The Cocaine Chronicles Part 12

Now Nicole, despite all the responsibility that her mother would lay upon her, naturally needed her own diversions and wouldn't hesitate to seize any opportunity that allowed her to sway from everyday procedure. Such it is that she would offer to a.s.sist in my my ch.o.r.es whether I needed help or not. I think this finagling may have been a perfect excuse for legitimately disobeying her mother: ch.o.r.es whether I needed help or not. I think this finagling may have been a perfect excuse for legitimately disobeying her mother: "But he needed help, Mom," she'd always plead, all the time knowing I was too soft to favor a contradiction.

Anyway, the three girls inevitably found my p.r.o.ne body hiding under the van. And Nicole leaned over to offer her a.s.sistance but I turned her down. I mean, after all, an oil change is a one-man job, isn't it? So Nicole let her sisters help instead. And boy, boy, did they help. Autumn came over to one side to distract me, "Kee-ee. Hi, Kee-ee." Jessica stole a socket wrench from behind me and ran. Shoot! Now I had to get out from under and chase down the tool. Meanwhile, Autumn was left wide open to take off with the filter wrench. Here things got tricky. Since Autumn had a head start before I'd returned from tracking Jessica-and you can bet she went in the opposite direction-this gave Jessica all the time in the world to take her pick of the rest of my tools while I was off stalking Autumn. Apparently, all this was quite entertaining for Nicole, for she simply sat quietly on a bench giving me sweet, wide grins as I darted hither and thither. did they help. Autumn came over to one side to distract me, "Kee-ee. Hi, Kee-ee." Jessica stole a socket wrench from behind me and ran. Shoot! Now I had to get out from under and chase down the tool. Meanwhile, Autumn was left wide open to take off with the filter wrench. Here things got tricky. Since Autumn had a head start before I'd returned from tracking Jessica-and you can bet she went in the opposite direction-this gave Jessica all the time in the world to take her pick of the rest of my tools while I was off stalking Autumn. Apparently, all this was quite entertaining for Nicole, for she simply sat quietly on a bench giving me sweet, wide grins as I darted hither and thither.

You know? I'd almost swear under oath that since the two younger ones were so verbally limited, they all used telepathy to gang up on me. Can you not help but love such shenanigans? The ultimate joy of this world should be nothing larger than kids having a real ball.

Later that night there came an aggravated banging on my door. I answered in irritation, becoming delighted as soon as I saw whom it was. "Hi, Jeff! Come in. Come in Come in."

He entered looking more than a little concerned and told me straight out, "Lorna just got popped after she came over to cop some s.h.i.+t."

"Oh, man! What a ha.s.sle. How she gonna get out?"

Jeff, already motioning for a mirror, replied, "Not a problem, I bet. They're probably going to let her out on O.R. in the morning. Right now, man, I need to check on the kids." His mind s.p.a.ced for a second, then he began crus.h.i.+ng the small rock he'd pulled out and asked, "Know how to change a diaper?"

I looked at him dumbfounded. I didn't even even want to touch that one. And I think neither did he, judging from his expression. So, with that startling revelation in mind, we both saw the highly fitting rationale in reinforcing the stamina of our polluted bloodstreams. want to touch that one. And I think neither did he, judging from his expression. So, with that startling revelation in mind, we both saw the highly fitting rationale in reinforcing the stamina of our polluted bloodstreams.

We did so and dispatched the mirror.

As we walked over to the guesthouse, we consoled each other with the fact that we could always ask Nicole to do the diaper thing if need be. When we neared the door, Jeff called to Nicole to open it. She did; she had a cheery grin and let us in. An Olsen twins video was on the television.

Jeff spoke despondently to his niece: "Nikki . . . your mom's in jail."

"I know," she said brightly. "She called and told me." Nicole was definitely not upset. She almost seemed exuberant. Perhaps the evening was running more smoothly for her without her mother's interventions. Either that or Nicole had simply lit up to the fact that her Uncle Jeff had arrived. She utterly adored her Uncle Jeff.

He was much like a father figure for her, yet she never gave him reason to reprimand her. He was stern but kindly, and perhaps devoted more time to Nicole than did anyone else. Lorna, on the other hand, couldn't, for she was a very busy woman; busy tweakin' around the clock just as most the rest of us were.

"Nikki, did you eat dinner? Did your sisters get fed yet?"

