Kelly handed me a drink, snapping me out of my thoughts. At first, I didn't think to ask what it was-I'd never done that in the past. I always drank and then asked. But as I lifted the glass to my lips, I noticed the peculiar two-layered liquid it contained: dark brown on the bottom and bright white on top. I thought it best that I inquire about this one before drinking it.

"What is this?"

"A white Russian," she said, explaining what the two layers were: Kahla liqueur on the bottom and milk on top. She said it could also be made without the milk, which was called a black Russian.

I knew what milk was, but had never heard of Kahla.

"Kahla," I asked, "is that booze?"

"Damn straight!" she responded as she began to stir hers.

That's all I needed to know, because black, white, Russian, Chinese, I didn't care what it was called or who it was named after. It was alcohol, which meant it would get me loaded, which meant I'd love it.

As we drank, Kelly proudly announced that she also smoked weed.

Amateur.

She told me that Jason's father belonged to a gang called the Lemon Grove Mafia. I asked her if she banged too. She threw up an L with her thumb and forefinger-obviously the sign for Lemon Grove.

Just as I suspected-birds of a feather.

We drank while I told her all about the Gangstas and she schooled me on the LG Mafia.

I talked and listened to Kelly with some bewilderment. I mean, I thought I knew why I drank, used drugs, and banged. But I didn't understand why she did. I mean, she had everything I used to have before my mom died: her own room, more clothes than a child could ever need, a loving mother and daddy, and a loving, caring home. She'd never been raped or beaten, had never gone hungry, was constantly given emotional, physical, and psychological support and encouragement. Hell, she didn't even know what a trick was!

But I'd long since learned to mind my own business. So I quit pondering the peculiarity of how two completely differently raised children ended up sinking into the same destructive conduct. Since Kelly liked to drink and smoke just as much as me, I instead focused on enjoying our friendly descent into alcohol-induced oblivion.

- Daddy, Jr., and I wasted no time in preparing me to be an acceptable candidate for emancipation. Daddy enrolled me in nearby Hoover High School, which I liked because it reminded me of my Hoover homies. Every afternoon after he got off work, Jr. would come get me and take me to look for an apartment, but no one wanted to rent to me since I was only sixteen with no credit and no income.

One day before going to see a prospective apartment, I asked Jr. to take me to see my grandma. She was in an old folks' home. Jr. said that for the last couple of years, he'd had to place her in several different homes because they kept failing to take care of her properly. They were neglecting to feed her, failing to change her diapers or bathe her, and a bunch of other mean stuff.

Grandma's room was at the back of the home, so we had to just about walk through the entire place before getting to it. We passed old folks just sittin' around, playin' cards or watchin' TV. Some were just sittin'-no one visiting them, no phones ringing-like they'd been forgotten.

When we got to Grandma's door I hesitated. I hadn't seen or spoken to her in over five years.

I stepped into her room. She was sitting up in the bed, staring at her fingers, seemingly in awe of them. Her long black hair fell around her shoulders. She was so beautiful. At the sound of us walking in, she looked up and smiled.

"Hi, Pat!" She exclaimed, obviously thinking I was my mother. "I wondered when you was comin' to see me."

I sat down next to her and grabbed her hand.

"Hi, Grandma," I replied. I tried not to cry.

"Hi, Mom," Jr. said as he sat down on the other side of the bed and began stroking her hair.

"Um-hmm," she said, and then went back to the fascination with her fingers.

"How ya doin', Grandma?" I asked. She never spoke again that day. Every now and then, though, she'd look up at me and smile.

I felt my anger at God returning. Why my grandma? She'd been a devoted Methodist all her life. She was always prayin' and singin' church songs. She'd even been a Sunday-school teacher. And for what? To end up losing her daughter, getting Alzheimer's, and being constantly abused? Hell, I didn't need God for that!

