Authors: Ellen Hopkins
We have no plans to come back.
No plans to pay up. No plans
to stay in this place. The only
place I’ve ever known as home.
An ending.
But we won’t head east. We’ll
go west, to California, where
meth was first invented and
remains the drug of choice. Is this
a beginning?
I wish I could feel. Or maybe
not. If I could, I would feel loss.
Hunter. Mom. Jake. Leigh. Even
Scott, who has always been there
for me.
They say meth affects the brain.
Destroys the pleasure center.
Could it smash the pain center too?
Would feeling pain be better than
feeling numb?
Out of Nevada, we touch down
in California. Unsure of where to go
from here, we decide we need food.
McD’s okay? We should
probably eat cheap for a while.
We’re on a downswing.
Sleepy. Hungry. Empty. “Cheap
is good, as long as there’s a lot of it.”
Ronald would be proud.
Big Macs and fries, times two?
“Times two, twice.” Fuck it.
I can invest a few calories. Not
like I’ve eaten a whole lot lately.
Okay. But you know I’m not
real fond of Two-Ton-Tessies.
“Love me fat, love me skinny.
Just keep loving me. Hey,
sounds like a song. Love me—”
You might want to work on it
before you try out for
American Idol.
We locate a McDonald’s off
the freeway, go inside to pee,
order our fifteen-dollar feast.
Let’s eat in the car. Looks like
they’re getting ready to close.
It is pretty late. Trey pulls
the Mustang back into a dark
corner of the parking lot.
No one will bother us here.
Oh, man, this shit tastes great.
He’s right. It does. And as
my belly fills with greasy
food, my eyes grow heavy.
We shouldn’t swing for a room.
Let’s sleep in the car, okay?
It’s not the comfiest bed. But
it is free. And we don’t dare
drive anywhere this tired.
We’ll make L.A. tomorrow.
We can bunk with a buddy then.
Cool. Whatever. Meanwhile
I’m just going to close my
eyes, slip into Dreamville.
Tapping on the glass. Glass?
Where am I? And who’s knocking?
Come on. Wake up!
Car. I’m in a car. Trey’s car.
And he’s here too, arms around
me, trying to wake up, just like I am.
I don’t want to. I want to sleep.
Hello? Open the window!
Just a minute. Just a freaking
minute. I manage to open my eyes.
The guy outside the window, the one
who’s been knocking, wears a uniform.
His flashlight parts the darkness,
seeks immediate information.
Good evening. May I see some ID?
Trey politely offers his license.
Something wrong, Officer?
Don’t you know you can’t sleep here?
Sorry. We had no idea. It’s just
that we got off the freeway…
The cop shines his light in our eyes.
Then he speaks directly to me.
How ’bout you, miss? ID?
The cop takes our licenses back
to his car. I’m getting a very bad
feeling. Trey notices.
Don’t panic.
Eventually, the uniform returns.
Please step out of the vehicle.
Holy shit. There can’t be an APB
out for me already, can there?
Someone would have had to identify
me, right? Could it happen this fast?
You say you’re just passing through?
Okay, maybe it isn’t an all points
bulletin. Maybe he’s just being nosy—
doing his job. “That’s right.” I give him
my best smile. “We can just be on our way….”
Mind if I take a quick look inside?
He wants to search the Mustang.
The meth is in the lockbox, under
the front seat. It would take a warrant
to unlock that. Maybe he won’t bother.
Maybe he won’t even see it. Trey
must be thinking the same thing.
He looks over at me, gives a small
shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
Joins the party as Cop
Number One leans inside
the Mustang, flashlight
at the ready. It takes
about two seconds for
him to find the lockbox,
extract it, place it on the seat.
Surprise! It isn’t locked.
And talk about surprised.
One of Sacramento’s finest
has just discovered a half
pound of 90 percent pure
crystal methamphetamine.
You should see the look
on his face. He’ll be the talk
of the locker room for days.
No surprise. We’re fucked.
Totally busted.
We are stuffed
into separate cars,
hauled off to city
jail. It’s a short ride,
not even long enough
to think about what
will happen next.
Poked. Prodded.
Grilled. Well done.
Through it all I stay
calm. Silent. The ball
is in—ha-ha-ha—
their court now.
I’m allowed a call.
Need to call some
one, let them know
where I am. What’s
happened. But who?
Mom? Don’t think
so—like she needs
more ammunition.
Brad? Uh-uh. He
never bothered to
check up on me.