"Yes, Uncle Jeff."

"Where are they?"

"They're in their beds."

Then Jeff turned to me, an unsure gaze in his eyes, and said, "I'd better check on them," and I followed him while Nicole indifferently went back to sit in front of the television.

We pa.s.sed through a doorway draped over with a heavy woolen blanket, and I realized I hadn't been in this room for quite some time. As we drew back the blanket, an appalling odor woofed out to slap us startlingly in the face. It was very dark in there, too dark to see. Jeff felt around for a light switch, found one, and snapped it on. The two of us, blinking vacantly as our eyes adjusted, froze for an instant, horrified as the sight before us materialized. We both quickly glanced to check each other's reaction, reactions that were meaningless in light of what we were looking at. We again peered back into a room neither of us had seen since the day Lorna moved the kids into it.

The room was a shambles of microbe-ridden rubbish heaps. Stuffed animals and rumpled clothes were strewn everywhere, with the majority of them heaped in a pile on the floor of the doorless closet. Under this bedlam lay a mishmash of kitchen knives, a hammer, a shower head, waterlogged toilet paper, paper clips, the closet door, you name it. The room's only decoration was another heavy, brown blanket nailed over the solitary window and feces-smeared walls. In one corner on the floor was a rancid pile of loaded diaper bundles. Out of the corner of my eye those bundles appeared to spasm when we first turned on the light, but it was just the c.o.c.kroaches trying to take cover. There were only two pieces of furniture: a playpen and a small crib. I saw no bed for Nicole.

Autumn sat on her rump in the playpen, grinning and staring at us but saying not a word, not even a single "Kee-ee." With her were a couple of mangled toys, a pillow, and a dirtied dinner plate. Her hands, mouth, and blouse were mottled with food. There was no way for her to stand erect-covering the top of the playpen, secured in place with padlocked motorcycle chains, was a section of wrought-iron fence.

Jessica was asleep in the crib, which had a thick-corded fishnet draped over its top; it was pulled taut down the sides and tied off underneath. Movement was limited. For Jessica, sleep was likely a blessing. Her restriction didn't seem as severe as the playpen situation until Jeff pointed to the soiled colorings of the sheetless mattress; it seethed with soggy patches of some weird dark and moldlike growth. I only then began to relate the sores Jessica always bore to the meaning of "crib rot."

Suddenly, Jeff directed a blaring roar at the other room, which startled me and woke up Jessica: "Nicole!" He paused to swallow for control and then continued angrily, "What have you done here?

Unlock this playpen now now."

And I heard the meek reply from the other room, "I can't.

Mom has the key."

We stood there a moment . . . bewildered, to say the least.

It was then that a large a.s.sortment of envelopes partially covered by a ragged jacket and several tiny socks strangely summoned my attention. I moved sulkily over to them and apathetically brushed aside the jacket with my foot. The items seemed vaguely familiar. I stooped down for a closer look. Behold! What did I find but . . . my mail my mail? Here were the unopened phone and power bills that I had sworn to the utility companies-after several disconnections- I never received. And I began to see the logic: If I didn't get the bills, Lorna couldn't be held for what she owed. I cursed out loud, already raging beyond forethought for the younger presence in the room.

I looked to Jeff for support but he looked both nauseated and in a struggle to control his rage. The little ones thought we were there to play; they were thrilled. From the other room I heard Nicole stifle a sob.

How do you reckon a course of action when you are so caught up in your own concerns-and your own habits habits-that you are unable to perceive the full weight of a very serious problem? And open confrontation of this very problem could certainly threaten the frequent drug trafficking so conveniently wrought through my tenant's door. In that moment, it seemed there were only two available options: Avoid making waves with a charade of ignorance, or take all-out aggressive action despite the consequences.

I am ashamed to say I chose inaction.

After I had taken a bolt cutter to Autumn's chains, I retired to the main house and Jeff remained with the kids for the night.

I really, really needed something to lift my spirits, yet there was to be no consolation in subsequent toots. Nor did I have the high and faithful expectations I usually did at the sight of Jeff, when, around midnight, he snuck over to use the phone. Strangely, he too did not feel rea.s.sured that supplemental blasts would fortify our moods. Fortunately, he had his gla.s.s pipe handy so we could smoke some hits instead; smoking crank gives a completely different, more brain-deadening effect.

