Glass - 02 Read Free Page B

that made the adrenaline
    pump even faster.
    Which reminds me.
    I have not had an adrenaline
    rush since I took my little detour,
    one of nature’s irresistible highs, denied
    by brain chemistry gone awry,
    at the claws of the monster.
    I might not know the cause
    of such cerebral malfunction,
    if not for an article I once read.
    It defined for me exactly
    how crank scours
    the brain’s pleasure center,
    scrubbing away dopamine,
    adrenaline and other natural
    highs. It didn’t stop me,
    of course, but it did slow
    me down for a day or two.
    Not slow enough to keep
    the damage from occurring.
    Now only one thing can give
    me that kind of feeling—like
    I have the world by its throat.
    And I am on my way to it.

S everal Miles Farther West
    I pass a small mountain
    community, home to loggers,
    retirees, and telecommuters.
    My parents have friends
    who live here, and for
    about thirty seconds
    I think about swinging
    by. They have a pretty cute
    son, who I once had a serious
    crush on. We used to visit,
    and on overnight stays Quade
    and I would sneak out at night,
    for nothing more than a little
    conversation. Okay, we almost
    kissed once. But I was such
    a total tool, when he leaned
    his face down close to mine,
    looked into my dilated (by
    the dark, not by stash, which
    I still turned up my nose at)
    eyes, and it came to me what
    he had in mind, I actually
    turned my face away, pretending
    some nighttime noise
    had drawn my attention.
    Plain and simple, I didn’t know
    how to kiss and didn’t want
    him to know it. He was a couple
    of years older, and a dark-haired
    hottie who surely knew a thing
    or two about kissing. Unlike me.
    I didn’t learn those ropes
    for another year or so.
    Looking back, I wish I had
    had a different teacher,
    one who really cared about me.
    Looking back, I wish
    I had parted
    my lips—opened my mouth
    wide and invited his tongue
    inside—for Quade. Maybe
    every single thing that happened
    in my life after that night
    would have turned out differently.
    Then again, maybe not.

E ither Way
    I decide not to stop by.
    My mom told me Quade plays
    bass in a metal band, so he
    probably isn’t as straight
    as he used to be. Just like
    me. Still, I have a destination.
    I jot a reminder in my
    mental notebook to look up
    Quade one day very soon.
    This time, maybe I’ll just
    let him kiss me. I most
    definitely know how.
    In fact, thinking about it
    is starting to make me
    want it. I haven’t let myself
    even consider going out
    with a guy since Hunter
    was born. Men are trouble.
    But what the hell? I’m
    looking for trouble right
    now, aren’t I? And one
    kind of trouble will
    likely lead to another,
    at least eventually.
    The more I focus on that
    kind of trouble, the better
    it’s starting to sound.
    I do still have the problem
    with paunch, but crystal
    will help with that, too.
    I just have to stay cool,
    keep Bree reined in.
    Little lines, maybe one
    in the A.M. , to wake up
    feel great, not eat
    everything in sight.
    Maybe another small
    toot in the early P.M. ,
    just enough to limit
    dinner calories and still
    be able to sleep at night.
    Or maybe go out at night.
    No, no, no! This isn’t
    about going out at night.
    Isn’t about partying.
    Is not about turning into
    a lunatic again. I am
    and will remain in control.

S tockton
    Is an interesting little city—half
    artsy, half-cow town, and home
    to the Asparagus Festival and other
    events that take advantage of its
    watery location on the delta fed by
    the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers.
    Today I couldn’t care less
    about any of that. All I want
    is to find Robyn’s apartment,
    not far from the University of the Pacific.
    Driving by the brick-and-ivy campus,
    I almost envy the students,
    walking alone or sitting in groups,
    looking at their books—and each other.
    Guys. Girls. Tight jeans and T-shirts.
    Big Gulps here. Cigarettes there.
    It’s all so normal. Then it comes
    to me that one of those
    students is Robyn, who is