Sometimes the Lady makes you sick. But it's good sick.

There's room on the couch, and a vacant chair, but she sits on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

Now she rocks herself. Forward.

Back. Forward. Back. Thank you for .... wait. How did you know?

"I dunno. Guess he just looked like bad news. Then he started yelling crazy s.h.i.t. I usually mind my own business...."

Yeah, right. "But my 'little voice' was screaming. Good thing you never shut your door.

Even better, he was too busy trying to choke you to notice."

Her hands rise protectively toward her neck. I thought I was on my way to h.e.l.l for sure. She strokes the raised scarlet finger marks gently.

Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

I have to say, "Pretty ugly.

You might have to take a few days off. Most guys won't want ...."

Too familiar. Then again, I just watched her shoot up.

I repeat, "Take a few days off."

I Expect Surprise That I know how she makes her money. Or anger at me, because I've been such a snoop, or at herself, because she's made it so obvious. I get neither.

Nothing but silent acceptance.

Is it the heroin? Or is it just her? Probably both. I want to ask where she came from. What kind of parents she has, if she has any at all. How she hooked up with her so-called boyfriend.

That's, no doubt, what he calls himself. Want to ask, though I know the answer, if he's the one who started her on the junk.

Her head sways forward as the drug carries her toward Dreamville. She'll be totally out of it soon. I'll ask something easy. "What's your name?"

At the sound of my voice, her head jerks up. Oh. It's you.

You tell me your name first.

Wow. She's pretty out of it already. "I told you before.

It's Ginger, remember?"

She giggles like a little kid.

A stoned little kid. Oh, yeah.

Hey, Ginger. I'm Whitney.

Somewhere in her sudden animation, I catch a glimpse of Whitney, the way I imagine she used to be before .... him.

She nods again and I hurry, "Are you still in love with him?"

Yo-yoing in and out of now, she is coherent enough to know who I mean. Bryn is everything.

It's the Last Thing She Says Before dropping all the way into whatever dark narcotic place the junk pushes her toward.

I swear I'll never venture there.

Lately I don't even feel like drinking much. All it does is make me stupid and sick.

It doesn't make me forget.

In fact, sometimes, the drunker I get, the more I remember.

I remember the kids, how annoying and entertaining they could be. Do they miss me?

Have they even asked, Where is Ginger? Why did she go?

I remember Barstow, the armpit town where I first made a friend, first got decent grades. Ms. Felton even told me once, You're an excellent writer. You should think about it as a career.

Writer? Me? And what am I doing instead? I remember Sandy, a ball in the street, and Mary Ann's face, scrunched with pain. I'm sorry. I should have .... Only the blame belonged to me. Which always brings me back to my very favorite memories, all centered around Gram, deceptively pet.i.te, while so driven. Tireless. Completely devoted to a pack of kids she owed absolutely zero devotion. All because of her giant capacity to love. Does she hate me now for taking the easy way out?

Would she ask me to come home if she could? Did she mean it when she said, You know where I live.

No matter what, I want you to remember this is always your home.

Tempting as It Might Be To get back on the bus, see if she would welcome me, uglier memories intrude on that sweet little daydream.

Since the revelation about Iris sicking her snarling dogs on me, other faces-other mutts-materialize when I least want to recognize them, often just as I sink into an alcohol-fueled stupor, praying it will let me sleep, dreamless.

I was so young the first time, I didn't know what it meant, only that nothing had ever hurt so bad. Walt tore me up and I bled and bled and when I screamed, n.o.body came. And he laughed.

That's it, little baby. Scream for your daddy. Only he wasn't my daddy at all. My daddy was a brave soldier, fighting far away.

Iris told me so. I still believed the stuff she told me then. When I told her about the man, not my daddy, she said, He was only making you into a real girl.

I didn't understand. But I made myself believe her. I was a real girl now. But what was I before?

Walt Was the First There were others. Nameless.

Faceless. I figured out how to close off my brain when they did it to me, to withdraw into a dark little room inside my head, where I couldn't see them. Couldn't smell their sweat, their stagnant breath.

Couldn't taste the tobacco coating their tongues, or the beer tainting the spit they left in my mouth.

Couldn't feel what was down between my legs. But now they revisit me. Is it because of what I'm doing? Because of these nameless, faceless men watching me? Even without them touching me, I feel dirty about what I do.

Alex does even filthier things but says it all washes off with soap.

I don't believe that. I think it all leaves stains. Indelible stains.