"The f.u.c.kin' phone's been turned off again," I complained in response to his request-in those days neither of us had cell phones.

"Listen. I gotta gotta go make a call. Can you keep an ear out till I get back?" And he left, trailing a ribbon of bluish smoke behind him. At the time, I merely figured he had personal business to tend to. All the same, the ch.o.r.e was no big deal for me as long as it didn't entail reentering the guesthouse again. Even should one of the girls have awakened, I trusted that Nicole would be far more qualified than myself at handling any quandaries. Fortunately, all remained peaceful. go make a call. Can you keep an ear out till I get back?" And he left, trailing a ribbon of bluish smoke behind him. At the time, I merely figured he had personal business to tend to. All the same, the ch.o.r.e was no big deal for me as long as it didn't entail reentering the guesthouse again. Even should one of the girls have awakened, I trusted that Nicole would be far more qualified than myself at handling any quandaries. Fortunately, all remained peaceful.

Jeff returned, bid me goodnight, and I pa.s.sed out. And I never saw the girls again.

Late the next morning I awoke to deadening silence. Something seemed wrong, for silence is not natural where children do dwell. Kinda freaky! A sense of dread spread over me along with a terrible urge to run out there and see what was going on-I immediately broke into my own stash so I could load in a waker-upper. Ouch! . . . Nothing burns like that that first thing in the morning. first thing in the morning.

As I stepped through my back door, I could already see the guesthouse door was slightly ajar. I advanced and rapped on it. There was no answer. "h.e.l.lo . . . h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo!" I called. No answer. I slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way and was not surprised to find no one there. Circ.u.mstances being what they were, I did not think it tactless to proceed. The girls' door to the yard was also fully open. It felt strange; it was was strange. All seemed the same as I last saw it except that the bathroom lacked amenities. No toothpaste, no hairbrushes, no girls, no Jeff, no note. Silence. strange. All seemed the same as I last saw it except that the bathroom lacked amenities. No toothpaste, no hairbrushes, no girls, no Jeff, no note. Silence.

I tried phoning Jeff several times that day, got tired of running out to phone booths, and finally drove by his house, only to harvest the same result. d.a.m.n! I realized I should have stocked up while he was around. It meant I'd just have to go over to Pacoima and settle for some lower-grade s.h.i.+t.

Four days later there came a banging at my door. I answered in a downcast temperament, becoming delighted as soon as I saw whom it was. "Hi, Jeff! Come in. Come in Come in." Needless to say, we went through our traditional formality before commencing with the idle chatter.

That done, I chattered, "What happened?"

Turns out that the phone call Jeff had gone to make was directed to some cousins of the girls' father-Daddy himself being in prison- who'd leapt into action, swooping down from the mountains where they lived to scoop up the girls and spirit them away. As their uncle explained, they'd secretly had this in the works a long time. They'd already pulled the legal papers and were just waiting for their chance. It had all been expected. Meanwhile, it was not not Lorna's first drug offense, which hung her up a week before they rescinded the bail and let her out on O.R. The courts, though, quickly made provisions that, until she proved herself under a year of random drug testing, Lorna was banned from all communication with her kids and from the welfare benefits connected to them. Lorna's first drug offense, which hung her up a week before they rescinded the bail and let her out on O.R. The courts, though, quickly made provisions that, until she proved herself under a year of random drug testing, Lorna was banned from all communication with her kids and from the welfare benefits connected to them.

Matter of fact, the only person not not banned from visiting the girls was Uncle Jeff. banned from visiting the girls was Uncle Jeff.

"They live on a ten-acre ranch with horses and miniature goats and pigs. Both cousins have jobs and are financially supplemented by their church, and the church has already filled the girls' closets with new clothes." Jeff continued, "By the way, I want to trade some s.h.i.+t for that old gas-driven lawnmower of yours. We're gonna build Nicole a minibike so she can ride it around the ranch."

I was ecstatic ecstatic and demanded exclusive rights to the oil change. and demanded exclusive rights to the oil change.

One evening three months later, I went over to Jeff's to party. He'd already been smoking heavily and I was making a commendable effort to catch up. He piped in, "Hey! I have something for you," and nonchalantly leaned back in his chair to reach for a small photograph on the shelf behind him. He handed it to me. It showed a helmeted Nicole racing madly down a dirt road on her minibike, chased by a rip-roaring golden retriever that was in turn being pursued by a screaming little lunatic named Autumn. Aside and closer in the foreground was Jessica. She had a tiny piglet cradled gently in her arms whence upon she gazed protectively.

