyes today.

I’ll tell him you called.

Kristina felt relief. Bree felt rage

and a burning desire for a couple

of lines. I

thought

about the one time I actually sat

down and talked to Adam’s mom.

Tough thing for two boys

when their daddy

turns his back on ’em.

Turned his back, packed a bag

and hit the highway. Left

his family,

broke, in a

lousy two-bedroom walk-up.

Never said “bye,” let alone “sorry.”

Sorry speed freak. Least I got

to wear my face minus bruises

and swollen eyes.

Finally without tears, until

her oldest son died, shootin’

speedballs—

just enough

meth to stay wide awake for

the heroin wild ride over the brink.

Michael took after his dad.

Never too much, never enough

of goin’ right out of his head.

What did that make Adam?

Watching his dad choose

the monster,

seeing his

brother lie down for the demon,

how could he want to party too?

Buddy’s all I’ve got left. I pray

to the good Lord he makes

better decisions.

And, knowing all these things,

perhaps more intimately

than I ought

to, what did

that make me?

I thought about praying too.

Changed

The Phone, Still in My Hand, Rang

I jumped, like a bee had just

given me a nasty hello.

I returned the favor

with a totally foul, “Yessss?”

(Then thought,

jeez, what if it’s Adam?)

Hey, Kristina. It’s Sarah.

How are you? How was your

trip? Tell me all about it!

How was your dad? Sweet?

Did you meet any cute boys?

Sarah—my best friend since

4
^th
grade. Crazy smart,

pretty in an Irish sort of way,

with embarrassing freckles

and wicked red hair she was

forever trying to tame.

Was is hot down there?

It’s been miserable here!

Did your dad have a pool?

Did you get a tan?

What did you do for fun?

What could I tell her?

How much did I dare?

That is, if she ever gave

me a chance to talk.

How much did she

really want to know?

Did you do any shopping? I

already got school clothes.

What did you do for the 4
^th

of July? We went

up to Virginia City.

What day was today? The 10
^th
!

Dad never said a word

about fireworks.

The 4
^th
of July had slipped

on past, with me held

fast in the grip of the monster.

We’re going camping.

Want to come? My mom

said it’s okay. I hate to spend

a whole week, alone

with my parents and little sister.

I told her I’d ask and call later.

My brain needed a rest—not

to mention my left ear.

Kristina could listen

to Sarah talk for hours.

Bree was ready to scream.

At Least I Had the House to Myself

I downed an ampicillin,

splashed peroxide on my

wounded         

thigh, which actually

looked a little better, the

heart            

more pink than violet,

the pain more a soft

pulsing           

reminding me with

a steady beat of an

emptiness        

so complete I had

no clue how to fill it,

loneliness        

so heavy I had

no idea how to lift it,

need            

so intense I had only

one way to relieve it:

a bitter drink
     

of its very source—

the deep well

of the monster.
   

I Considered

the Reno crank scene,

or what I knew of it.

Legit entertainment—

music,

magic,

comedy clubs.

Legal and semilegit—

gaming,

sports betting,

light night carousing.

Legal, semi-immoral—

adult revues (aka “titty shows”)

gay clubs, strip clubs, swap clubs,

beyond-the-city-limits prostitutions.

Such activities,

24-7,

practically invited

the monster’s

participation.

Remote desert

dwellings, travel

trailers and

sad, little

shacks, went up

in flames regularly,

victims

of ether-fed fire.

Oh, yes, there was

crank in Reno,

waiting

for me, calling

out to Bree.

All that was left was

to find it.

Suddenly, However

all those days with little

or no sustenance hit me in one awful instant.

Lucky me! Mom’s kitchen

was a whole lot better stocked than Dad’s.

(Not to mention a whole lot cleaner—

no mega-cockroaches allowed!)

Summer fruit.

Garden veggies.

Leftover roast beef.

Homemade bread.

Hand-churned ice cream.

I’d almost forgotten how great a cook

Mom was, at least when she wasn’t

too busy writing or going through one

of her “I’m not your damn servant!” phases.

Double lucky me.

It seemed she was going through one of her

Suzy Homemaker stages.

Fresh salsa.

Homemade chips.

Leftover chili.

Cherry pie.

I felt like I’d died and

gone to God’s grocery store

in the sky!

My Luck Ran Out

’Cause after                            I

finished pigging out,                 I

really wanted

a cigarette.

Nicotine’s a

strange addiction.                    I

didn’t even realize                   I

was hooked until                     I

couldn’t have one.                   No

one at my house

smoked, at least                      not

so you’d notice.                      Not

my mom. Smoking

causes wrinkles.                      Not

Scott, who had

a family history

of emphysema.                        Not

Leigh, who said

they made

your hair smell

like an ash

tray (only true

if you don’t

smoke). Surely                        not

Jake, the

ministud athlete.                       Nope

                           I

was most definitely

out of luck.

For the moment

anyway.

It Got Worse

because just about then,

my mom came home.

Good. You’re up. You looked dead

to the world, so we let you sleep.

Leigh shadowed her

through the door.

“Feeling better? We went shopping.

I needed a new swimsuit in the worst way.”

Mom put an armful of bags

on the counter, ignoring

my crumbs.

I got you one too. Your old one

is pretty ratty.

Leigh reached into

a Macy’s bag, extracted

it for approval.

“Cute, huh? She wanted to get you a tank. I

insisted on a bikini. You
do
still like pink?”

Mom looked at the hot pink

crochet, as if for the first time,

shook her head and clucked,

Better try it on. Can’t show too much

skin at Scott’s company picnic.

Leigh glanced down

at my T-shirt hem,

barely covering our

sisterly secret.

“Nope, wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t

do at all.”

All Thoughts of Bad Habits

I Went to Try On the Swimsuit

Few things are quite as

humbling          

as cinching yourself up

in a completely

revealing          

bikini and standing

in front of a full-length

reflection         

rotating like a bird on

a spit, trying to admire the

naked truth       

staring back at you:

body slim but not

fine-tuned        

boyish hips, just

barely qualifying as

curves          

uncertain breasts,

cup size

stalled          

somewhere between

A (plus) and B (minus),

womanhood
     

desperately trying

to escape,

succeeding      

once a month,

like it or not,

ready or not.    

(At least that wasn’t

currently a problem!)

The Tattoo, However, Was