Glass - 02 (32 page)

Could be such a piece of cake?

A major dose of the monster

provides plenty of courage.

Trey parks his car well away

from the house, and we hoof

it from there. I could use my

key, but we want this to

look like the real deal, so we go around

back, trying windows as we go.

We’re in luck with the laundry room.

It’s a small window, but I shimmy

through, then unlock the sliding

glass door, just like real burglars

might do. Wait. We’re real burglars,

and getting caught would mean jail.

Getting caught doing any of this

would mean major jail time.

Why worry about it now? Mom

keeps her checks in her desk.

I locate the box, dig down for

the bottom batch.
Let’s go!

insists Trey. But I want to make

this look real, so I go into Mom’s

bedroom, empty her jewelry box

and, for good measure, grab

the digital camera, too. Out the

door, no one the wiser. For now.

We even stop by the game. Fifth

inning, Jake has been replaced.

And we’re too wired for dinner.

Luckily, it’s empty, no

one to see the vacant-

eyed girl, staring

in the mirror.

Staring at a stranger

who doesn’t care

if she dies. Maybe

wants to die.

Who would care

if I died?

My face is hollow-

cheeked, spiced with sores—

the places where I stab

at bugs. Tiny bugs,

almost invisible,

but irritating.

Usually they come out

at night, when I’m lying

there, begging for sleep.

I’ve been meaning

to tell the manager

that the apartment needs to be

sprayed. Sprayed. Steam

cleaned. Deodorized.

My hair looks odd too.

It used to be darker.

Shinier. Prettier.

Can hair lose color

when you’re only eighteen?

What if I go all the way

gray? Will Trey still

love me? Will anyone?

That is, if I fool

them all and don’t die.

Outside. One look tells him

more than he wants to know.

He opens his arms, reels me in.

What’s the matter? Mom, again?

I can’t even address that.

“Would you care if I died?”

He pushes me back, eyes

netting mine like a difficult

catch.
What the fuck are you talking

about? Who said you were going

to die? Never mind. Don’t

tell me. Your loving mother.

“Forget about my mother.

Do I look like I’m going

to die? I feel good, but I look rough.

Don’t I? Tell me the truth, okay?”

That’s what I say. But he

knows what I need to hear.

Kristina, I don’t know what

your mom had to say to you,

but you are beautiful. Incredible. If

you died, it would break me in two.

You taught me what love is.

How could I live without you?

He kisses me, and it’s better

than our very first kiss because

I know it means more than his just

wanting to get into my pants. It’s

affirmation. After all these

months, all the good and bad,

he really does love me.

As much—or more—as

I love him. That makes everything

worth it—the lying. The stealing.

The leaving others in my

dust. The inseparable guilt.

Me to write several smaller checks,

cash them at different locations.

In similar fashion, we hock

the jewelry at three pawnshops,

in three towns. All ask for a name.

None requires an ID. Go figure.

I do feel kind of bad about offing

a couple of Grandma’s rings. One

is Mom’s favorite. But hey, if

she liked it that much, she shouldn’t

have kept it where some stupid burglar

could find it. Steal it. Pawn it.

Take the money and pay off her debt

to La Eme, ask for another front.

Perhaps not the best move, but I’m

no longer worried about making those.

I’m just trying to stay high and survive,

whatever that takes. I have no plans

for the future. Any future. As Cesar

might say,
Qué será, será.
What will

be, will be. No one lives forever, do

they? For some, living longer, slower,

less complicated lives is their only

goal. Personally, I need to live faster,

even if it means dying younger. Don’t

ask me why. As for the guilt, it comes

and goes. Mostly, it’s gone, right along

with Mom’s jewelry and a chunk of her

money. Part of me thinks she deserves

it. Another part doesn’t know why.

Scrubbing off yesterday’s sweat,

last night’s sex. All of a sudden,

the front door throbs with noise.

Knocking. Pounding. Thumping.

Whoever it is wants a reaction.

But who? The manager? Cops?