I beamed approvingly at the photo. Looking up, but not really caring, I asked in afterthought, "So what's Lorna been up to?"

Jeff screwed up his lips and looked me straight and stonily in the eyes. "She's pregnant again."

Anne Fishbein

DEBORAH VANKIN is the Books Editor and Food Editor of the is the Books Editor and Food Editor of the LA Weekly LA Weekly. Her writing has also appeared in the New York Times New York Times, on NPR, and in several national magazines. Deborah has taught novel-into-film at L.A. City College and has auth.o.r.ed chapters in the forthcoming books, Taschen's Los Angeles Taschen's Los Angeles and and Based on a True Story (But with More Car Crashes), Based on a True Story (But with More Car Crashes), a collection of essays on film. She has lived in England, Israel, and Tokyo, j.a.pan, and now resides in the Silverlake area of Los Angeles. a collection of essays on film. She has lived in England, Israel, and Tokyo, j.a.pan, and now resides in the Silverlake area of Los Angeles.

viki, flash, and the pied-piper of s...o...b..es

by deborah vankin

I lost my virginity three times-each occasion marked by the presence of c.o.ke. The first time, a medical procedure, came at the hands of Viki, our family doctor and my mom's best friend. They'd met the night my mother, brother, and I moved into a low-rent high-rise on a downtown Pittsburgh side street. My mom was out of cigarettes that night and Viki, who lived in the neighboring apartment, bought Kool Menthol Lights by the carton. It was the early eighties; single mothers bonded over things like that back then. lost my virginity three times-each occasion marked by the presence of c.o.ke. The first time, a medical procedure, came at the hands of Viki, our family doctor and my mom's best friend. They'd met the night my mother, brother, and I moved into a low-rent high-rise on a downtown Pittsburgh side street. My mom was out of cigarettes that night and Viki, who lived in the neighboring apartment, bought Kool Menthol Lights by the carton. It was the early eighties; single mothers bonded over things like that back then.

Viki was a former teen beauty queen, now in her early forties, who wasn't submitting gracefully to the aging process. "Huh? Huh? Does this look cute or what?!" what?!" she'd say, fingering her jaw-length, silky blond bob in our hallway entrance mirror when she arrived for weeknight happy hours. A gimlet, straight up. Viki was five-foot-nine and disproportionately leggy in tight Sa.s.soon jeans-the dark blue kind, with script across the back pocket- and for emphasis, she'd jerk her bony hips to the right, then swivel a half step to the left, before slowly, cautiously, backing away from the mirror as if she were having separation anxiety parting with her reflection. "Nice, huh? Fifty bucks it cost me to go blond." Then she'd break into this unnerving, too-wide smile. she'd say, fingering her jaw-length, silky blond bob in our hallway entrance mirror when she arrived for weeknight happy hours. A gimlet, straight up. Viki was five-foot-nine and disproportionately leggy in tight Sa.s.soon jeans-the dark blue kind, with script across the back pocket- and for emphasis, she'd jerk her bony hips to the right, then swivel a half step to the left, before slowly, cautiously, backing away from the mirror as if she were having separation anxiety parting with her reflection. "Nice, huh? Fifty bucks it cost me to go blond." Then she'd break into this unnerving, too-wide smile.

This was our family doctor. And when I turned thirteen-"a woman now, officially," officially," my mom bragged to whomever at the supermarket would listen-I was not only bat mitzvahed in a tailored lavender pants suit that matched the one in my mom's closet, but I was sent off to Viki for my first "Women's Wellness Exam." my mom bragged to whomever at the supermarket would listen-I was not only bat mitzvahed in a tailored lavender pants suit that matched the one in my mom's closet, but I was sent off to Viki for my first "Women's Wellness Exam."

I walked. Living in East Liberty, a busy commercial district, we hardly ever used the c.r.a.ppy silver Pinto except, from time to time, to lug groceries. And Viki's office was just a few blocks away. Aside from a cl.u.s.ter of elaborately framed degrees and academic awards hovering above the reception desk, Viki's practice was spa.r.s.e, disturbingly devoid of activity. She'd converted the bas.e.m.e.nt of a small-frame Victorian into a medical office and had just one employee, an obese Latvian woman named Odessa, who had a lisp and the most p.r.o.nounced dimples I'd ever seen-as if someone had gone into her fleshy cheeks with a needle and thread and st.i.tched a tight little notch into each one. Odessa had no medical training nor a valid work visa; but she was a friend of a friend and she needed the cash. Plus, Viki looked thinner and cuter by comparison-the real reason, I suspected, that she kept Odessa around.

