Crank by Ellen Hopkins

actually
    looked a little better, the heart
    more pink than violet, the pain more a soft
    pulsing
    reminding me with a steady beat of an emptiness so complete I had
    no clue how to fill it, loneliness so heavy I had
    no idea how to lift it, need so intense I had only
    one way to relieve it: a bitter drink
    212
    of its very source-- the deep well of the monster.
    213
     
     
     
    I
    Considered
     
    the Reno crank scene, or what I knew of it.
    Legit entertainment--
    music, magic, comedy clubs.
    Legit and semilegit--
    gaming, sports betting, light night carousing.
    Legal, semi-immoral--
    adult revues (aka "titty shows")
    gay clubs, strip clubs, swap clubs, beyond-the-city-limits prostitution.
    Such activities,
    24-7, practically invited the monster's
    participation.
    Remote desert
    dwellings, travel
    trailers and
    214
    sad, little
    shacks, went up in flames regularly, victims of ether-fed fire.
    Oh, yes, there was crank in Reno, waiting for me, calling
    out to Bree.
    All that was left was
    To find it.
    215
     
     
     
    S
    uddenly, However
     
    all those days with little or no sustenance hit me in one awful instant.
    * *
    Lucky me! Mom's kitchen was a whole lot better stocked than Dad's.
    (Not to mention a whole lot cleaner--
    no mega-cockroaches allowed!)
    * *
    Summer fruit.
    Garden veggies.
    Leftover roast beef.
    Homemade bread.
    Hand-churned ice cream.
    * *
    I'd almost forgotten how great a cook
    Mom was, at least when she wasn't
    too busy writing or going through one of her "I'm not your damn servant!" phases.
    * *
    Double lucky me.
    It seemed she was going through one of her
    Suzy Homemaker stages.
    216
    Fresh salsa.
    Homemade chips.
    Leftover chili.
    Cherry pie.
    * *
    felt like I'd died and gone to God's grocery stop in the sky!
    217
     
     
     
    My
    Luck Ran Out
     
    'Cause after I
    finished pigging out, I
    really wanted a cigarette.
    Nicotine's a strange addiction. I
    didn't even realize I was hooked until I
    couldn't have one. No
    one at my house
    smoked, at least not so you'd notice. Not
    my mom. Smoking
    causes wrinkles. Not
    Scott, who had a family history of emphysema. Not
    218
    Leigh, who said
    they made
    your hair smell like an ash
    tray (only true
    if you don't
    smoke). Surely not
    Jake, the ministud athlete. Nope.
    I
    was most definitely
    out of luck.
    For the moment
    anyway.
    219
     
     
     
    It
    Got Worse
     
    because just about then, my mom came home.
     
    Good. You're up. You looked dead
    to the world, so we let you sleep.
     
    Leigh shadowed her through the door.
    "Feeling better? We went shopping.
    I needed a new swimsuit in the worst way."
    Mom put an armful of bags on the counter, ignoring my crumbs.
     
    I
    got you one too. Your old one
    is pretty ratty.
     
    Leigh reached into a Macy's bag, extracted it for approval.
    "Cute, huh? She wanted to get you a tank, I
     
    insisted on a bikini. You
    do
    still like pink?"
     
    220
    Mom looked at the hot pink
    crochet, as if for the first time, shook her head and clucked,
     
    Better try it on. Can't sh
    ow too much
     
     
    skin at Scott's company
    picnic.
     
    Leigh glanced down at my T-shirt hem, barely covering our
    sisterly secret.
    "Nope, wouldn't do. Wouldn't
    do at all."
    221
     
     
     
    All
    Thoughts of Bad Habits
     
    vanished within a deluge of normalcy.
    Scott's company picnic was an annual
    * *
    family affair, fifty computer specialists, plus kids, wives, significant others, et al, eating, drinking, and being otherwise merry
    * * on the water slides, wave and wading pools at a decidedly fun place called Wild Waters.
    Beyond all things wet, there were go-carts,
    * *
    minigolf, an "invest your entire allowance
    here" arcade, and amusement-park-style rides.
    The day began early, ended late, and we always
    * *
    had a blast. So why didn't it sound inviting? I was home. Everything was the same, everything
    exactly as it should be. Everything, that is, except
    * *
    me.
    222
     
     
     
    I
    Went to Try On the Swi
    msuit
     
    Few things are quite as humbling