I was driving to school when something picked us up.

I say picked us up because the car was lifted all for wheels from the ground like the cheap matchbox cars my granddad gave me for Christmas.

I say something because I have no fucking clue what or how we became airborne.

I say I was driving because it makes me feel better than to let you know that my mom was driving me to the first day of the third semester at Spartanburg community college.

Except that I just did.

3 wks earlier.

I woke up that morning with every intention of actually accomplishing something. The funny thing about intentions is that no matter how many you make or create they most often end up making you feel like a douche when you lie on your ass all day.

I woke up to a screaming headache at roughly 4:30 in the afternoon. My arms were covered in what was left of the now smudged black stamps on each of my hands. I squinted at the unusual tint of my skin vaguely before peering around my room in the murky almost blackness that my heavy wool curtains afforded my bedroom. The dust particles of my bedroom obviously had more of an initiative than me; they made a spirited effort to crawl skyward. I smirked at the thought of myself as a teeny particle of dustiest dustiness trying my damndest to float toward the outer reaches of the ceiling.

Then I remembered I was probably still drunk from the night before and I really needed to not be awake.

I’d tell you my name and where I’m from and what the hell I’m doing at this particular moment. But I’m not really sure that even really matters right now. I’m telling you the background to this story because in my current situation of terror the idea of writing it down gives me some measure of sanity.

But I digress.

I was drunk because I’d snuck into a liquor store because the bar down the street carded my underage ass and it pissed me off. I’d been willing to pay for my illegal liquor, but the delinquency gods deemed that particular brand of misbehaving as unfit. So I’d had to find another route. I am still drunk because I was out until sunrise with a bottle of banana flavored rum on my neighbor’s roof until I fell off into the garden below, breaking a bush of begonias beneath me. Now I say I “broke” into a liquor store, I mean the back door was open. Why the door was open, I have no clue. But I did pay for the rum since a) its banana, nothing that gross should cost anything and b) ok so I paid for it, but only for half. My point is that I’m not a horrible person so don’t get all high and mighty. I’m having a bad week.

Now here’s the part where I explain just what’s been happening to create such a streak of miscreant habits. We’ll go chronologically for simplicity’s sake.

Last week my wallet disappeared. Now you’d think that any sort of important artifact found within a wallet would be enough for a person—any good, civilized and mildly not lazy—to make some sort of attempt to return said wallet. Mostly because it had my credit cards, drivers’ license, school identification card, social security card, and a handful of gift cards from last Christmas in it. Christ it even had my goddamn video rental card in it. My wallet was stolen or I dropped it. Either way the situation sucks. If anyone has ever gotten their wallet stolen or had the mischance to lose it let me explain the feelings that often follow such an occurrence: IT FUCKING SUCKS.

I had to cancel all my cards. But I couldn’t prove who I was, so I had to go to the DMV to get a new drivers license with some stupid ass old id card from when I was like 14 so I could prove it was me. Then I had to go to the bank again—where it took 3 hours to explain to these people to put a hold on my accounts so some asshole doesn’t use my card to buy a plasma screen. Then I had to go to the social security office where I got a twenty minute lecture—by a stranger—about how stupid it was to keep your social security card in your wallet. This was followed by yet another lecture by the school id lady for not keeping my id in a separate wallet than the one for my personal items (even though my id is a personal fucking item).

Now most people would agree that the sequence of events that involved my wallet were unfortunate and a hassle—but the lost/stolen wallet was only the forbearer of what suckiness was to come.

By the time I woke up on June 1st I was so completely dehydrated I felt like my face was about to abandon ship. My joints creaked as I hauled myself out of bed and pulled open my door to the rest of the house. I blinked my eyes a few times to dislodge any remaining bits of sleep before I stepped into the bathroom to wash my face.

I bent at the waist and stuck my face under the running faucet sucking cold tap water into my mouth with loud and fairly unladylike slurps.

I brushed the moss off my teeth before making sure I was dressed decently enough to downstairs to score some orange juice and carbohydrates.

Mom was curled up on the couch watching law and order. She didn’t look up at me as she spoke.

“Your father wants to speak with you.”

“Where is he?”

“He's outside mowing the lawn.”

I glanced out through the back window to the sight of my father pushing his favorite lawn tool in equal lines across the backyard.

“Have any idea what he wants?”

My mother glanced up at me before resuming her perusal of the movie schedule on the TV guide, “probably something to do with you not coming home last night.”

The last time I didn’t come home I’d broken into the school to reclaim the only piece of scenery I’d been allowed to construct for the school play; it was a lawn chair with padding and upholstery over it that was used in The Glass Menagerie. I’d been forced into working for the theater department as a community service deal my lawyer had eked out when I was caught hiding the lacrosse teams’ athletic supporters.

And when I say reclaim, they say steal. School property or not that chair suits my bedroom just fine. It makes a pleasant place to sit when sulking.

“Did you tell him I was lying in the hammock last night?”

She didn’t even bother to look at me, “I would but I don’t lie to your father. If you want to lie to us it is your business; all I care about is whether or not it’ll get you arrested or dead. I don’t feel like listening to wherever you actually were last night. Not before happy hour.”

I sighed. “I’ll go talk to dad then.”

I wouldn’t call my parents callous or cruel or even uncaring. I’ve just exhausted them. I think somewhere along the line my parents signed a waiver that said after 18 they had every reason not to care. The only problem is I started being rather annoying as soon as I hit puberty. After 15 I’d pretty much ruined any chance of them retaining any stamina.

