me and I fall to my knees.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry.” It’s a chant. “I didn’t
mean it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Finally, I chance looking up.
People are still staring, but
they’ve pushed away,
forming a wide circle, giving
me space. And now I see
Dad encouraging the crowd
to please move back. Can’t
you see she needs air? His
mask is calm, assertive, but
his voice trembles, denying
the disguise. Are you okay?
he asks, and I know he wants
to help, but he’s definitely scared
to touch me again, so I stretch
my hand toward his. “Please?”
Still, I have to reach deep inside
for the courage not to recoil
when his fingers close around
my wrist and gently pry me
up from the dirty tile floor.
Once I’m on my feet, he lets
go of me immediately. What
just happened, Whitney? Do
you want to talk about it?
Before I Can Answer
A security guard wades in
between us. Is this man
bothering you, young lady?
“No, sir. This is my father.
I just had a bit of a panic
attack, that’s all. Sorry for
causing a scene.” The guy
looks unconvinced, but nods
and returns to patrolling for
shoplifters, dine-and-dashers,
and maybe the odd flasher.
Now that I’m so obviously
safe, the crowd goes back to
scouring stores for bargains,
despite the fact that most of
the good ones are long gone.
Which reminds me, “Kyra
must have found something
good at Coach after all. She
and Mom have been gone
a while.” Thank God Kyra
didn’t witness my little scene.
Don’t change the subject, says
Dad. Was that a panic attack?
Have you had them before?
You about gave me a heart
attack, Whitney. Are you okay?
How Many Times
Is he going to ask me that?
Maybe until I answer?
“Yeah, Dad, I’m okay.”
Sure I am. For the moment.
“It’s just when you grabbed
my hand, it reminded me of
something that happened in
Vegas.” I’ve been mostly silent
about the stuff that went on
while I was working for Bryn.
The focus has been the H, and
fighting addiction. My parents
know I’d been lured into the life
by a panderer—Vegas Vice was
clear about that. But no one’s
asked for the details, and I sure
haven’t volunteered them.
“I think it was a panic attack.
First, I couldn’t breathe. It was
all the people, all the noise.
And then . . . I don’t know.
No, I haven’t had one before.
I think maybe I just need fresh
air. Is it okay if I go outside?”
I’ll go with you if you want.
And anytime you need to talk,
please know you’ve got my ear.
I Haven’t Talked to Dad
In a very long time.
I wouldn’t have any idea
what to say to him now.
Would he want to know
that I met Bryn, the phony
“fashion photographer”
who convinced me to run
away so he could pimp me out,
right here in this very mall?
No, probably not. I attempt
a joke to lighten things
up. “I don’t have your ear,
Dad. I can see both of them,
one on either side of your
head, and they look firmly
attached.” I smile, signaling
humor, but he doesn’t get it.
All right then. Let’s go
outside for a while.
“You don’t have to come
with me. I’m fine on my own.
I’ll just go find a place to sit
in the sun and watch people
behave badly for a while.
Catch up to Mom and Kyra,
and text me when you’re ready
for lunch. I’m getting hungry.”
He’s Reluctant
To leave me on my own, but
I convince him a few minutes
solo are just the medicine
I need. Awkward thought:
What I wouldn’t give for that
oxy right now, or better yet,
a ticket to the Land of Nod.
Stop it, Whitney. Guess I’d
better consider finding a sponsor
after all. Weak moments like this
are exactly why they invented
them. I step out into the cool
coastal morning, where the sun
hints at its presence behind
a gray mist. There’s really
no place to sit, except on
the sidewalk—too dangerous
today. So I lean back against
the side of the building, take
deep breaths of sea-flavored air.
Suddenly, a familiar laugh
comes floating toward me from
the parking lot. The annoying
nasal giggle belongs to Paige,
my onetime best friend. I squint
to find her. Yes, there she is,
and she’s with . . . Skylar?
Okay, I Get
That it’s been almost eight months
since Paige and I went to the party
that basically ruined my life—
the one I left, destroyed by finding
Lucas cemented to Skylar. The one
Paige was too busy making out
with some random guy to take me
home from, so I called Bryn, who
was all too happy to use the excuse
to worm his way into my pathetic life.