Besides, I'd kept my part of the bargain, hadn't I? He'd let me walk out of the hospital and I'd gotten out of the gang. That meant we were even-I didn't owe Him and He didn't owe me. Good. I'd go back to hating Him.

22.

WE FINALLY FOUND a landlord willing to rent an apartment to me, a one-bedroom in Chula Vista, a city south of San Diego, close to the Tijuana border. The apartment complex was huge, with over one hundred furnished and unfurnished apartments. Mine was furnished, which was good, since I didn't have any furniture. Jr. paid the first month's rent and deposit out of his own money.

I loved having my own apartment. No more runnin' away. I could go into the kitchen and get whatever I wanted when I wanted. I could go into ANY room and all the rooms were mine! I spent the first night dancing from room to room. I didn't have music, because I didn't yet have a stereo. But I didn't need any music. My joy (and the Brass Monkey I'd drunk) was my music. I danced till I passed out tired and drunk.

Jr. gave me some money so that I could buy food and a bus pass to get to and from school and get around to look for a job. I took some of the money, went to the thrift shop, and bought a TV and a small stereo.

Meanwhile the court had begun the process of "investigating" me to ensure I was appropriate and ready for emancipation.

I began my job search. I swore I wasn't going to any fast-food restaurants. They worked too fucking hard, as far as I could tell. My search was immediately disappointing. I was sixteen with no education, no work experience, and no job skills. On top of that, I didn't have any interviewing skills or a work ethic to speak of. I showed up for interviews late, improperly dressed (usually in a miniskirt or bright, tight disco Spandex pants and five-inch heels), chewing like a cow, and popping my chewing gum. I hadn't particularly mastered standard English, to say the least, so my interviews were studded with "ain'ts," "you'ses," and all kinds of slang, picked up from my stops up and down the California coastline. Needless to say, no one would hire me.

One day, though, I saw an ad for an "alarm monitor." I didn't know what the position required, but when I read "no experience necessary" I knew I qualified. When I showed up for the interview-late as usual-I was met by a small white woman name Mrs. Conocia who, along with her husband, owned and started an alarm company, which operated like this: the buyer purchased an alarm system that was rigged throughout her house. If and when the alarm was triggered, a silent alert was sent to the main office. When this signal was received, it was the on-duty monitor's job to call to determine whether it was a false alarm. If a registered occupant didn't answer or say the correct, prechosen password, the monitor was supposed to immediately send the police. Mrs. Conocia was hiring for the graveyard shift: midnight to eight in the morning. Those hours were perfect for me. I attended school from 9:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M, so getting off work at 8:00 gave me plenty of time to take the half-hour bus ride to school.

Because all I had to do was monitor a screen in a small secluded room, I didn't have to be around anyone. As a result, Mrs. Conocia didn't care that I dressed inappropriately. And, because the only talking I'd ever have to do was with a customer or the police, and then only to dispatch the cops to a particular address, she didn't care about my improper English. It was the perfect job for me.

Mrs. Conocia must not have had many people apply for that job, because she hired me on the spot-miniskirt, gum-popping, slang-talking, and all.

The job paid minimum wage, which wasn't much. But with my Social Security checks, I would have a nice little income. So now I was set. I had a cute place to live and a real job. And for the first time in a long time, I was attending school every day. I had my daddy and my uncle, and wasn't lookin' for Larry.

23.

IT WAS VERY difficult learning to be responsible. For example, Jr. had my gas and lights turned on, but I never thought about who was going to pay the bill. I figured it out when I came home one day and found the lights cut off. But I also learned how to work with the system. I knew I'd get three or four "final notice" slips before they actually cut me off. And in between each slip, I could get at least a week's extension.

Although I knew how to clean and could do it correctly and meticulously (I'd learned well from Diane and Mrs. Bassinet) I had an intense hatred for it. I refused to do it. As a result, my house stayed filthy. I didn't care. It was mine. And I promised myself that since I'd left the system for good, no one would ever make me clean again.

