Glass (4 page)

Sleep is impossible,

anticipation swelling

and ebbing like some

sort of crazy tide.

Strange,

how when I close my

eyes, try to concentrate

on that little door between

them that opens into

dreams,

I fee l high already,

locked in a battle

between the need to dive

into REM slumber and the

desire

to start the damn party

already! I remember

that awful tug-of-war well.

So why jump right back in,

release

the monster to stalk

my days, haunt my nights;

to bite through my skull

and suck on my brain?

From

a purely omniscient

point of view, it makes

no sense whatsoever. I

have freed myself from

physical

addiction, no rehab but

to endure sweating, puking,

and cardiovascular jumping

jacks. The mental

bonds,

however, seem as strong

as ever, and the piece

of me that recognizes

that knows I might be

making a very big mistake.

When Hunter makes

his daily plea for

a three
A.M.
breast

milk feast, I call

to Mom, “I’ll handle it.”

He’s now four months

old, and drinking

formula supplements

from a bottle—a conscious

decision on my part.

I had hoped to have

him weaned—and my

breasts completely

my own again—

within five months.

My new game plan

will expedite that

schedule, I realize,

and I have to admit,

that makes me sad.

I change his diaper,

marveling for about

the millionth time at

his perfect little body.

The body I created.

All clean and dry,

I carry him back

to my bed, cradle

him in one pillowed

arm, unbutton my top.

And as the milk begins

to flow, so do my tears.

“Mommy loves you,

Hunter Seth. No matter

what, Mommy loves you.”

He looks up at me

with spectacular green

eyes and, around my

very sore nipple, smiles

a toothless baby smile.

That tender scene might make

me change my mind, and truthfully,

I have thought twice.

But I don’t want to think again.

I MapBlast directions to Robyn’s

apartment, load a small ice chest

with soda, to fight the wah-wahs

sure to strike on my way home.

If it gets too late, promise me

you’ll stop and spend the night,

Mom insists.
Here’s some money.

She hands me a crisp $100 bill.

Suddenly it strikes me that I

haven’t even thought about the money

end of the transaction to come.

Lucky me. A hundred will just

about cover it. Still, if prices

haven’t risen with inflation,

another hundred will score

an eight ball instead of a gram.

Yeah, yeah, my thought processes

have already graduated from casual

to daily use. But I don’t want

to have to drive to Stockton

too often. Hell, an eight ball

will last me just about

forever. Won’t it?

Another hundred dollars?

In lieu of an allowance,

Mom and Scott buy

diapers and baby formula.

My savings account is

still closed to me, and will be

until my eighteenth birthday.

That impressive turning point

is only a couple of weeks away,

but not soon enough to score

the monetary birthday rewards

I hope for from relatives, far

and near. No, only one place

comes to mind, an easy

place, all things considered—

Hunter’s rainy-day piggy bank.

All those very same relatives

sent him a little cash, right

after he was born. I was going

to open a college savings

account, but haven’t gotten

around to it yet. No problem.

I’ll replace it as soon as I get

my birthday stash. Meanwhile,

Hunter won’t miss it. And

neither, I hope, will Mom.

Pack an overnight bag, just

in case,
she says, interrupting

my thoughts.
Always a good

idea to plan for that rainy day.

Handing me her keys,

helping me pack, giving

me money. I’d like to

blame

her for what may come,

take dead aim and whack

this big ball of

guilt

across the net,

into her court, wait

for her well-deserved

volley.

But that wouldn’t

be accurate,

wouldn’t be

right.

I know as I climb

into the SUV, crank

the engine, that what’s

left

of Kristina will have to

battle the reemergent Bree,

that despite my plan to come

back

and pick up where I left

off, only more positive

and energized to go

forth,

get my GED and a great

job, find a nice little

place, make my own way,

the odds

of things ever being

quite right again are

clearly, completely,

not in my favor.

Is not my best thing, so

I stow every single nagging

doubt and head off to Stockton.

It’s a gorgeous blue September

day, and I take my time.

South on a straight stretch

of Highway 395, turn west

on Highway 88, leaving Nevada

behind, just out of Minden.

The winding highway

carries me past Kirkwood,

my family’s favorite ski resort.

Even without snow, the steep

angular mountain brings back

memories of stepping off cornices

and hanging, midair, for a scant

second before dropping down

long, deep black-diamond runs.

I can almost feel the sizzle

of adrenaline, pumping

from the back of my skull, zooming

down my spine and into my legs,

making them reach

for even more speed.

Turn. Turn. Don’t fight gravity.

Suck into its jet stream.

Once in a while I’d make a mistake,

catch an edge. Or a mogul.

Most times, I corrected

before taking a tumble.

Once or twice, I wasn’t so lucky,

dumping headlong down the hill,

sliding out of control

until the landscape leveled.

