Crank Series: Crank Part 40

He took a good, long look, then whispered something no doubt funny and off-color into Mom's ear. She giggled and flirted and carried on like Scott wasn't even there.

Worse yet, Scott pretended not to notice. Or maybe, tied up in conversation about the latest microchip technology stocks, he in fact didn't notice. He turned the tables nicely when his boss and Mrs. Boss (in a very short skirt) joined the lineup. My parents set an extremely poor example for us impressionable (ha ha) kids.

Good thing Jake wasn't sitting behind them. Clueless, he oohed at every aerial maneuver. Robyn and I observed the whole show (including the terrestrial maneuvers in our box) with pure enjoyment. It's always great to watch the world's best pilots fly, and better yet to see adults behave like juvenile delinquents.

Three Races

and two stunt performances later, Robyn and I excused ourselves for a trip to the outhouse.

We hustled off to the car to "powder our noses," then hurried to pee before we were missed.

As we headed back to our seats, a familiar form came striding in our direction. Brendan.

Attached, as if sewn on, was a girl, not more than 14, with a fas.h.i.+on doll body and child actress face.

Her shorts, cut high on the thigh and low on the hips, revealed a stud in her navel. I thought about turning around or ducking into the swirling crowd but without warning, Bree took over. "Hey, Brendan!

Great to see you again," she gushed.

"Raped any schoolgirls lately?"

He maintained his frosty cool as he leveled his eyes. Can't rape the willing.

"That's what I've heard." I turned to his sidekick.

"How about you? Are you willing?"

Still locked to Brendan, she quite obviously deflated, and her face paled beneath an overdose of cover-up and cheap blush.

"Well, have fun you two. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." I started away, calling over my shoulder, "Watch your back, Barbie doll."

Robyn Wanted the Whole Story

I told her, then she shared her own sordid tale: I started crakin' to keep up with schoolwork around gymnastics, cheerleading, student council, and other extracurricular c.r.a.p.

You'd be surprised how many brownnosers get high, and with so much around, I thought it would always be easy to score. Sometimes it goes dry.

During one particular drought spell, I was hurtin'

for certain, and went looking for a new source.

Found him in a casino arcade, cruising for fresh meat.

He flashed a bindle and I followed him out to his car.

I still can't believe I was stupid enough to get inside.

He drove east of town, all the way out in the desert past Mustang.

After a couple of snorts, he was all hands, all over me.

When I told him to stop, he said, "It's a long walk back, even if you don't get lost. Anyway we both know what kind of a girl you are."

That stung, but not much. All I could do was ask for more crank so maybe I could halfway enjoy it. I didn't. He was dirty.

Smelly like he hadn't showered in days.

And after he started, he got mean.

He did things to me-terrible things, I've still got the scars- things no sane person would ever do. Of course, he wasn't exactly sane.

Afterward, neither was I.

Now, You Might Think

an experience like that would serve as a stern warning, make a person do a quick about-face and sprint in the other direction.

Didn't happen like that for Robyn.

Didn't happen like that for me.

Before I Met the Monster

But Now Nothing

Problem Number One: School

Getting up in the morning, was it only moments after finally falling into a state of semisleep?

Finding clean clothes (I was supposed to put my dirties in the laundry room, but who could remember?) Sucking down coffee, nibbling a half cup of honey-sweetened corn flakes for a slight rush of caffeine and carbs.

Catching a ride with Robyn or one of my Avenue buds, coaxing myself mostly awake with a whiff of white.

Twenty minutes on the Avenue before the bell rang, tempering my morning buzz with nicotine.

Stumbling into homeroom, most likely tardy, hoping Mrs. Twedt wouldn't notice and reward me with detention.

Making some cla.s.ses, cutting others, deciding which would be which by which was which the day before.

And somehow I managed to convince myself life with the monster was not routine.

Problem Number Two: Relations.h.i.+ps

Old friends.h.i.+ps, tucked away like treasures, relegated to tokens of yesterday.

New friends.h.i.+ps, faulty ground to cultivate and build a future upon.

Old boyfriends, a very short list, abbreviated further by definition and distance.

New boyfriends, one definite but distracted, and no shortage of Avenue wannabes.

Siblings, one too close and curious, the other much too far away to serve as confidant.

Parents, ever-present shade, dimming my sparkle, kryptonite to quell my bid for superpower.

Teachers, counselors, preachers, scaffolding, crumbled by the weight of my monster.

Problem Number Three: Connections

How to get high and stay that way?

(Coming down was a b.i.t.c.h and a half.) Finding crank wasn't really difficult.

Most of my new crowd knew someone who dealt (or knew someone who knew someone who did).

Getting what you paid for proved more problematic, unless you went straight to the source.

Even then, things were iffy.

(Stoners aren't the most reliable people.

Even they would have to agree.) Fronting years of h.o.a.rded allowances and birthday gifts sometimes resulted in disappointing returns.

And my bank account was dwindling fast.

Problem Number Four: Feeling Good

The biggest problem of all.

You know how riding real fast in a car or a spectacular takeoff in a jet gives you an awesome rush of adrenaline?

You know how spotting an eagle cruising low over the treetops, or watching a baby finally master the try-try-again of walking makes you glow all over?

You know how singing a beautiful song with dead-on pitch, or getting every test answer right, including the extra credit brainteaser, makes you feel like you could take on the world?