While the cramped examining rooms in the back were strictly medical-looking, with lots of chrome, crinkly white paper, and cold tile flooring, the waiting area had clearly once been a child's bedroom-and still could be, if you ignored the a.s.sorted cholesterol and AIDS-awareness brochures on the window sill. There were giant rainbow-colored b.u.t.terflies sponge-painted across the upper crown molding and the nubby blue carpet featured a hopscotch pattern. "Fun, huh?" Viki had boasted when she opened for business. But really, she'd simply exhausted her divorce settlement and had no money left to replace it with beige plush.

As I waited for my appointment, it occurred to me that I'd never run into any other people at Viki's. Who were were her other patients? If you didn't know exactly how much it had cost Viki to go blond, or that she habitually put crushed ice in white wine to keep it cold, or that she sometimes did c.o.ke ("just to stay awake, like for finals during med school"), would you take her seriously, like a real doctor? Would you depend on her to keep you well? her other patients? If you didn't know exactly how much it had cost Viki to go blond, or that she habitually put crushed ice in white wine to keep it cold, or that she sometimes did c.o.ke ("just to stay awake, like for finals during med school"), would you take her seriously, like a real doctor? Would you depend on her to keep you well?

Thirty minutes I'd been sitting there when, finally, Odessa whirled herself around in the deluxe office chair that she'd insisted upon from the catalogue, and marched back to nudge Viki. There was some indiscernible quarreling, then stomping around, followed by the clank and clatter of steel instruments dropping. Then: "d.a.m.n, where is is it?" Clank. "f.u.c.k." To which the response was a sort of sharp, singsongy outburst that, even in Russian, had the ring of condemnation. Odessa was laying into Viki for it?" Clank. "f.u.c.k." To which the response was a sort of sharp, singsongy outburst that, even in Russian, had the ring of condemnation. Odessa was laying into Viki for something something. Then: quiet. A somewhat unsettling stillness took hold of the place, followed by a soft chopping, as if Viki were back there mincing herbs.

When Viki emerged, striding into the room confidently as if her white lab coat were a brand-new designer jacket she'd just scored on sale, her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated. I suppose on some level I knew she wasn't amped up on caffeine. Lots of my mom's friends did c.o.ke; it was always around at parties, along with crackers and a fragrant hunk of cheese.

"I'll be with you in just a . . ." Viki ducked below the reception desk, then popped back up with a stack of mail, distracted, flipping through a book of coupons. "You know, it's just been crazy-busy today."

I nodded empathetically, as if I weren't the only patient there.

"Odessa" she said, "has someone been calling and hanging up? It happened to me twice this morning. Twice. Like it was deliberate." She tossed the mail aside and thumbed through her messages. "Okay, let's get a look at you. Why don't you get undressed."

As I slipped into the green paper gown, I could hear Viki outside the door, still going at it: "But are we still getting that static static on the line, like someone's listening?" on the line, like someone's listening?"

Viki checked my weight. "One-twenty, nice," she smirked. "Bet you look cute in a bathing suit." From her tone, I could tell this wasn't a straight-up compliment; it almost sounded like a challenge. Then my height: "Tall for your age. I'm tall, it's s.e.xy, you'll see." Another one of those sa.s.sy, crooked smiles. "And I I still got it, right?" Again, the tone was clear: This wasn't a question. Viki laughed, then sniffed brusquely, as if warding off a cold. "Allergies." still got it, right?" Again, the tone was clear: This wasn't a question. Viki laughed, then sniffed brusquely, as if warding off a cold. "Allergies."

"You know, when I was your age I had lots of boyfriends. My mom had to keep a schedule on the fridge just to keep track." She checked my nascent b.r.e.a.s.t.s for lumps. "So, do you have a boyfriend?"

"No, not really."

"But you've obviously fooled around, right?"

"Um . . ."

"Come on, I'm not that out of touch. Do you think you might, you know . . . soon? You know You know . . ." . . ."

She slipped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then the womanly part of the exam.