And that made the adrenaline

pump even faster.

Which reminds me.

I have not had an adrenaline

rush since I took my little detour,

one of nature’s irresistible highs, denied

by brain chemistry gone awry,

at the claws of the monster.

I might not know the cause

of such cerebral malfunction,

if not for an article I once read.

It defined for me exactly

how crank scours

the brain’s pleasure center,

scrubbing away dopamine,

adrenaline and other natural

highs. It didn’t stop me,

of course, but it did slow

me down for a day or two.

Not slow enough to keep

the damage from occurring.

Now only one thing can give

me that kind of feeling—like

I have the world by its throat.

And I am on my way to it.

I pass a small mountain

community, home to loggers,

retirees, and telecommuters.

My parents have friends

who live here, and for

about thirty seconds

I think about swinging

by. They have a pretty cute

son, who I once had a serious

crush on. We used to visit,

and on overnight stays Quade

and I would sneak out at night,

for nothing more than a little

conversation. Okay, we almost

kissed once. But I was such

a total tool, when he leaned

his face down close to mine,

looked into my dilated (by

the dark, not by stash, which

I still turned up my nose at)

eyes, and it came to me what

he had in mind, I actually

turned my face away, pretending

some nighttime noise

had drawn my attention.

Plain and simple, I didn’t know

how to kiss and didn’t want

him to know it. He was a couple

of years older, and a dark-haired

hottie who surely knew a thing

or two about kissing. Unlike me.

I didn’t learn those ropes

for another year or so.

Looking back, I wish I had

had a different teacher,

one who really cared about me.

Looking back, I wish

I had parted

my lips—opened my mouth

wide and invited his tongue

inside—for Quade. Maybe

every single thing that happened

in my life after that night

would have turned out differently.

Then again, maybe not.

I decide not to stop by.

My mom told me Quade plays

bass in a metal band, so he

probably isn’t as straight

as he used to be. Just like

me. Still, I have a destination.

I jot a reminder in my

mental notebook to look up

Quade one day very soon.

This time, maybe I’ll just

let him kiss me. I most

definitely know how.

In fact, thinking about it

is starting to make me

want it. I haven’t let myself

even consider going out

with a guy since Hunter

was born. Men are trouble.

But what the hell? I’m

looking for trouble right

now, aren’t I? And one

kind of trouble will

likely lead to another,

at least eventually.

The more I focus on
that

kind of trouble, the better

it’s starting to sound.

I do still have the problem

with paunch, but crystal

will help with that, too.

I just have to stay cool,

keep Bree reined in.

Little lines, maybe one

in the
A.M.
, to wake up

feel great, not eat

everything in sight.

Maybe another small

toot in the early
P.M.
,

just enough to limit

dinner calories and still

be able to sleep at night.

Or maybe go out at night.

No, no, no!
This isn’t

about going out at night.

Isn’t about partying.

Is
not
about turning into

a lunatic again. I am

and will remain in control.

Is an interesting little city—half

artsy, half-cow town, and home

to the Asparagus Festival and other

events that take advantage of its

watery location on the delta fed by

the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers.

Today I couldn’t care less

about any of that. All I want

is to find Robyn’s apartment,

not far from the University of the Pacific.

Driving by the brick-and-ivy campus,

I almost envy the students,

walking alone or sitting in groups,

looking at their books—and each other.

Guys. Girls. Tight jeans and T-shirts.

Big Gulps here. Cigarettes there.

It’s all so normal. Then it comes

to me that one of those

students is Robyn, who is anything

but “normal.” You can hide

a lot, or maybe just get away with

a lot, if you play your cards right.

I only hope the hand I’m about to deal

myself will hold an ace or two.

Building C-9. Third floor.

I’m early, but not too,

so I sit on the stairs to

wait.

And wait. Four o’clock

comes and goes. Still I sit,

not too worried about

Robyn getting home

late.

Even on her best days,

clock-watching was

never her greatest

trait.

Did she have a greatest

trait? Oh, yeah. That’s why

I’m here, huh? Patience!

Maybe she didn’t come

straight

home because she had

to make a buy on the way.

But when a watch-check says

eight

after five, I decide I’d

better try her cell. Dumped

into voice mail,

something I

hate

under any circumstances.

Just as I’m starting

to feel really pissed, this

great-

looking guy starts up

the stairs. Okay, this is déja

vu-ish. I met my Adam, who

I once believed was my soul

mate,

on a similar staircase. But

this guy goes way beyond

Adam—older, buffer, with

slate

gray eyes that fix on me,

eliciting chills that I can’t

describe. He looks at me

like a barracuda, scoping

bait.

Ravenous. Suspicious.

Curious. Delicious. (Him,

not me.) I feel like a

freight

train has steamed right

into me, and when he smiles

a hungry smile, I decide Robyn’s

tardiness must be

fate.