Traffick (12 page)

Despite guilt, game on.

Dana's room is only three doors

away from mine. I wait almost

an hour after lights-out before

venturing down the hall and

slipping inside. She waits for me

in bed, two little tablets in hand.

“What are they?” I ask, hoping

for the exact answer she gives.

Oxycodone. You into opiates?

Oh, darling, if you only knew.

“I'll try anything once.” I pop

one, put the other into my pocket

to save for right before our next

drug test. Tonight I'm going to

sink down, down, down. It's a slow,

lovely drop, and oh, how I've longed

for this feeling! Denial is pointless.

Okay, baby. Payment required.

Take off your clothes. Sex is better

naked.
She watches me strip, pulls

back her covers, and I shimmy in

beside her already nude body.

There's a pretty girl. Kiss me.

The one thing I never did with

a john was kiss them, or let them

kiss me. But, even as a form of payment,

kissing Dana isn't so bad. In fact, it's nice.

Maybe it's the oxy, or maybe it's

because she's a girl, not in spite

of that fact, or maybe it's just because

I've missed being intimate with anyone,

but the heat of her skin, which is satin

soft, and the rich perfume of her

femaleness turns me on completely.

No, I've never been with a woman

before, but everything feels familiar,

from the curves of her heavy breasts

to the invitation between her slim thighs,

and my mouth and tongue and fingers

know exactly what to do to pay my debt

in full. She signals the end with a shudder

and quiet moan, then draws me

into her arms, laying my head

against her chest, where I can hear

the stutter of her heart.
That was

outstanding. I'll expect you back

tomorrow night.
When I start to

question her, she shushes me.

Those are eighty-milligram oxys,

and go for thirty a pop. How

much do you think you're worth?

Good question.

To discover the girl

who infuses every day

with light, even when

she's not here—it's enough

to know she's woven into your

life,

a luminous ribbon.

A promise of happiness.

How much can be forgiven,

when the excuse

is

existence, no other way

to reach tomorrow?

Morality becomes

meaningless

when you're wandering

the streets, the way home

lost to you. Forbidden.

What is the future

without

hope for a rainbow

on the far side of the storm,

no hint of sunshine

to shimmer through the gray

in a world emptied of

Eden.

I chickened out. I swore to

myself I'd tell Sarah everything

she wanted to know about

my background: Boise; Pastor

Streit, Assembly of God minister,

not to mention my father; evil, in

Mama disguise; my younger sister,

Eve. I hope she's okay. She always

was smarter about dealing

with our parents than I. She'll be

a freshman this year, at least

if she pretends to do exactly

what Mama tells her, and

wouldn't our mother be surprised

to know that my little sister

is every bit as rebellious as I am?

Was. The rebellion has kind of

been shaken out of me. Damn.

That thought makes me sad,

because it means Mama won.

So yeah, I took the coward's way

out. Kept my mouth shut, and

now I regret it, mostly because

I just got another e-mail from Andrew.

He's the only person in the whole

world who can help me rebuild

my confidence, which makes

perfect sense, since he was the one

who built it for me in the first place.

Knowing he thought me worthy

of his love was all I ever needed.

And now, he cyber promises

he'll love me, no matter what.

My beautiful Eden. Desperation

drives people to places they'd never

ever go otherwise. Whatever

horrors you suffered in the desert,

whatever lengths you decided

were necessary to remove yourself

from that place, I stand firmly

in your corner. You don't need

forgiveness. The person I must

learn to forgive is myself. I could

see trouble brewing, and I chose

to love you selfishly. I won't make

that mistake in the future. I promise.

I'd give everything I own to hold

you again. Tell me how to find you.

Tell me what I have to do to get

you back in my life. Your Andrew.

Straightforward, like Andrew

himself. I wish I could believe

it can be as easy as telling him

where to find me. Come to Vegas.

I'll meet you just off the strip,

where I once gave a tooth-impaired

guy a BJ for twenty dollars.

Of course, if
you
want oral sex, no

charge other than your continued

misplaced faith in me. In us.

I need to be pragmatic. Believing

in miracles is what led me here

to start with. “Hey, Almighty, giving

source of love, please bless the unlikely

love I've found with Andrew.

Remember how I asked you that,

not even a year ago? Remember the faith

I invested in you, despite the example

my father, ‘your representative on

earth,' demonstrated on a daily basis?”

Am I actually talking to God, and

not only that, but talking out loud?

Glad there's no one close by to hear me.

Pretty sure everyone at Walk Straight

has given up any notion of him, if they

had one to begin with. Little

evidence of God in the backseat

of a john's car, or some seedy

motel room, and even less in

the eyes of your pimp when he's

beating you while ranting about

your failures as a good little

prostitute. Almost every girl here

tells a similar story of being scooped

up by some predatory man when

it was obvious they had nowhere

else to go. Runaways, most of them.