Although my job was easy, I wasn't very good at it. I never "monitored" anything. I thought of my job as my time to sleep. After my last class of the day, I'd party right up till it was time to go to work. By the time I got to work, I'd be extremely loaded and completely exhausted. So as soon as the monitor who had the shift before me left, I'd stretch out on the floor and pass out-where I stayed till the next morning. Somehow, I always slept right up until about 7:45-just in time to wake up, get up, and sit at the monitoring station where my relief monitor would find me-believing I'd been there all night.

"How'd it go?" she'd ask.

"All's been quiet here," I'd respond as I flew out the door.

Thank goodness no one's alarm ever went off on my shift, because if it had and if there had been a real burglary, they'd have been screwed because my passed-out ass wasn't callin' anybody. If an alarm ever did go off to which I failed to respond, to my knowledge no one ever complained about it.

The emancipation went through without a hitch. The court assigned someone to inspect my apartment, and confirmed that I was indeed working and taking care of myself as an adult. They checked my school records and saw my perfect attendance and halfway decent grades. They called to see how I was doing at my job and spoke to Mrs. Conocia who raved about me. No one contested the emancipation-not even Mr. Burns or Diane-not even once the Social Security checks were changed to be made out to my name. The court was satisfied with their investigation and granted the emancipation.

The day after I was legally emancipated, I quit school for good. I'd never even finished the first semester of the eleventh grade.

But I kept my job, which still began at midnight. San Diego County had instituted a curfew prohibiting minors under eighteen to be out after 10:00 P.M. without an adult, which meant I had to carry my emancipation papers with me in case I was stopped by the cops on my way to work. I couldn't wait to get stopped so I could flash my papers in their faces and say, "Ha! I'm grown, s-u-c-k-a-s!" To my dismay, no one ever bothered to stop me. I'd leave early to go to work so I could be downtown by myself at eleven, eleven-thirty at night-mentally pleading for a cop to stop me and ask why I was out after curfew. Didn't happen though. I never got to flash my papers-not one time.

- My next-door neighbor, Rich, was a tall, white twenty-five-year-old guy who was in the navy. He sold "dime" (ten-dollar) bags of weed. We became good friends, probably because we were both dedicated weed heads. He was impressed that I was living on my own and sort of became an older brother. He used to call me "Baby Weedy" because I was his youngest customer.

One morning, I was awakened by a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. It felt like someone was stabbing my crotch with a razor-sharp knife. I grabbed my stomach and began screaming from the pain. I could barely move. I tried to reach for the phone, but a pain stabbed me just as I grabbed for it, and I knocked it over onto the floor. The handset rolled away out of my reach. As I tried to stretch my hand out to grab it, I lost my balance and fell to the floor. The thud of my body hitting the floor caused the knives to stab deeper and harder. By now I was screaming at the top of my lungs.

Rich, awakened by my screams, thought I was being attacked. He ran to my door, banging on it.

"Cup! Cup! What's going on in there! Are you okay?"

"No!" I screamed back. "Call an ambulance! Something's wrong with my stomach!"

I lay there for what seemed like forever in horrific pain. When the paramedics arrived, I couldn't get up to let them in, so they had to force the door open. They found me on the floor, curled in a fetal position, screaming and crying. I was rushed to the hospital.

That fuckin' IUD! The doctor said the X-rays showed it had "moved into my uterus."

"It ain't my ut'rus that's hurtin'!" I screamed, wondering, What the fuck is a 'ut'rus'? "It's my stomach! My stomach!"

I was rushed into surgery to have the IUD removed. As I lay in the operating room while the nurses and other folks ran around preparing things, the doctor explained that my uterus was located in my lower abdomen. He said the IUD had originally been inserted into my cervix (like I knew what the fuck that was), but had "moved" into my uterus.

"WHO moved it?" I screamed through clinched teeth. The pain seemed to be getting worse. He didn't respond, so I thought maybe I needed to scream a little louder. "How the fuck did it get in there?" I screamed.