One person might
actually care. One
person might
actually answer
his phone.
“Hello, Quade…?”
Not to get busted on Friday night. Law demands arraignment within forty-eight hours. But weekends don’t count. | |
Four days | before we might be granted bail. (Highly doubtful. We’re not only flight risks, but mostly broke.) |
Four days | before we can get a feel for our future. Four days to come to grips with the thought we might be here awhile. |
Four days | without a cigarette. Smoke-free lockup. Whose stupid idea was that? Inmates in deep withdrawal. Idiotic! |
Four days | without the monster, and that withdrawal doubles me over. Makes me sweat. Shiver. Puke, in and out of the toilet. |
Four days | wishing I were dead, instead of screaming back at the monster. Dead, instead of running from the demons. Demons, rampant |
in this Godless place. |
Do keep an eye on things.
But they don’t exactly
come rushing to my rescue.
Don’t worry. You’ll survive,
says one, a woman about
the size of a steer.
Frigging tweakers are all
alike. Whiners. Sweat that
shit out of your system,
you’ll be good as new, ’cept
for lacking a few brain cells.
You wanna see ugly, watch
a wino in lockup, fighting
d.t.’s. Oh, mama, now that
is some scary shit.
I’ve heard hard-core alkies
can die without booze. That
they bring ’em fixes, so they
don’t croak in custody. I call
that out-and-out prejudice.
Injustice. Maybe I should sue.
Until the arraignment.
We share the defendants’ table,
the public defender who stands
with us. Share a “not guilty” plea
to several charges, including
possession of and trafficking
methamphetamine, importing
it across the state line.
The only other thing we’ll
share for quite a while is our
fate. Already indexed
in that mostly unwritten
book is extradition.
Nevada wants us also.
Serious charges there, too.
No longer will Trey and I share
an apartment, a car, a bed. Won’t
share a pipe. A cigarette. A kiss.
Won’t share promises.
Dreams.
Vows.
We will, however, share one
very special thing, in the not-
too-distant future. A baby. All
that poking, prodding, and analysis,
in search of AIDS or Hep C, netted
that information. Guess it’s too
late to make that appointment
with Planned Parenthood.
I only hope I’m out of jail
before that big day comes.
Can shorten my stay.
It’s not only distasteful
but dangerous. Maybe
even life-threatening.
My public defender,
a rat-faced little man
with a squeaky voice,
brings me the offer.
The Feds want to disrupt
the flow of Mexican meth
into the continental U.S. If
you’ll turn state’s evidence…
I don’t really hear all
the details, through
the whir in my brain.
But the message comes
across loud and clear:
Turn in Cesar, pull
a lot less time. Some
thing to think about.
We will have to convince
courts in two states that
your cooperation will
benefit society at large.
Now, there’s something
to put down on a future
résumé. Right after
“felony convictions.”
Behind home-state bars,
I have a ton to think about
while awaiting sentencing.
Hopefully,
the Feds won’t rescind their
offer. I’ll only have to spend
six months in jail. Not so long.
Hopefully,
they will arrest Cesar, put him
away for much longer than that.
I’ll have to testify against him,
but I won’t have to pay him.
Hopefully,
his people will tuck tail, sprint
back across the border. If not,
they shouldn’t be able
to get me in here.
Hopefully
the Department of Corrections
can safeguard me—and those
I love—against La Eme–style
retribution.
Hopefully,
Trey and I will hook up again
after we get out. Hook up and
raise our baby together,
or at least share the parenting.
Hopefully,
he’ll write me. If not, Quade
has promised to. And I believe
him.
You’re a complete mess,
he said.
So why do I love you?
Hopefully,
one day I’ll be worthy of his
love. Anyone’s love. Trey’s.
Our baby’s. Hunter’s. Mom’s.
Hopefully,
she can forgive me for
betraying her trust. She knows
about everything. She saw the bank
photo too. Turned me in.
Hopefully,
my dance with the monster hasn’t
caused irreparable harm to me,
or to my just-forming baby.
Hopefully,
it will be a girl, a beautiful
perfect daughter, with hair
like Trey’s, eyes like mine.
Hopefully,
I will love every hour of being
her mother, even late-night
feedings, diaper changings,
the whole experience.
Hopefully,
most hopefully of all, by
the time I get out of here,
the monster will be nothing
more than a distant memory.
An unforgettable nightmare.
I realize that’s an awful
lot of hoping. But hey,
I’ve always been
an optimist…
…don’t ask me why.