Shaking, I wrap a towel around

myself, wishing Trey was here

instead of making a delivery.

A glimpse out the peephole gives

no definitive answers. It’s a guy

in a suit. Detective? If I don’t answer,

he’ll go away, but I’m guessing

he’ll be back. At least my semi-

naked state will give me the excuse

to go into the other room, dispose

of evidence if need be. I crack

the door around the chain. “Yes?”

Kristina Georgia Snow?
He slides

a sheaf of papers through the opening.

Consider yourself served
. The man

turns on his heel, leaves without

threatening to come inside. Not

a detective. Only a process server.

Relieved but still shaking, I force

myself to look at what’s written on

the papers. Something about Hunter?

I read further. Despite the hefty

legalese, I understand the gist

of the six-page document. Mom

and Scott have filed for custody.

They claim I’m an unfit mother,

cite drug abuse and several instances

of observed “unstable behavior.”

They’re asking to be appointed

legal guardians. Immediately.

I show him the papers.

He is kind. Reasonable.

It’s up to you. I’ll support

you, whatever you decide.

But I’ve already pretty

much made up my mind.

They’ll take good care of

him. And it’s only temporary.

That’s right. I can always

go to court for him later.

Meanwhile, we’ll find a nicer

place. Get our feet under us.

A bigger place, in a better

neighborhood. Good schools.

Please don’t cry. Come here.

I’ll make you feel better.

We get high. Make love.

Lie softly folded together.

We’re good together, aren’t we?

And this is just the beginning.

The beginning of what?

And why does it feel so much

like an ending?

Mindless cycling.

Buzzed.

Barely buzzed.

Crash.

Buzzed again.

Recycling.

Buzzed.

Barely buzzed.

Crash.

Buzzed again.

Augmented by

a different cycling.

Score.

Pay up.

Deal.

Score more.

Or, depending on

what’s due when,

Score.

Forge checks.

Pay up.

Score more.

I don’t worry about

getting caught. I don’t

worry about me at all,

although I could

worry about

Kristina and Mom.

Kristina and Hunter.

Kristina and Trey.

Kristina and the monster.

Call me stupid, but I do,

in fact, worry about

Trey and Angela.

Trey and casinos.

Trey, helping himself

to the contents of the lockbox.

I pick up a newspaper.

Maybe I’ll get a job.

A new direction.

A way out.

Why do I think I

need that? Doesn’t

matter. I already

spent

the fifty cents for

the paper. And hey,

since I bought it,

might

as well read it.

What’s going on

in the world?

Perhaps

a new war?

New president? Not that

either event would

affect me.

Anyway, Section B,

page three, I come

across a photo.

Definitely

[an ugly] me, cashing

a check at a local bank.

The caption reads:

Does

anyone know this

woman?
Fuck me.

Someone out there

definitely does.

Trey and I decide our abode is no longer

a safe place to stay. Not only does the greed-

fed manager know us, but a process server

has lately been by. I’m not real sure he got

a good look at me, but you never know.

That guy is no doubt always on the prowl

for an easy buck. Secret Witness is painless

pickings. The major bummer is, we just paid

the rent. But such is the not-pretty life of

a dealer/burglar/forger. What a mouthful!

An ugly mouthful of crap, defining me. But

no worries. We toss most of our belongings

into suitcases and boxes. Two suitcases.

Three boxes. Trey plus me equals: not

a whole lot more shit. We have to write off

most of the furniture. Garage-sale, oh well.

The best thing to do would be to go far, far

away. But we’re glass-heavy, cash-light.

Trey has the solution.
We’ll sleep in the car

until we’re off the meth. Then we’ll score one

more time. A big one, before we take off.

I hear ice is a big commodity in the Midwest.

Good plan. One we settle on. We move into

the Mustang. Sell a shitload of crystal.

Go to Fernley for one final score. A major

one. Cesar is happy to front us a half pound.

After all, we’ve always made good on his fronts.

Always come back for more. Always…