Times like this I wish I said the F-word. Because it would be very appropriate and feel really good.
I turn left. I think I remember us making a last right-hand turn.
Roger used to hang out with this guy from work, Dave. They stopped around the time Roger got promoted to manage ment. Anyway, Dave had this expression he used to use: colder than a witch's tit. I hated that expression. I still hate it, but I can't help it—it pops into my head and just runs there on an endless loop: Colder than a witch's tit. Witch's tit. Witch's tit.
And it is. It's colder than anything in the whole world out here. It must be a million below zero. With my luck, I made the wrong turn and I'll end up in a cul-de-sac and I'll have to turn around.
Or maybe I wouldn't turn around. Maybe I'll just find a little spot somewhere and sit down and then lie down and curl up in a ball and just ... go to sleep. That's what it's like. I read it somewhere. Freezing to death feels like going to sleep, and apparently you feel real warm right before it happens. That would be nice.
Like I'm a trained dog or something, thinking about suicide immediately makes me think of Kennedy. Ha! I don't have his number with me. And even if I did, I don't have a phone. Sorry, doc. I know I promised to call you if I was going to try to off myself, but I literally can't keep that promise. So sorry for you.
When I tried to kill myself the first time (ooh, and Kennedy would be pissed at me for that—he always called it "the last time"), I thought I would really do it. But, honestly, it didn't matter if I succeeded or not. That's what I told myself as the blood started to flow and I stared at it in amazement. It didn't really matter because even if I didn't actually die, I would at least get to see how people reacted.
But then Fanboy went and ruined that. Because I swear to God, I didn't know that you couldn't kill yourself the way I slashed my wrists. I didn't know. It's sort of humiliating, really. Because I bet people assumed I did know. And they all weren't thinking, Wow, she tried to die! or Poor girl or Good riddance. No. They were all thinking, What a poseur or She's looking for attention—how pathetic or Gee, look at this—I bet Daddy Couldn't Handle Her.
I sort of feel like I should go and find the emergency room people who took care of me that night. Go to them and say, "Hey! Hey, I really was trying to kill myself! I really did want to die! I'm not a wannabe! I'm not like the pathetic girls who cut themselves up. I really wanted to die."
Too late. But when they find me frozen to death on the side of the road, they'll...
Ah, shit. They'll figure it was an accident. Right? Because who commits suicide by lying down in the cold?
I guess I should keep going, then.
The Last Time I Saw Her
the room the room the room is rosevomit because
roger left roses and
mom threw up before i came in
perfect timing
("Honey?" she said
In that clouded, confused way.)
cancer had eaten a path to her brain
yum-yum cancer loves brains
like zombies
eat her memory
she has trouble remembering me
remembering the year
(When I was eight years old, I
Had the stomach flu
And threw up in the kitchen
And then in the hallway
And then twice in the bathroom
—Only hitting the sink once)
i should understand.
but I can't
fluvomit does not equal rosevomit
dead already, to me
dead and gone
seventeen months of slow death
of hospitals and
hospices and
doctors and
radiation and
chemotherapy (latin for "poison")
("Honey, come close and let me see you.")
smell of death above the rosevomit
twelve and i had never smelled death before—
—but i knew
(I knew)
I know
this is what death smells like
dead already
why won't this g host leave me alone?
and let me get on with my life?
she touches me
once
on the arm
before her own arm becomes
too tired
and drops to her side
("Be strong,"
She said.)
i want to run
runscreamhide
get away
from the THING
in my mother's bed
the THING
that pretends to be her
("Be strong
And don't be afraid
And be good
For your father.")
for the father who
KILLED ME
she means
Be Good because
because "Being Good"
will protect you.
right, mom?
Being Good
Will make everything ok,
right, mom?
Being Good
will mop up the puke
and wipe it from your lips.
right, mom?
(Tears in my eyes.
"Don't cry,"
She said.
I hated her
For it.
I could cry
I could cry
No one could
Stop me.
I had the right.)
("Honey?"
Weak and confused.
"Come closer."
I had stepped back.
"Honey?"
Weak and confused.)
not my mother
my mother was not weak and confused
i will not let that be my mother
and i leave i walk away
from the rosevomit.
but i turn to her
one last time
and I say:
Seventy
AND AS I WALK, I think of Mom, of course. And I think of Kennedy, of course. Suicidal thoughts = Mom + Kennedy. All the time. It's like I can't help it.
I think of what I said to Mom the last time I saw her. I think of how I told Dr. Kennedy that I tell people shit they need to know. And how he said...
"I know that. You're not polite about it, but I know that's what you do. And that's fine. And someday, you'll find someone who appreciates not just what you do, but how you do it."
And he's right. That's the person I need. And it isn't Jecca.
