It wasn't because they were fat or bald, but because of what I saw in their eyes. More accurately, what I didn't see in their eyes: life. Sharks, that's what they were.

Dead cold scary. No way was I chancing a swim with them.

Most johns are more mackerel than great white. Cold slimy bait fish, quick to jump into the net, especially when what they're jumping in after still looks fresh.

Don't know how long that can last. Hooking uses you up fast.

Figure in hyping, I'll look thirty before I turn seventeen. I turn sixteen day after tomorrow, not that one single person in the world gives half a d.a.m.n.

Why Did I Have to Go And think about that? d.a.m.n!

If I were still in Santa Cruz, I'd be planning my Sweet Sixteen party.

Daddy would insist. We'd have it at the club, and we'd have a band, and Paige would be there and maybe even Kyra.... Oh my G.o.d. What have I done? Daddy must think. ...

What? I'm dead? Mom hopes I am.

But not. ... Daddy. I'm sorry. s.h.i.t!

I sit down hard. Sidewalk cement bites into my b.u.t.t, which is naked beneath a short denim skirt. My head tilts against my knees, and my eyes trickle tears. Heavy. My head is so heavy.

The H wants to take me away and I want to go. Away. Far. Where nothing hurts. Nothing ... Eyes on me. Are there eyes? Don't look. Have to.

To know ... Who? Can't lift my head.

Roll it sideways. Are you all right?

The eyes are talking. No. Not eyes.

Lips. Stupid. Eyes can't talk.

Do you want me to call 911?

"N-no thanks. I'm o-o-k-kay."

So okay I can't even say okay.

For some messed-up reason, I start to hiccup. "Ju-" Hick.

"Just think-" Hick. "Thinking about my b-" Hick. "Buh-birthday."

Hick. Hick. Hick. Somehow I manage to focus my eyes.

The guy isn't pretty, but his expression is kind enough. Maybe even concerned. Are you sure you're okay? You been drinking?

Can you get this screwed up from alcohol? Looney Tunes laughter- hick-hick- spits from my mouth.

"Sorry. No, don't drink much."

Now I can see the wolf in his eyes.

No surprise. Even nice enough guys go on the prowl. Okay. What do you do that's fun, then?

I Swear Until This Moment I never even noticed his hand creeping up my leg, ever closer to my semi-exposed crotch.

Eyes can be deceptive when they talk. I crack up again.

This time, at least, the hiccups seem to have disappeared. But I'm starting to ache for a rig.

Bryn's words settle through the fog. Leave something to the imagination. I give the guy a quick feel before pushing his hand away. "Oh, I for sure know how to have fun." Game on.

Wait. Bryn again. Ask if he works vice. "You a cop or what?"

He grins. Or what. I'm not even from around here. He stands, pulls me to my feet, steadies my wobble.

Live close? I'll walk you home.

It Isn't Far Just eight blocks. The guy chit- chats the whole time. Something about Omaha. Cornhuskers? He played for them? Bets on them?

Oh yeah. Sportsbook. Won five big ones. (How big? Hundreds?

Bigger?) I can't concentrate on what he's saying. All I can think about is a syringe full of magic.

How fast can I do this guy?

We swing into the parking lot, cut across to Building Two.

Key. I need the key. It's in my purse somewhere. Too much c.r.a.p in here. Like, why do I carry it, anyway? Just to irritate myself?

We reach the apartment and I hear Bryn again. Look around before you open the door. I do. A car is parking a few s.p.a.ces down.

And going up the stairs of the other building is that girl I see sometimes, mostly in the laundry room. Copacetic.

Cool word. Where did it come from?

I unlock the door, start to turn the k.n.o.b, when more words fall into my brain.

Business before pleasure. I turn.

The guy is so close, we're almost attached. I give him a little shove backward. "Before we go in, we should talk about what you want and how much that will cost you."

Cost? You want me to pay for it?

He pushes me inside. I don't pay for s.e.x. Even if I did, I wouldn't pay for you, you junkie b.i.t.c.h.

He is all predator now, and on me.

Scream! But his hand is already over my mouth. I shake my head, look into his eyes. This wolf has mayhem on his mind. He takes me down.

So okay. Give it to him. I go limp.

No! he screams. Fight, you G.o.dd.a.m.n wh.o.r.e! Fight, or I'll kill you.

No fight left in me. f.u.c.k me. Kill me. Don't care. He wants both.

His p.e.n.i.s stabs me, his hands lock around my throat. Air. No air. Black ...

Air!

My lungs grab it suddenly. I float up into gray light, roll onto my side, vomit. Only nothing comes out.

Noise. Someone's screaming.

Get the f.u.c.k out of here, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. I'm calling the cops right now, so you'd better run.

Come back, I'll kick your a.s.s.

My throat throbs. The wolf! I sit up.

Too fast. My head is a merry-go-round.

Down. The carpet stinks. Saved.

I'm saved. Bryn! He does loves me.

Watches over me. "Bryn? Where are you?" Footsteps across the stinky carpet. Not Bryn's. Too soft.

Someone leans over me. The girl from the laundry room. Just lie still.

I think you'll be okay. He's hurting, though. I hit him with a book.

Good thing you read big ones.

She smiles. Sad. She's sad. Should I call the cops? Didn't think so.

I'll stay with you for a while if you want. I'm Ginger, by the way.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell I'll Stay Right or wrong, I'll stay until you tell me I have to leave.

Until you can look into my eyes, swear you no longer love me.

It would be a bitter cup of broken- promise tea, but I'll swallow it if you say I must. If I go, sad sweet dreams will follow me, weighting my days, strangling my nights.

Sad, sweet dreams of you.

Ginger

Sadness

Encircles me, a black halo.

It's this city, this dried-up desert well, sucking hope like sand. People come here, hoping. Hoping to get rich.

Hoping to get laid. Not many go home richer than when they arrived. Easier to get laid, as long as they have a few bucks in their pockets.

Then there are the people who move here with big dreams. They dream of stand-up comedy, of playing rock and roll. They dream of dancing lead in some steamy casino show.

If they're talented and lucky, they might end up in a chorus line or drumming with a bar band. But lots of them wind up just like me, selling pieces of themselves. Pieces they can never have back. There's this girl who works for Lydia.

Her name is Misty. I won't do this forever, she swears. Just until I get my degree. Then the world is my apple pie....

Okay, metaphor isn't her best thing. And neither is school.

If she gets her degree, it will be because she slept with the right teacher. Or three.

Every time I run into Misty, a little more of her is gone.

I can see it in her eyes.

When you sell your body, you also sell what's inside. Piece by piece, you sell your soul.

Now Here's This Girl Who almost lost everything.

She let her guard down. Plain and simple. If I hadn't been doing my usual nosy thing, checking out the neighbors, she'd probably be lying here waiting for her pimp to call the coroner. Yes, I know who her pimp is. He's the only guy who comes around almost every day. Collecting money and delivering sustenance- food, trinkets, and substances.

Heroin. I was right about that.

I watch her now, plunging a syringe full of hot amber liquid. Her head rolls side- ways and she fixes me with sleepy golden eyes. Want some? I don't have a whole lot, but I kind of owe you one.

"No thanks. Not my thing."

Her body visibly relaxes as relief pumps through her veins.

Suddenly she clutches her stomach, runs into the bathroom.

"You all right?" I yell at the door.

She exits seconds later, pale but smiling. A very bad smell of voided body waste trails her.

Doesn't embarra.s.s her at all.