Identical (38 page)

Okay. Calling Mick was maybe

not the best idea. I dig for a twenty.

“This should cover what I smoked.

Please take me home now.”

Don’t want your money
. His zipper

opens, and what escapes is eager.

Then he pushes my head down.

Haven’t you missed me?

Get it over with. Pretend it never

happened. But I don’t think so.

It has to be my idea or not at all.

“No, Mick. Goddammit, I said no!”

But he’s all over me and I may not

have a choice. He outweighs me

by a hundred pounds and he’s got

me pinned against the door. His

fingers, clumsy, work at my own

zipper. I try to push him off.

What’s wrong? You know you want to.

“No, I really don’t.” But I can’t stop

his mouth from covering mine, leaving

a wet trail of slobber all over my face.

One hand tugs my shirt over my head,

the other is inside my bra, twisting,

pinching. I could just get it over with.

See? Your nipples don’t lie. You like it.

He’s too worked up to manage tight

jeans, so he leans up over me, demanding

I do him with my mouth. I could bite.

But he’d probably kick my ass

and finish his business anyway.

I’ve never seen this side of Mick.

Or maybe I have and ignored it.

I can barely breathe, and the teeth

of his zipper are biting into my chin.

Atta girl. You can’t say no to…

Daddy. Daddy? Kaeleigh would just

give in. The thought of her wide-eyed

surrender gives me a sudden idea.

But I have to play things right.

First I go limp, pretend to acquiesce.

I even give him a taste of what he wants.

“Stop for a minute. You’re hurting me.”

He hesitates, looks down into my

eyes, which have teared up quite

nicely. He draws back ever so slightly.

I dig down, beyond fear, find Raeanne

again. “If we’re going to do this, you

don’t get to have all the fun. And can

we pretty please take another hit first?”

That, and asking instead of demanding.

I could be a politician one day. Ugh!

Why did I have to go and think that?

Mick slides to one side of me.
Okay.

I reach down, grab his tray, complete

with maybe a half ounce of great bud.

Pricey bud. I’m betting on greed.

“Hang on. I need some light.” I open

the door wide, send the tray sailing

like a pot-covered Frisbee.

What the fuck did you do that for?

Mick jumps across me, out the open

door. I slam it behind him, hit the lock

button, move under the steering wheel.

I’m not about to walk all the way home.

Mick can do that. He’s on his hands

and knees scouring the dirt for bud,

roaches, rolling papers. I can’t help

but notice the crack of his exposed ass.

He was in too big of a hurry to zip his pants.

I think before I do it. I’ve never actually

driven before. But how hard could it be?

Think again. I might just kill someone.

Hopefully Mick, not me. I laugh, start

the engine. Mick looks up, and I know

I can’t let him back in the truck.

What the hell are you doing, bitch?

I have no clue what I’m doing. Fuck it.

I’ve seen this done a thousand times before.

Drop the gear shift to D. Hit the gas…

Wheels spinning in the gravel.

Mick rolls out of the way.

Good thing. With more force

of will than talent, I manage

to get tires onto asphalt,

weaving back and forth

until I sort of get the hang

of driving a straight line.

Almost makes me wish

I wasn’t so high. Almost.

This isn’t so hard. I play

a little, testing brakes,

acceleration, and steering

capabilities. Not exactly

rocket science. Uh-oh.

Here come some curves.

I ease off the gas, maneuver

through them, half thinking

about what I’m doing.

The rest thinks about Mick.

He’s pissed, for certain.

But what’s he going to

do? Call the cops? His

word against mine. Still,

if the cops come knocking…

Is pretty much deserted this time

of night. I drop over the last dark

hill, pull well off the pavement,

onto the shoulder. Wouldn’t want

some loadie to come along and

smash into the Avalanche.

Guess I’ll leave the keys under

the seat. I think enough to wipe

them off, along with the steering

wheel. Any other fingerprints of mine

would probably be smeared together

with Madison’s. Wonder if she says no.

I know it’s stupid as hell, but now

I’m worried about Mick. It’s a damn

long walk from where I left him.

Oh, well. He deserves it. If he gets

lucky, maybe someone will happen

by. Yeah right. Well after two on

Tuesday morning. Election day.

Better worry about myself. It’s

a long enough walk for me, and

I most definitely better be home

well before the sun comes up.

Back in through the window.

I listen intently, but all’s quiet.

My clothes smell like Mick

so I yank them off, crawl into

bed naked. I don’t usually sleep

in the raw. But I’m high and tired,

and the cool cotton sheets feel

like water. I’m skinny-dipping.

Swimming toward deep, deep

sleep, and I’m afraid to go there.

Because when I wake up again,

it will be tomorrow. The day

everything changes. Better?

Worse? Whichever. Looking

back at this afternoon, not

to mention tonight, I understand

the transformation is already

well underway. And I’m scared.

Of sound:

Footsteps.

Some

news        Slams.

channel.

Daddy.

Mom.

Furniture

Orders                     scraping.

barked.

The

telephone.

The

Dishes         telephone.

crashing.

The

telephone.

The

telephone.

Informs me I’ve overslept.

The clock confirms nine twenty-two.

Oh, yeah. Way over. On a normal day,

Daddy would have been in here,

yanking my butt out of bed.

Oh, but this is not a normal day.

I slink out of bed, naked. Naked?

Last night’s clothes are heaped

on the floor. Last night!

Wonder if Mick made it home

yet. Wonder if I’ll hear from him.

Like he could keep his mouth shut.

Oh, well. Not to worry. If he wants

to play rough, I’m up for the game.

Meanwhile, I’ll bask in the memory

of him, moonlight falling on his moon.

Shower. Dress. Wade into the madness.

See if anyone even knows I’m here.

I emerge from my room,

a butterfly from her cocoon,

and no one seems a bit

concerned about the

metamorphosis.

I could spread my wings,

let them dry, then fly

far, far away, and no one

would notice my departure.

I’m a shadow.

Daddy and Mom have

retreated to their separate

rooms to dress for a joint

trip to the polling place,

no longer

at each other’s throats, not

until this day settles into dust.

Wonder if I should just go to

school late, pay my pound of

flesh,

accept detention without

complaint. But how would

I get there? Can’t exactly

call Mick for a ride,

and

I can’t ask my clueless parents.

I look out the window. Hannah’s

home. Delicious. If she’ll take

me, I can draw a little figurative

blood.