I suppose if I'd been on the street

for very much longer, some smooth-

talking guy would have latched

onto me, convinced me I'd be safer

in his care than on my own. A few

more days, struggling to eat and

clean the ugliness from my body,

I probably would have been grateful

for the intervention. Instead, I found

a helpful priest. So maybe God was

watching out for me after all. I whisper,

“Father, forgive me. And if it's your

will, please bless Andrew and me.”

Is after lunch, which I can't eat

because of the nerves tap dancing

in my stomach. I practically crawl

to Sarah's office, coaxing myself

the whole way to go ahead and tell

my entire tale of woe. I knock on

the door, hoping something has called

her away, but no such luck. Instead,

she invites me in with that chirpy

voice, and I have no choice but to

comply. A whooshing fills my ears

as I sit across the desk from Sarah.

She takes one look at the way I'm

shaking and gushes,
What's wrong,

Ruthie? Did you see a vampire?

That makes me giggle. “A vampire?

Don't you mean a ghost?” I must look

as pallid-faced as I feel. “Anyway, no.

I didn't see either. It's just . . .” Go on.

Reach deep for the courage you need.

“I think it's time for me to tell you

some stuff. First of all, my name

isn't Ruthie. It's Eden. Eden Ruth Streit,

and my parents aren't dead (at least,

I don't think so), and I'm from Boise. . . .”

It all comes gushing out,

as if a dam breaks inside

me. I rush the telling,

sure if I slow down I'll grind

to a complete halt. I notice

Sarah nodding, but she stays

silent, like she intuits my fear

of stopping before the climax.

I know this can't surprise her,

that she's heard plenty of awful

things before, but when I get

to the part about Tears of Zion

and Jerome, her eyes grow

wider and wider, and when

she finally gets the chance to

speak, she says,
I've just been

reading up on teen boot camp

horror stories. Your Tears of Zion

wasn't mentioned, but there are

several similar places that

invoke conservative religious

values to abuse their clients.

Most parents, however, don't have

any idea about their practices,

which include isolation, denial

of food, water, and the ability

to use the bathroom. Sometimes

they get shut down, but usually

they just move and set up shop

somewhere else. It's very hard

to regulate them because often

they operate as “private schools,”

which have a whole different

regulatory process than, say,

rehab facilities or public entities.

Thank you, God! She believes

me! A huge knot of tension

tumbles from my shoulders,

and a warm wave of relief

washes over me. Still, tears

spill onto my cheeks. “I thought

everyone would think I was

lying. The only thing is, Mama

knew what was going on, and

she left me there anyway.”

Are you sure, Ru—I mean, Eden?

From everything I read, parents

rarely have a clue about what

goes on in these places. Why

would your mother leave you if . . .

Noticing the way my face

turns to marble. “I guess

you'll have to ask her that.

I assume you'll need to be

in touch with them. But

do you really have to?

I'm so scared that if you

send me back to Boise,

they'll make me return

to Tears of Zion. Mama

says I'm possessed, claimed

by Satan, and she really,

truly believes that. Please,

please, find a way to keep

me at Walk Straight. I'll do

anything—work here for free,

or go to work somewhere else

and pay you to let me stay.

Whatever it takes. I can't go

home!” But now, she's shaking

her head, no.
I wish I could

tell you okay, Eden, but the law

is very clear that I must report

your whereabouts to your legal

guardians, who happen to be

your parents in this case.

They have a right to know

you're alive and safe. Besides,

what about your young man?

She's completely missed the point.

Still, I knew this was not

only possible, but probable.

I'll find a way to make it work.

And she's right about Andrew,

if nothing else. “I understand.

Do whatever you have to do.

But is there a way for me to

maybe talk to a judge about

emancipation?” The word swims

out of my subconscious.

That is a possibility. As long as

you're at least sixteen, as per

Nevada law, you can petition

the court. You're seventeen, yes?

And when will you be eighteen?

“I just turned seventeen

last month. Right before I

came here, in fact.” A birthday

to remember, alone on the street,

sleeping behind a Dumpster.

The requirements

of emancipation,

which are pretty

much the same in

Idaho as in Nevada:

Must be at least sixteen.

Check.

Must be living away

from your parents.

Check.

Must have the financial

security to be independent.

Almost check.

Walk Straight can

help me find a job.

Must stay in school

until you're eighteen.

Check.

And this is where

things get tricky.

Both mother and father

must agree to let the child

emancipate.

Guess there's only one

way to find out.