But Paige and Skylar are as different
as blue and red. Or at least they were.
Can people change so much so quickly?
Backpedal.
Of course they can.
I pretty much define the concept.
I’ve been to hell and back.
As they near, it’s easy to see who
did the changing. Paige, who always
carried a spare few pounds, is thin
enough to wear those skinny jeans
well. Her hair’s styled into short
spikes, and her makeup is plastered
on. Head to toe, she’s Skylar’s
twin, except if anything, despite
the weight loss, her boobs are even
bigger. Skylar, it pleases me to witness,
has yet to grow an observable pair.
I Hold On to the Thought
As they hit the sidewalk
together, almost straight
in front of me, yet somehow
don’t seem to notice I’m here.
Better fix that. “Hey, Paige.
Long time no see, huh?”
Her jaw totally drops.
Whitney? Oh my God,
girl, where have you been?
Skylar can’t help herself. Yeah.
And what happened to you?
You look so . . . so rough.
Rough? My hair has grown
out. My skin’s mostly clear.
And I??
?m wearing a cute long-
sleeved sweater, which covers
the tracks. I ignore the bitch.
“Most recently, I’ve been in rehab.
Before that, I was in Las Vegas.
With Bryn. Remember him?”
Paige wrinkles her forehead.
You mean the photographer
guy? The one who was stalking
you here last year? What were
you doing with him all that time?
I have to be careful. Whatever
I say will get around. “Modeling,
of course. He had a lot of contacts
in Vegas. But you know it’s a dirty
business. Lots of drugs and stuff.
I kind of got in over my head,
so I ended up in rehab. Old story.”
Wow. Sounds exciting. I want
to hear more. Are you coming
back to school? asks Paige.
“That’s the plan.” I wince at
the hard nudge Skylar gives her.
Before they escape, I have to dig,
“How’s Lucas? You two still together?”
Not like I don’t know the answer.
Skylar shakes her head. Nah.
I decided he’s not my type.
We have to go. See you around.
Call me, says Paige, turning
her back. As they walk away,
I hear her say, Wonder what
kind of drugs she got into.
Wonder what kind of modeling
she was doing, responds Skylar.
Wouldn’t she like to know?
A Poem by Eve Streit
Not My Type
That’s what I told him.
Did he believe it was a lie,
or could he look through
the windows of my tears,
see beyond the words to
the truth
behind them? I wanted
to know what it was like
to fall in love, conveniently
forgetting the facts
of my
sister’s disappearance.
Incorrigible. That’s what
my parents called Eden when
they tossed her to the jackals,
where her limited
experience
did not equip her for what
followed. I know because
they’ve done the same to me—
forced me into isolation
at Tears of Zion, where Father
is
the heavy hand of God,
or so he claims. All I did
was give my heart away.
Punishment like this is
incomprehensible.
Eden
Thanksgiving Is Weird
On a personal level, it is the first
I’ve ever spent away from home,
where the pattern never deviated.
Papa hates turkey, so Mama
put a huge ham in the oven
at ten a.m. exactly. Then the Streit
family went visiting faithful church
members to remind them that thanks
is better shared. We prayed together,
Papa collected a Thanksgiving
offering, and often we left with
food, too, most generally homemade
rolls or pie or maybe even a sweet
potato casserole. By the time we’d get
home, the ham was ready and Mama’s
cooking was finished. It was brilliant,
really, and, of course, the whole
plan was Mama’s idea. Cooking,
especially baking, isn’t her favorite
pastime. And after all that earlier
praying and talking and collecting,
we’d sit at our own dinner table
in silence, which is how most meals
at our house are experienced.
Quietly communing with ourselves.
But Here at Walk Straight
Noise fills the dining room—
girls talking and laughing and
sharing stories of Thanksgivings
past. The majority of those aren’t
beautiful, yet they are comforting
because of experiences they have
in common. For many, the best
thing about the day is their pimps
understand that men usually spend
it with their families, rather than
trolling for sex. Fewer customers,
less money, not the girls’ fault,
they get a pass. By the time we
get to dessert, everyone’s guard
is down, and Rhonda, who’s
usually standoffish, offers
a memory. My mama, she all into
skag and she spend a lot of time
in jail, so I had to take care of
my little brother. That’s why I’m
on the track. I don’t know nothing
else. Quit school in sixth grade.
