not, you know, my mom or anything.”
“She’s better than most moms.”
I look at her. “Really?”
“Honey, she gives a shit about you. She’s on your side. She wants good stuff to happen to you. She like paves the way.” Colleen leads me up the walk. “I mean, she’s loaning you her house so you won’t miss one day working on the computer. My mom would never do that.”
I hold the door. “Do I ever get to meet your mother?”
“Why? I fucking hate her.”
Inside Colleen picks up the copies of
Moby Dick
and
The Scarlet Letter
that she’s dropped on the counter.
“It’s weird seeing you with books.”
She stares at them. “Is that what these are?”
“Are you going to study?”
“I guess. God knows I should. I’m like six hundred years behind.”
“Come and look at something first, okay?”
I lead her into the spare room, sit down, hit a few keys, then lean back so Colleen can see Isabel, a chubby girl with bad posture and a twenty-four-hour smirk.
“Just listen, okay? And then I want to ask you something.”
Colleen sinks into the chair beside me and I hit the Play button.
“I feel,” Isabel says, “like a one-woman Afterschool Special, you know? Because I’ve got booze everywhere: car, locker, even this little spritzer thing in my purse.”
I hear myself ask, “Why?”
“It takes the edge off. It makes me feel prettier and wittier. And when shit happens, I don’t take it so hard.”
“You know,” I say, “everybody’d tell you you’re wasting the best years of your life.”
“Are you kidding? I have to have a drink before I can get out of bed.”
I look over at Colleen. “So here’s what I want to know: does Isabel sound like a stereotype?”
“What?”
“Marcie thinks some of the kids in here are like stereotytpes.”
“Isabel’s a drunk. She’s going to sound like a drunk.”
“How do you know that?”
“I sell her a little weed every now and then. We talk.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Why should she trust you?”
I look up at her, kind of stunned. “God, Colleen, she admitted on camera that she’s a drunk.”
“That doesn’t mean she trusts you. Everybody knows she’s a juicer. That’s old news.”
I hoist myself up, one hand on the desk, one on the back of the chair. “Look at this again, then, okay? And let’s see —”
All of a sudden Colleen backs away. She’s all but got the crucifix and the garlic necklace. “I can’t do this, Ben.”
“What? Can’t do what?”
She fumbles for a cigarette. “It’s your movie, not mine.”
“But you could help.”
She shakes her head. “I helped Ed; I carried dope in my underpants.”
“This is way different.”
“No, I’ve been talking to my counselor about doing the same shit over and over. And I know this looks different, but it’s not. It’s the same.”
Maybe an hour later I wander toward the kitchen. My shoes lie on their sides by the coffee table with its little pile of Chinese coins. Colleen sits cross-legged on the couch, frowning at a book.
“Do you want anything?” I stare into the refrigerator. “Marcie left a lot of stuff.”
“I’m okay. Are you mad?”
Clutching a carrot, I sit at the other end of the couch. “No. It’s okay. This is turning out to be a weird day, that’s all.” I glance at her. A tattooed devil stares back from her calf.
She lets
The Scarlet Letter
topple onto her thighs. “Talk about weird. It’s weird being clean and sober.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“I was looking at my tats in the mirror this morning when I got out of the shower. I feel like fucking scratch paper. I’ve got, like, random shit written all over me.”
“Think of yourself as one of those old manuscripts with interesting stuff in the margins.”
Colleen tosses the book aside and crawls toward me. “Kiss me like they did in those old movies.”
“Let me put my carrot down.”
The kiss lasts a long time. Then she lays her head on my chest and
“She’s better than most moms.”
I look at her. “Really?”
“Honey, she gives a shit about you. She’s on your side. She wants good stuff to happen to you. She like paves the way.” Colleen leads me up the walk. “I mean, she’s loaning you her house so you won’t miss one day working on the computer. My mom would never do that.”
I hold the door. “Do I ever get to meet your mother?”
“Why? I fucking hate her.”
Inside Colleen picks up the copies of
Moby Dick
and
The Scarlet Letter
that she’s dropped on the counter.
“It’s weird seeing you with books.”
She stares at them. “Is that what these are?”
“Are you going to study?”
“I guess. God knows I should. I’m like six hundred years behind.”
“Come and look at something first, okay?”
I lead her into the spare room, sit down, hit a few keys, then lean back so Colleen can see Isabel, a chubby girl with bad posture and a twenty-four-hour smirk.
“Just listen, okay? And then I want to ask you something.”
Colleen sinks into the chair beside me and I hit the Play button.
“I feel,” Isabel says, “like a one-woman Afterschool Special, you know? Because I’ve got booze everywhere: car, locker, even this little spritzer thing in my purse.”
I hear myself ask, “Why?”
“It takes the edge off. It makes me feel prettier and wittier. And when shit happens, I don’t take it so hard.”
“You know,” I say, “everybody’d tell you you’re wasting the best years of your life.”
“Are you kidding? I have to have a drink before I can get out of bed.”
I look over at Colleen. “So here’s what I want to know: does Isabel sound like a stereotype?”
“What?”
“Marcie thinks some of the kids in here are like stereotytpes.”
“Isabel’s a drunk. She’s going to sound like a drunk.”
“How do you know that?”
“I sell her a little weed every now and then. We talk.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Why should she trust you?”
I look up at her, kind of stunned. “God, Colleen, she admitted on camera that she’s a drunk.”
“That doesn’t mean she trusts you. Everybody knows she’s a juicer. That’s old news.”
I hoist myself up, one hand on the desk, one on the back of the chair. “Look at this again, then, okay? And let’s see —”
All of a sudden Colleen backs away. She’s all but got the crucifix and the garlic necklace. “I can’t do this, Ben.”
“What? Can’t do what?”
She fumbles for a cigarette. “It’s your movie, not mine.”
“But you could help.”
She shakes her head. “I helped Ed; I carried dope in my underpants.”
“This is way different.”
“No, I’ve been talking to my counselor about doing the same shit over and over. And I know this looks different, but it’s not. It’s the same.”
Maybe an hour later I wander toward the kitchen. My shoes lie on their sides by the coffee table with its little pile of Chinese coins. Colleen sits cross-legged on the couch, frowning at a book.
“Do you want anything?” I stare into the refrigerator. “Marcie left a lot of stuff.”
“I’m okay. Are you mad?”
Clutching a carrot, I sit at the other end of the couch. “No. It’s okay. This is turning out to be a weird day, that’s all.” I glance at her. A tattooed devil stares back from her calf.
She lets
The Scarlet Letter
topple onto her thighs. “Talk about weird. It’s weird being clean and sober.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“I was looking at my tats in the mirror this morning when I got out of the shower. I feel like fucking scratch paper. I’ve got, like, random shit written all over me.”
“Think of yourself as one of those old manuscripts with interesting stuff in the margins.”
Colleen tosses the book aside and crawls toward me. “Kiss me like they did in those old movies.”
“Let me put my carrot down.”
The kiss lasts a long time. Then she lays her head on my chest and
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