Despite the residual morning mist, the view of the crest-and-crash Pacific literally stole my breath away. "Insane," I managed.

We sat, lost in our buzz and the roar of the sea, and when he slipped his arm around my shoulder, it felt right. No, better than right.

It felt necessary. He wanted to kiss me, I knew that. And I wanted to let him, but I was afraid I'd look like an idiot.

I'd only ever kissed two other guys, in an eighth-grade game of Truth or Dare. Not real kisses.

Not even real practice kisses.

Still, when he touched my face, it rotated easily toward his. And when our eyes locked, I dove into those emerald pools and our first kiss was an effortless float.

All the love I'd ever thirsted for swelled, symphonic. Finally, too soon, he pulled away. Wow.

A Man of Few Words Most definitely, but I didn't need words then. I needed another kiss, which he gave me, and another. And another.

Without asking for more. Even though by the end of that make-out session, my body was saying, "Please, more." And it has many times since.

A few days ago Daddy was in the city, and Mom was off at some fashion show. I asked Lucas to come over.

We were making out hot and heavy.

He started to unb.u.t.ton my blouse.

I let him. And when he unzipped my jeans, I helped him help me out of them. Snared by the heat of his kiss, I barely noticed when he slipped out of his own Levis.

Skin urgent against skin, only panties and boxers between us, I was ready to shed that final thin barrier, allow him access to the most private part of me, when familiar faces floated past the window. Not-quite busted!

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Faces I wear many faces, some way too old to fit the girl glued to the back of them.

I.

keep my faces in a box, stashed inside of me.

It's murky in there, overcast with feelings I don't allow anyone to see.

Not that anyone cares enough to go looking.

No one wants to know what bothers me. Too hung up on their own problems. Sometimes I think I have to see the real Ginger, so I open the box, search inside.

But no matter how hard I look, I can't find me.

Ginger

SOP.

Standard operating procedure.

Iris is yelling again. At the phone.

At the guy on the other end.

At what he's done to her world- her totally messed-up, totally self- centered piece of the universe.

Wish she would just shut the f.u.c.k up. Hang up. Forget Hal or Bill or Joe or Frank or whatever this one's name is. I can't remember them all. Only a couple of names, a face or two. A few other body parts I'll never be able to forget.

All because of Iris's "womanly needs." That's what she calls her overinflated s.e.x drive. Why can't she stop thinking about herself and act like a mom?

She could start by letting us call her Mom. But, no, she insists on Iris. Says it makes her feel pretty.

Not sure she was ever really pretty, but if she was, too many babies and too much hard living has sucked her dry.

Too much, too many. That describes Iris pretty d.a.m.n well.

Too much booze. Too many smokes. Way too many pills. Speed. Downers.

Everything in between. Any- thing to shut off and shut up what's left of her brain.

A Door Slams Guess she's done on the phone.

Done with another Mr. Wrong.

Thirty seconds, she'll be in here, crying. Wanting me to say, "Don't cry, Iris. Everything will be okay."

And, you know, maybe it will.

"Okay" is all in how you look at things. Compared to some b.u.m on the street, or some starving kid in Africa, we're okay, living with our grandma, who manages to feed Iris and us six kids.

Six kids, five different fathers.

Only Maryann and I share one, not that we know one d.a.m.n thing about him, except he's an army lifer who gave us his face (neither of us takes after our mother) and his last name. Guess Iris actually married him. Wonder if she ever officially unmarried him.

Yes, no, or maybe so, the other kids-Porter, Honey, Pepper, and Sandy-all have different fathers, but share the same last name. Belcher, just like Gram's.

Our first names come courtesy of Iris's infatuation with ancient black-and-white TV reruns. Ginger and Mary Ann were characters on Gilligan's Island. Porter and Sandy were on a show about a dolphin named Flipper. Pepper was Police Woman, and Honey West was a private investigator, cop, or other woman-in-danger.