Had to, you know? Never had no
pimp, only me. Mama, when she not
locked up, she work the streets,
and she told me what to do, and
where to find johns, and how much
to make ’em pay. It’s not so hard,
not usually, but you know sometimes
a guy go a little crazy or whatever.
So one time, one Thanksgiving,
Mama was gone and Oscar was
hungry, no food but stale cereal
in the cupboard. I tell him to watch
TV, I’ll be back soon. I go out,
and yeah, it was real slow but after
a while along come a black-and-white,
and this old cop stop to see what’s what.
“What you doing out here?” he ask.
“Don’t you know what day it is?”
I tell him, yeah, but I gotta feed my kid
brother, hoping maybe he let me go,
maybe for a blowjob or whatever.
He say, “Get in,” and that made me
scared, but you know what he did?
He drove to Denny’s, bought four
turkey dinners, two pieces of pie,
gave it all to me, and a twenty, too.
Didn’t ask for nothing. “Feed your
brother,” he say. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
After That
A lot of cop stories are passed
around, few enough as feel-good
as Rhonda’s, though there are some:
Cops who looked the other way.
Cops who offered numbers to
services and rescues like Walk
Straight. One cop who played
protector when he saw a john
on a rampage. But mostly, we hear
about cops who were quick to haul
the girls in. Cops who let them off
in trade for squad-car sex. Two girls
told of cops who chose the role of
pimp, both eventually busted and
made to leave the force. Across
the board, what the girls learned
was not to trust men who wore
badges. Back home in Boise, most
cops I met were fresh-faced hometown
boys, and friendly enough, at least
on the surface. Wonder how many
were hiding dark secrets. I go back
to my room, plop into bed, thinking
about the lies people carry, and
what’s to gain by shedding them.
Such Thoughts
Lead to a night of underwater
dreams—struggling to swim up
from the deep without drowning,
finally sputtering to the surface
just about daybreak. On the far
side of the room, my new roommate,
Hana, snuffles softly. Tia, my last
roomie, snored like a bulldo
zer.
She’s been gone two weeks now—
decided the straight and narrow
wasn’t for her, and went back to her
pimp, despite the fact that she wore
the scars of his cigarette burns and
his tattoo on the back of her neck,
signifying his ownership. We weren’t
close, but I hope she’ll be okay, or at
least as okay as you can get, renting
out various parts of your body.
Hana is a soft-spoken Korean American.
She’s been here four days now and
I still don’t know her whole story.
We’re just getting used to seeing each
other in the mirror, and to the unique
sounds of our voices and breathing
patterns. The rest will come with time.
Except, I’m Not Sure
How much time I have left
here. Just got unhappy news
from my counselor, who finally
heard from Mama. Apparently,
she’s decided to arrange a reunion.
She’ll arrive tomorrow.
Sarah’s eyes hold sympathy.
I tried to ask about emancipation.
She told me her relationship
with you is none of my business.
“Of course she’d say that.”
Dread drops into my stomach.
“I’m not ready to go, Sarah. Oh
God, I’m so afraid. Will I have
to leave with her if she insists?”
Unfortunately, you would.
Walk Straight can’t keep you
if either of your parents wants
you with them instead. Not unless
we can prove extenuating
circumstances like sexual abuse
or neglect. But from what you’ve
told me, there was neither in
your home. As for Tears of Zion,
that’s a different can of worms.
If my parents couldn’t send me
back there, could I deal with living
at home for a year? If I had to,
yes. “What about Tears of Zion?
What if I brought charges?”
After we last talked, I did
a little research. Tears of Zion
calls itself a religious retreat
center, not a boot camp or
rehabilitation facility, which
complicates things. The easiest
way to shine a spotlight on
the place would be to allege
that one or more staff members
were responsible for abuse.
The problem with that is, unless
the director—what’s his name . . . ?
She opens a file to check her notes.