That's a big realization for me. It's what Kennedy would call a breakthrough, and I'm sort of sad that it's happened here, on a dark, empty, cold street, with me all alone. It seems like the kind of thing you should celebrate with someone.
Ha. Celebrate. Celebrate figuring out that the one person I felt warm and safe with in the world isn't the person for me? Ha.
I guess I should have known, though. It's not Jecca's fault. She was probably just looking for the same things I was looking for. we both needed a warm body that made us feel good, and we got lucky that we had each other. I think I've known, deep down, that this wasn't anything permanent or real. Because I've always known that I'm not gay. And maybe I could be bi or something, but that didn't seem right either. Mainly because there were no other girls I was interested in. You'd think if I was really, truly bi that there would be at least one other girl, right?
So, sorry, Kyra—you're straight. How boring.
I see some lights up ahead. I guess I went the right way. Yay for me.
It's the sign for the Narc. All-night grocery store. Yes! Sweet!
It's past midnight, but there are maybe a dozen cars in the parking lot. I scope them carefully. Late-night shopping runs are a bonanza for car thieves. People are groggy and tired and out of it. They do stupid things, like leave their cars unlocked. Like leave the keys in the ignition. Or sometimes they just leave them sitting on the seat because they're grabbing their sho
pping list or purse or whatever and they just forget about them.
Excellent.
I wander the parking lot sort of casually. There's a little Toyota sitting the farthest from any sort of light—the nearest lamppost is burned out.
I watch it. This is a mistake. The longer I stand here and watch it, the better the chances that the owner will come out of the store and drive away.
That thought—and the sub-witch's-tit cold—drives me toward the car. I toss one last look over my shoulder, just in case, and then I just commit and go for it.
Failure
I TUG THE HANDLE on the driver's side. The heavens open and God smiles down on me—the door opens.
I slide into the seat quickly, reach up, and turn off the dome light. Last thing I need is someone seeing me in here.
OK. Check the ignition. No key. No such luck. That's all right.
Scan the passenger seat. Nothing.
Calm down, Kyra. don't panic. People sometimes leave spare keys in their cars.
I check the cup holders and the pull-out ashtray and the pockets on the doors. I go through the glove compartment.
Shit.
Shit!
OK, calm down, Kyra. Think. Can you hot-wire it?
I've hot-wired cars before, but I had tools then. And they were older cars. This one's about five years old, I guess. Is it even possible to hot-wire a car that new? How long do I have until the owner comes out?
I check the steering column. Is there a place where I can break it open? Or maybe ... I found a pair of nail clippers in the glove compartment. Can I pry something open with them?
And then it happens.
Someone taps on the window.
I freeze.
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit!
The owner is back. Goddamn it!
OK, Kyra. Calm down. You'll open the door. You'll say, "Gee, I'm sorry." And then you'll get out like a good girl and then you'll run like hell.
I turn to say I'm sorry.
A cop.
It's a cop.
Busted.
Seventy-one
HE'S GOT HIS FLASHLIGHT OUT—that's what he used to tap the window. He grins at me, but it's not a happy grin.
I don't know what to do. I just totally freeze. Should I say it's my car and I lost my keys? would that work?
"Step out of the car," he says, like we're just talking like old friends. And then: "Now."
I get out. He takes a step back. He flicks on the flashlight and shines it in my eyes. I put my hands up to shield them and he says, "Put your hands down."
I put them down and close my eyes against the light.
"Hand me the bag. Slowly."
I hand it to him. Slowly. I don't know what else to do.
"Anything dangerous in here? Any weapons?"
Unless you consider algebra a weapon, no. I giggle at the thought.
"This isn't funny, miss." He takes my bag and then I hear him take a step closer to me. A step and a sniff. "Are you drunk?"
"No." Still have my eyes closed. He lowers the flashlight, I guess, because the bright red of my eyelids goes black and I open my eyes. The light is pointed toward the ground. "This is a misunderstanding," I tell him. "I lost my keys and—"
"Don't even try it." He shakes his head. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
Well, not much to say to that. So I say nothing. "Close your eyes again."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a cop and I said so, smart-ass." Not the best reason in the world, but he's armed and I'm not. I close my eyes.
"Now touch your nose with your right index finger."
"What? Why?"
"Because you reek of booze. Now touch your nose."
I do it easily. "I'm not drunk. Someone spilled—"
"Now touch your nose with your left index finger."
Again, I do it easily. I also walk a straight line for him and do some jumping jacks, which I don't mind because they warm me up a little bit.
We're out here just long enough that a guy comes walking over to the car.
"Something wrong here?" he asks.
The cop turns to talk to him. I consider running. But I don't think I'd get very far. I don't think the cop would shoot me, but he's in pretty decent shape—he could probably catch me.