Anyway, we've been at Gram's place in California for seven months, eating every day, sleeping warm.

But I don't know how long it will last. Iris gets along with her mother about how she gets along with her men.

Thirty Seconds Is Up Iris doesn't bother to knock.

She slaps against the door, pushes her way into the room that I share with Mary Ann, Honey, and Pepper. Four girls, two beds. Luckily, only I'm here now.

Iris tosses herself across my bed, lands facedown against rumpled blankets. b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Why are they all such b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? She sobs, and her body shakes like she's got the DTs.

Like she'd ever suffer through detox.

I should feel sorry for her, I guess.

But I don't. I can't. She makes me sick. Maybe because I know I could turn out just like her. No way to dig myself out of this grave for the living. No way I've found yet.

I try to dig up a little sympathy.

"He wasn't such a great guy anyway, Iris." He was nasty.

But she doesn't think so. No one's p-perf-fect. I thought we were doing just f-f-fine.

Anger punches me suddenly, hard, little blows to the gut.

"Maybe he found out how you make your ... uh ... living.

Not many guys will put up with someone who screws other guys for money. And if they do, then all they're after is free booze and an easy lay."

She jerks upright, grabs me by the shoulders, shakes till my teeth rattle. You little b.i.t.c.h.

How dare you talk to me like that? You know anything I do to get by, I do for you.

"You"

Meaning her collective offspring.

I look into her eyes and find only honesty there. She means every word, hasn't even the slightest clue how full of s.h.i.t she totally is. I don't care. She should know.

"Some people wait tables or work in grocery stores, Iris. Hustling BJs is lazy work." All on your knees.

Emotions cycle through her eyes like a color wheel. She wants to hit me. Wants to hug me.

Her hands, still attached to my shoulders, tremble. I'm sorry.

I just don't know anything else.

Finally her hands fall away.

I thought maybe things would change with Greg. Get better.

What planet does she live on?

"Get real! What guy wants a woman like ... like you?"

Smacked Down That's how she looks, but I don't feel bad about it. She wants me to mother her. Well, what mother with half a pair of b.a.l.l.s wouldn't say the same thing? (Not counting my mother!) And I've got a full pair.

I swear I can see smoke billowing from her ears. Who made you so stinking mean? She spits the s's.

What a f.u.c.king stupid question!

Isn't she expecting my answer?

"Who do you fricking think?"

She wants to say more, but at this exact moment, Gram comes into the room, carrying an armful of detergenty-smelling laundry.

Her head swivels toward us.

Uh. Am I interrupting something?

Iris shakes her head. Nothing important. I need a smoke.

She rolls off the bed. And a beer.

I Must Look As p.i.s.sed as I feel. Without a word, Gram lays the folded clothes on the other bed.

She turns toward me slowly, and for maybe the hundredth time, I wonder what has carved such deep wrinkles into her face.

She's only, like, fifty-three or so, and I'm pretty sure that, unlike Iris, Gram used to be a knockout. You okay?

Her voice is pillow soft.

My eyes sting suddenly. It should be Iris-Mom- asking if I'm okay. "No."

Gram comes over, sits on the edge of the bed. Up close, her face looks like earthquake-splintered stone.

Worn, but not worn out.

I wish I could change things for you. And for her, too.

Her childhood was no walk in the park either. Not easy, being an army brat. And touching down in Barstow wasn't exactly a reward for years spent hauling around the U.S.

Then, when her dad got killed ...

well, she went starved dog wild.

Between Fort Irwin, Edwards, and the Marine Corps bases, there were plenty of men willing to be stand-ins for her fallen father. Only it wasn't exactly daughterly love they were after.

Guess That Explains How she got knocked up with me when she was only sixteen. Just my age.

And maybe it explains why she never outgrew teendom.

Still, "Why are you taking her side? She p.i.s.ses you off too.

Not like we can't hear you yell at each other, you know."