He said that it was a side effect that occurred when an IUD was left in for too long. He said it was supposed to be in for only one year, and then it should have been removed, my uterus checked, and another inserted.

A year! No one ever told ME about the year limit. I'd had it in for more than three.

The doctor then blurted that he thought I also had gonorrhea. Before I could ask what that was, a white man sitting next to me inserted a needle into my IV tube and said: "Now I want you to count backward from ten."

By the time I got to seven, I was out.

The next day when the doctor came into my room to check up on me, he scolded me about keeping it in so long. Most of the time I'd forgotten it was even in there! The doctor said I couldn't get another IUD. That one had done severe damage, and my body would need time to heal. He said I'd have to try another form of contraceptive. He suggested the pill. I'd tried those things before-and they failed horribly. But now it looked like I had no other choice. He mentioned something about foam and a diaphragm, but I wasn't down for using anything that required your having to STOP and use it. So the pill it would have to be.

I didn't really have a steady boyfriend. I went through men like water. I'd meet them and fall instantly in love. But for some reason, after a couple of months, we wouldn't be able to stand each other. I didn't know that love and healthy relationships take time. All I knew was what I'd been taught. So I'd meet a guy one day, fuck him the same day, move him in the next, and put him out the following week. I just went through one sick, unhealthy relationship after another, all the while thinking I was a "playa."

The doctor started lecturing about my having caught a sexually transmitted disease so young. Thank goodness Rich came into the room, interrupting the doctor's speech. He'd come to visit and make sure I was okay. The doctor quickly left, but not before giving us both disapproving looks.

"Look what I brought you," Rich said with a wide grin as he pulled out some Brass Monkey, a joint, and some cigarettes. Man, I loved friends.

I was so glad Rich was home that morning to call for help. I don't know what I'd have done if no one had been there to hear my screams. He said I'd scared him to death, though. He'd come to my door wearing nothing but his underwear-and carrying a lamp.

"A lamp?" I asked as we sat in my hospital room. "What the fuck were you going to do with a lamp?"

He said he thought I was being attacked, but didn't have a weapon, so he'd grabbed the first thing he saw. We both cracked up laughing.

Shortly after that, Rich found out he was being transferred to another base in another state. He asked me if I wanted to take over his business and customers. He said he'd only be comfortable leaving his business to a serious smoker like me. And he said it'd be a great second income for me. I'd never really thought about selling drugs. Sure, I'd been around drug dealers quite a bit, but I never thought of myself as one-a drug user, yes; but a dealer? However, once I'd given it some serious thought, I realized Rich was right. Who better to sell weed than a weed head?

I loved selling weed. It had several benefits. First, my house became the hap'nin' place to be. I no longer desired to be part of the in crowd; shit, I was the in crowd! Folks were always coming and going. And I had lots of friends! I was popular! Well liked! People always wanted to be around me!

Another great thing about dealing was that I always had cash around. And I rarely had to smoke my own stash. Customers were always happy to smoke a couple of their joints with me.

The only downside about dealing was that my customers were military folks and other young adults with day jobs. Since leaving Lancaster, I really didn't hang with folks my own age. I'd discovered that kids my age were too immature for me. All they talked about was who was going to the dance with who, and what outfit they were going to have their parents buy for them. That was kid stuff to me. I had more important things to worry about, like paying rent and bills and going to work, and of course partying. I'd never been to a dance or prom. Hell, I'd never really been on a date.

Since my customers and friends were much older than me and since they loved to party at night after getting off work, these factors made it difficult for me to maintain both my business and my night job. Finally I realized something had to go: partying or work. I figured that with my Social Security checks and dope money, I could make it. So I called the monitor on duty and informed her that I quit.

"Who's going to relieve me?" she asked, concerned she'd be stuck pulling a double shift.

"That's not my problem," I snapped, and hung up the phone.