I Wait for Her Now Wondering where she is, what she has done today, if she'll come home. Lydia called. We've got a bachelor party at ten. It's nine fifteen already, and no sign of Alex. I tried her cell. Went straight to voice mail. The battery must be gone. If she doesn't show, I'll have to go alone. Won't be the first time, and she knows how scared I am to work by myself. I still love her, but I feel her slipping away, bit by bit, every day. Finally the door opens. She's a total mess-makeup smeared, hair like a rat's nest, clothes dirty and torn. I rush to her side, "What happened? Are you okay?"

I try to hug her, but she shoves me away. Don't touch me. Tears spill from her eyes, tracking mascara down her cheeks. She sinks down on the sofa, puts her face into her hands. b.a.s.t.a.r.d screwed me, then robbed me. Took everything.

Again I try to hold her. This time she doesn't pull away, but she is like sandstone. Hard on the surface, crumbling beneath. "It's okay.

We'll be okay." Then, an after- thought, "How much did he get?"

Her head sags against my chest, wetting my shirt with tears, snot.

Not sure. Four or five hundred.

Anger flares suddenly, but not because of the money. Because of what we've become. "We've got a G.o.dd.a.m.n bachelor party, clear across town. We'll barely make it if we leave right now."

She looks up at me with ringtail eyes. I can't .... please. I'm gonna be sick. She runs to the bathroom.

I follow, put an ear to the door, hear the definite sound of puke splash. "Okay," I call. "I'll take this one by myself. But when I get back, we have to talk." For once, I'm not afraid to do the gig alone.

The whole cab ride over, I think about what it is I want to say.

I arrive at a few minutes after ten.

The guys are young, not much older than me. Good. They won't ask for many extras. I handle the business end, promise a lap dance to the groom, who looks excited and scared at the same time.

And for the entire hour I'm taking off my clothes, shimmying and writhing and faking "s.e.xy," my mind is on one thing. I don't know how, where, or even with whom.

Just know I have to get out of here.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Don't Know Who I am anymore.

I was sure once, not long ago. Knew where I came from, and where I was going to. Now I don't have a clue who puts on my shoes in the morning, nor what direction he's going when he closes the door behind him. He looks a lot like me. But his flame has been extinguished, buried too far beneath his soil to find air enough to smolder.

It is no more than a vague memory, all oxygen gone.

Cody

How Do I Find Myself Here?

Not even a year since everything started a s...o...b..ll roll toward h.e.l.l.

It's a place I'm starting to know well, a place I deserve. I mean, I couldn't stop Cory from f.u.c.king up. He was set on it. And Jack wasn't my fault.

I didn't make him get cancer, did my best for him when he did. Hear that, Jack? I wanted to help you! Couldn't.

I'm not G.o.d. What happened is between him and you. Can't you do anything up there to help me out down here?

Okay, maybe I'm not worthy of your intervention. Maybe you're just plain grossed out. p.i.s.sed off.

But if you help me, you'll help Mom, too. She can't make it on her own. d.a.m.n it, you promised!

And dude, if I can't worm my way out of this crazy place, I'll have to consider that medicine chest, still full of pain meds and sleeping pills. Mom would only miss me so long. The rest of the world wouldn't miss me at all.

That Includes Ronnie Oh, she claims she misses me now.

I only see her at school, and I'm not there a whole h.e.l.l of a lot. I should be, of course. Just started junior year.

If I really want college, really want more, I need to focus not only on attendance, but on getting good grades. Impossible. Too much going on. Too much going down.

Hard enough, just surviving.

Trying not to think about Cory.

Not to think about Lydia, etc.

I get to cla.s.s late, or not at all.

Can't find interest in any of my cla.s.ses. English? I talk good enough.

Math? Let me give you a point spread. History? Want to hear mine? Chemistry? Girls or men?

And Ronnie? She pleads for attention.

Can't you please come over, spend a little time with me? C'mon, Cody.

I miss you so much. Remember ....

Then she'll try to convince me, bringing up one of those special (G.o.d, yes, they were special) times we spent in bed. Oh, I do miss holding her close. The satin of her hair. The luscious full curves of her body. But s.e.x means something different now. I can't tell her that.

So I lie. Tell her I have to work. (For a temp service, so she can't track me down any certain place.) Tell her I have to drive Mom somewhere.

(Usually to visit Cory.) Tell her I'm just too freaking tired. (No lie.) Sooner or later, she'll get sick of the excuses and find another guy. I only hope it's someone who deserves the perfect girl.

Not an addict. Not a boy wh.o.r.e.

Not a f.u.c.king loser like me.

The Only Thing I've won at lately is a few games of chance. A hand or ten of poker.

And the Chiefs have been on a roll.