"All looks good. Do you want me to go ahead and clip your hymen?"

"What?"

"You know, so when it comes time, it won't be complicated.

Really, it's no big deal."

"Um . . ."

"It'll be easier, believe me. That's what I did when I was your age."

I couldn't think of any excuse not to. It seemed to make sense.

I mean, I trusted Viki; she lived next door. So I shut my eyes and, for some reason, I thought of b.u.t.terflies.

Afterwards, as I was dressing, Viki locked herself away in the bathroom for quite some time. Again, the mincing of herbs followed by another allergy attack. Viki did this occasionally, and I knew better than to wait around for a proper goodbye.

On the way home, aside from the swatch of cotton gauze in my underpants, I didn't feel any different-just lighter, as if I'd lost or left something behind. I thought about the day Viki had alluded to, that moment in the future when I'd appreciate this practical maneuvering and reap the benefits for real. And I wondered if it was true what the girls at school said about the girls who, you know you know: Did I walk differently now?

The second time I lost my virginity, I was on a college road trip along the Susquehanna River with a frat boy named Flash. Soph.o.m.ore year. Flash was short and stocky and regardless of how hot and muggy the Pennsylvania weather, he'd always wear those itchy wool camping socks-gray with red trim-scrunched way down around his ankles. From his just-blossoming beer belly, one could imagine Flash, twenty years forward, kicking back in a cream pleather armchair from Sam's Club while taking in the last quarter of a pivotal football game. But Flash had a great smile-hence, the nickname-and he always had c.o.ke.

Perhaps now, years later, Flash is a grizzled newspaper man writing obituaries or ad copy in a dusty corner cubicle (he wasn't dumb), because Flash liked words. He had an affinity for rattling off synonyms, especially for the names of drugs-proof, he no doubt believed, that he was "in the know." Flash was the "goodies buyer," he bragged, for a fraternity we'd dubbed the House of Skull. Flash was "suburban street" long before hip-hop had become popular.

"Blow, snow, flake, toot, marching powder," he rattled off as we flew over the potholes of the b.u.mpy, gravel-coated driveway. "Rock and roll!" he wailed. Then he leapt out of his 1987 red Jeep Wrangler Laredo, proudly, protectively tapped the side pocket of his khaki shorts, and shot me an expectant, conspiratorial grin. It was almost charming. His parents' cabin had been empty for months and when I emerged from the master bathroom a few minutes later-which was fusty and moldy-smelling, with a little pile of polished river rocks resting in a dish on the sink-Flash was already cutting lines with a razor from his Dopp Kit. The one I'd planned on shaving my legs with on the off chance we went water-skiing.

Our backpacks were still lying in the hallway, but the stereo was already blasting: Billy Idol. Priorities. I noted the plethora of frosted pink in the decor, collapsed beside Flash on the living room couch, and set my feet on the edge of the gla.s.s coffee table. "Don't rock the boat," Flash whined, and he pushed my legs aside.

"You'll spill." He was fully absorbed in divvying our supply and didn't even look up when I leaned forward in a stringy bikini top.

I ran my finger across the gla.s.s surface, collected a trace of powder, and sucked it off, smearing it over my gums with my tongue.

Numb. I appreciated numb in all its varying forms-even if that meant spiritually.

"Dance for me," Flash said, finally breaking his concentration.

He knew it was a long shot. I never danced. I avoided parties because I had trouble saying no when some seemingly well-meaning boy walked up to me and asked, guilelessly, "Care to dance?" Like it was a 1940s USO event and we'd be doing the jitterbug. Or the opposite: an unthinking and drunken tug of the wrist to get me up from my bar stool. There were exceptions: nights at crowded frat parties when the wood dance floor, warped from years of spilled beer, filled to mosh pit capacity, and I could fall into the throng of people, letting it rough and tumble me until I was adequately flushed, covered with sweat, and no longer cared. But for the most part I preferred private parties, like this one.

"No. You You dance. For dance. For me, me," I teased Flash.

"Come on, babe. I'm not kidding. I'm doin' all the work here."

I leaned back and let my head drop off the back of the couch, contemplating the sparkly cottage-cheese ceiling. Flash (all proud and regal looking, presenting me with his supine palm) pa.s.sed me his World Philosophy textbook, which had six meaty lines carefully arranged on the cover, as if he were the butler serving a tray of champagne.