"Found this young lady in your car, sir. Do you know her?"
He squints at me. He's got beard stubble and his eyes are bloodshot and he's carrying a big thing of diapers. "Nope. don't know her."
"Did you leave your door unlocked?"
"Uh, probably. This is my fault, I guess?"
"No, no, not at all. I'm taking her into custody."
The guy sighs. "Look, can we just forget this? No harm, no foul, right?"
Yes! Yes, let's just forget this!
"I just have to get home," the guy says, hefting the diapers, "and it's really late and all, and I don't want to have to go to the police station and press charges and—"
"You don't have to do any of that," the cop says. "I rolled up on her in the commission of a crime, so you don't have to press charges at all. We'll take it from here."
"Oh." The guy seems surprised. I know I am. Shit.
So I get put in the back seat of a Brookdale police car and the cop puts my bag on the front seat next to him and he radios in something that is half numbers and half cop-talk and then we're off.
Seventy-two
IT'S NOT A LONG TRIP from the Narc to the police station. Brookdale's a small town.
At least I'm warm. The cop has the heat on in the car.
Here's something I never knew: In police cars, there are no lock buttons or door handles in the back. Which makes sense, I guess. You don't want tough, hardened criminals like me jumping out of the car, right?
Oh, God, Kyra. Focus! You're being arrested! You are truly effed. Effed beyond belief.
At least he didn't handcuff me. I've got that going for me. Which is nice.
We pull into the police station and he grabs my pack, then lets me out of the back and grabs my elbow with his free hand and guides me into the station.
I've never been here before. I don't know what I expected. I guess I thought it would be like on TV, with people running all over the place and a million cops and maybe some skanky hookers handcuffed to a bench.
But it actually just looks like an office. There are some cubi cles and a receptionist's desk, where a woman sits, bored and yawning.
"Hey, Luce," the cop says.
The receptionist—Luce—says, "What have we got here?"
The cop rattles off some numbers.
"Ah," Luce says, raising her eyebrows. "A car thief. How nice for you."
"It's bullshit," the cop says. He sits me down in a chair near a desk and then—I swear to God—he handcuffs me to the desk!
"Hey!" I pull at the chain. "What the hell, man! You don't have to do this."
"Shut up," the cop says very pleasantly, without even looking at me. He's still talking to Luce. "I've got serious shit to be doing. Heroin deals in the Narc parking lot and all that. And what do I find? Junior car thief. Give me a break. Owner didn't even want to press charges. And she's probably a minor, so..." He turns to me. "Hey, kid? How old are you?"
I've decided I'm not talking anymore. That's what they tell people on TV, right? There's always some lawyer saying, "Don't say anything to anyone!"
So I'm not saying anything to anyone.
"C'mon, kid. How old are you? If you're a minor, this is gonna be nothing. You'll go to Juvenile Justice and..." A light comes on in his eyes. "unless..."
He opens my bag and starts pawing through it. "If you have contraband..."
I laugh. Contraband. Yeah, right.
"Shit." He looks so disappointed, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Luce asks.
"Nothing. No ID, even. Just some schoolbooks and a comic book." He tosses the bag on the desk and sits down. "All right, kid. Let's get this done and o
ver with. I'll call your parents, you go home, a court date's set, et cetera, et cetera." He types on his keyboard. "All right. Name?"
I say nothing. Maybe if I don't say anything, they'll just let me go. He's got more important things to do, right?
"Name!"
Nice job, asshole. Like saying it louder is gonna make me answer.
"Kid! Give me your name."
I just stare at my shoes.
He leans toward me and I realize that he has absolutely beautiful blue eyes and gorgeous lashes. Why do guys always have great lashes? "Look, kid, I know you're scared. I get it. Trust me, as long as this is your first offense, this is not the end of the world. You look maybe sixteen to me, right? Am I right?"
I say nothing.
"I think I'm right. Look, you're a minor. you've never been arrested before because otherwise you'd know the drill. So you're not going into the adult system. Juvenile, first-time offense, you're looking at probation. Scout's honor, kid. I'm not bull shitting you. I call your mom and dad and they pick you up tonight. You don't go to jail. Not tonight. Not at all. You go home and your parents yell, but then you go to court in a few weeks and the judge gives you probation and as long as you keep your nose clean, when you turn eighteen, this whole thing goes away like it never happened.
"So give me your name."
I take a deep breath.
And I say nothing.
Seventy-three
AFTER A WHILE, HE GETS TIRED of trying to get anything out of me. As he keeps reminding me and Luce and the walls and the air, he has more important shit to deal with.
"Let next shift handle her," he says, and gets up. "Fine, kid. Stay here all night for all I care."