Several minutes later the phone rang. It was Mrs. Conocia. She was very upset.

"You can't just walk out on me!" she screamed. "You're supposed to give me two weeks' notice!"

"Okay," I snapped. I'd become cocky now that I'd been declared legally grown and had my own business enterprise. (I'd forgotten that just a few months before, I was begging for that job.) "Figure that in two weeks I quit. Till then, I'll be on sick leave."

"You don't have two weeks' worth of sick-"

I didn't hear the rest. I'd slammed down the phone. I never even went and picked up my last check. And I never spoke to Mrs. Conocia again.

- At first my plan worked extremely well. I made enough money from selling weed to enable me to regularly add my other favorites-meth, cocaine, LSD, and sherm-to my daily weed and booze consumption. I'd heard that you could get into more trouble for selling the stronger drugs than for using them. So for the moment, I limited my business enterprise to weed.

I had a huge party for my seventeenth birthday. Friends came over and brought tons of dope and booze. We partied till the neighbors called the cops, who shut the party down and threatened to take me to jail for cussing them out. I was known for getting drunk and cussing you out. Alcohol gave me false courage. So I told the cops to "quit fuckin' with us and go solve some fuckin' crimes!" Of course, it sounded more like "Quit fwukin' wit' us in go sulve sum fwukin' crime!"

When the cops realized I was drunk, but not of drinking age, they threatened to take everyone to jail. My friends covered my mouth and shoved me in the back room as others groveled and apologized about the noise and my behavior. They kindly explained it was just supposed to be a little party that got out of hand, but that they would immediately shut it down. It worked. I'd gotten reckless and had forgotten that I was still vulnerable. All I knew was it sho was a jamming party!

Shortly after the party, I was enjoying my usual houseful of folks when someone said they had a craving for fried chicken. Drunk, loaded, and trippin', a bunch of people went to the store, got the chicken (actually they stole the chicken), came back, and started frying it up. As soon as I smelled the scent of frying chicken I began to get nauseous. The last time that had happened, I was pregnant. I was still half-assed about taking my birth-control pills.

Could I be pregnant? And if so, whose was it? In the last four months I'd had three boyfriends.

I went to the free clinic, and sure enough, I was pregnant. Fuck! They said I was about two months in, which meant this dude named Calvin was probably the father. I knew the lifestyle I led was not one for children, and I'd be damned if I was going to let the same system that had fucked me over raise my kids. That baby I lost in Lancaster was the first and last I ever intended to keep. So an abortion was the only way out. The nurse told me about a few clinics that offered cheap abortions. Although I hadn't spoken to Calvin in a couple of months, I'd be damned if I was going to pay for the abortion myself.

When I called Calvin to demand half the money, the first thing he asked was, "Is it mine?" This pissed me off. Yes, I fucked around. And, yes, I slept with a lot of different men. But he didn't know that.

"Of course it's yours!" I screamed, though in my heart I really wasn't sure.

He gave me half the money for the abortion, but refused my request to go with me to get it done. I didn't care. I'd long since been used to doing shit for myself by myself. I caught the bus to the clinic, had the abortion, and was home partying within the hour as if nothing had just happened. I never looked back.

Kids ain't for everyone, I'd convinced myself.

I kept the abortion a secret from everyone. But I made a vow to try to do a better job of taking my birth-control pills.

- Every once in a while Jr. would come by and check on me. Although he didn't know I was "slanging" (selling dope), he was suspicious of all of the people who were always at my house. But I was grown and paying my own rent in my own house, so he never said much, outside of regularly voicing his displeasure with the fact that I'd quit school.

They can't teach me nothing in school I can't learn on the streets. I truly believed that school was for suckers, and I had NEVER considered myself a sucker. So returning to school was never an option.

Jr. was pleased at the thought that I was still working-I didn't bother to tell him I'd quit. Still, he would always fuss at me about my unhealthy lifestyle and how I needed an education to be successful in life.