Crank Series: Crank Part 25

I told her I'd ask and call later.

My brain needed a rest-not to mention my left ear.

Kristina could listen to Sarah talk for hours.

Bree was ready to scream.

At Least I Had the House to Myself

I downed an ampicillin, splashed peroxide on my wounded thigh, which actually looked a little better, the heart more pink than violet, the pain more a soft pulsing reminding me with a steady beat of an emptiness so complete I had no clue how to fill it, loneliness so heavy I had no idea how to lift it, need so intense I had only one way to relieve it: a bitter drink of its very source- the deep well of the monster.

I Considered

the Reno crank scene, or what I knew of it.

Legit entertainment- music, magic, comedy clubs.

Legal and semilegit- gaming, sports betting, light night carousing.

Legal, semi-immoral- adult revues (aka "t.i.tty shows") gay clubs, strip clubs, swap clubs, beyond-the-city-limits prost.i.tutions.

Such activities, 24-7,.

practically invited the monster's partic.i.p.ation.

Remote desert dwellings, travel trailers and sad, little shacks, went up in flames regularly, victims of ether-fed fire.

Oh, yes, there was crank in Reno, waiting for me, calling out to Bree.

All that was left was to find it.

Suddenly, However

all those days with little or no sustenance hit me in one awful instant.

Lucky me! Mom's kitchen was a whole lot better stocked than Dad's.

(Not to mention a whole lot cleaner- no mega-c.o.c.kroaches allowed!) Summer fruit.

Garden veggies.

Leftover roast beef.

Homemade bread.

Hand-churned ice cream.

I'd almost forgotten how great a cook Mom was, at least when she wasn't too busy writing or going through one of her "I'm not your d.a.m.n servant!" phases.

Double lucky me.

It seemed she was going through one of her Suzy Homemaker stages.

Fresh salsa.

Homemade chips.

Leftover chili.

Cherry pie.

I felt like I'd died and gone to G.o.d's grocery store in the sky!

My Luck Ran Out

'Cause after I finished pigging out, I really wanted a cigarette.

Nicotine's a strange addiction. I didn't even realize I was hooked until I couldn't have one. No one at my house smoked, at least not so you'd notice. Not my mom. Smoking causes wrinkles. Not Scott, who had a family history of emphysema. Not Leigh, who said they made your hair smell like an ash tray (only true if you don't smoke). Surely not Jake, the ministud athlete. Nope I.

was most definitely out of luck.

For the moment anyway.

It Got Worse

because just about then, my mom came home.

Good. You're up. You looked dead to the world, so we let you sleep.

Leigh shadowed her through the door.

"Feeling better? We went shopping.

I needed a new swimsuit in the worst way."

Mom put an armful of bags on the counter, ignoring my crumbs.

I got you one too. Your old one is pretty ratty.

Leigh reached into a Macy's bag, extracted it for approval.

"Cute, huh? She wanted to get you a tank. I insisted on a bikini. You do still like pink?"

Mom looked at the hot pink crochet, as if for the first time, shook her head and clucked, Better try it on. Can't show too much skin at Scott's company picnic.

Leigh glanced down at my T-shirt hem, barely covering our sisterly secret.

"Nope, wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all."

All Thoughts of Bad Habits

I Went to Try On the Swimsuit

Few things are quite as humbling as cinching yourself up in a completely revealing bikini and standing in front of a full-length reflection rotating like a bird on a spit, trying to admire the naked truth staring back at you: body slim but not fine-tuned boyish hips, just barely qualifying as curves uncertain b.r.e.a.s.t.s, cup size stalled somewhere between A (plus) and B (minus), womanhood desperately trying to escape, succeeding once a month, like it or not, ready or not.

(At least that wasn't currently a problem!)

The Tattoo, However, Was

It did look better, but it still didn't look good- a bright pink, semi-heart-shaped thing, blue ink hiding somewhere beneath my skin, not an easy thing to hide in an itsy bitsy bikini.

Band-aids were problematic. A little one wouldn't cover it, but one of those big square dudes would draw everyone's attention, guaranteed. Besides, have you ever seen a Band-aid, floating in a swimming pool? Would you want to be responsible for such a disgusting thing?

And even if one did manage to stay on midst gushing gallons of chlorinated water, what would all that wet wildness do to the just forming scab and retreating infection?

Still, I couldn't beg off.

Wild Waters Day was important to Scott's "leg up the management ladder."

It was Mom's day to strut her stuff in her own itsy bitsy bikini.

And it was always a summer hit for us kids.

If I said I didn't want to go, Mom would check for a fever for certain.

Even if she didn't find one, it would open the door for questions I really was in no mood to answer.

Questions I knew I'd have to answer soon.

As I Pondered