From the back porch I could see the human shaped hole in the begonias next door. The owners were out of town for a few days, so I vaguely made a mental note I had no intention of keeping to go over and attempt to straighten them enough to conceal the hole. Dad was at the bottom of the lawn tracing the tree line with his lawn mower. By the time I got to him he’d finished—or lost his breath enough to merit a break.

He took a long pull from the beer he’d stashed in the handle of the mower.

“Hey Dad.” He looked over his shoulder at me.

“Hey kiddo. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

This is secret parent mind therapy to guilt you into either telling them where you’ve been or come up with a pleasant enough excuse for your absence to put them at ease.

“I’ve been around. “

He peered at me through the sun, “uh huh. So where were you around last night?”

I made my face feel straight, “just around. I wasn’t anywhere bad or anything. I was here at home actually; I was in the back yard.”

His eyebrows rose far enough that if his hair hadn’t receded it would’ve encroached on the border, “oh. And just what were you doing out here?”

“Star gazing.”

“Star gazing.” He didn’t sound convinced. But then again they never did.

“John! John! Come here and watch this!” My mother’s voice filtered across the yard to perfectly deflect any further questions.

Dad kissed the side of my face, leaving a vague slightly sweaty feeling.

It is not that I like lying. It’s just that over the past five or six years my varying stages of delinquency have facilitated behaviors that make life a whole lot easier. When I got dropped off at my parents front door at the age of 14 for breaking into a pet store to free the hamsters I think it just clicked in my parents head that I was just not worth the aggravation. I’m sure they loved me. And they‘ve always either bailed me out of jail or paid for therapy or patiently agreed to juvenile detention centers disguised as summer camps. And my closeted ability to unfold locks in my head has not made it easier for grown ups to make me behave.

Oh that’s right. Yeah I’m a locksmith. I’m the badass of locks. A lock to me is like a twist tie on a bag of bread. All of the discretions on my record are breaking and entering. I have these thoughts, these itches that involve going into places. And I love locks. It’s never really a good combination.

Now how this all fits in is that I’m going to trade school to be a locksmith. The best part about the job is that even with a juvie record as long as your arm you can still grow up and not suck at life.

My problem is that for the past week my life has officially sucked.

My wallet was stolen right? Well I say that because it makes me feel better. I lost the fucker. And here’s the kicker. I lost it because I was shitfaced.

Now don’t go and judge me. I was shitfaced for a very good and very girly reason.

I caught my boyfriend with my brother. They were doing each other hard enough that I’m pretty sure it would be considered incest.

The funny thing about—well the horrible thing—is that it was the same motherfucking day I’d gotten my car stolen.

Talk about motherfucking karma. Except I have no idea what I did to deserve any of that. A stubbed toe or paper cut from the universe perhaps, not so much your whole life in shambles.

So there you have it. The trifecta of awful; no car, no boyfriend, no identity--and I ‘m pretty sure I’m never speaking to my brother again.

I followed my father inside, suddenly becoming fascinated with the tops of my feet. Mom had the five o’clock news plastered on the television.

A keebler elf lookalike spoke to camera as seriously as he could with ears that nearly covered the small picture of a typical crook attired in black and white stripes in the corner.

“—no leads as cops are puzzled at the growth of widespread theft and break-ins around the tri-state area. Scores of purses, wallets, car keys, skateboards, bicycles, small vehicles, sunglasses, shoes and hats are being recorded as stolen en masse. Cases of breaking and entering have been reported where there seems to be no motive other than simple vandalism. Police are requesting that if anyone has information to please call the hotline…”

My mother’s eyes on me burned me like the vinyl seats of the car I had had stolen from me. “Do you know anything about this?”

Dad was staring at me too, “no. why would I steal sunglasses?”

“Why would you break into a pet store?”

I scoffed because the question had merit. “Because--it doesn't matter--I didn’t do any of those things Mom.”

She looked at me and then at my father. “She didn’t come home last night until five am, John.”

I felt my father’s eyes slide to me, “where were you?”

The worst part about all of this is that if I explained where I’d been and why I was there (an edited version, since I’d taken that rum) they would suddenly be so distracted that my brother was a butt pirate they would leave me alone.

But I was a mildly good person; if James wanted to be gay then what-the-hell-ever.

“I was out. I broke up with Tommy.”

My mother’s eyes softened, “why didn’t you come home?”

“I was here when I found out.” Fuck yeah; they’d been spread out like margarine on James’ bed. “I had to go somewhere that didn’t remind me of him. I went on a walk before I came home and sat outside. I have not been stealing. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

They both looked at me for a few seconds. When the doorbell rang we all jumped. Mom looked at my father vaguely before going to answer it. Her voice rang out a few seconds later with an all-too-familiar timber to it.

“Jennifer Elizabeth.”

I came around the couch to see two fairly annoyed-looking cops standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry ma’am, but your daughter has business with the police department. She’ll have to come with us.”

Mom’s infuriated eyes bored a hole right between my eyebrows. “Is she under arrest?”

The cops took a step in the house, perhaps sensing the flight or flight response my brain was attempting to process. “No. We just have a few questions.”

I walked toward them; mainly because the act of running creates something called “probable cause”. “What kind of questions, officers?”

The one to the left--he looked no different behind his mirrored sunglasses than the man next to him responded with no small measure of uncouth or undickness, “the kind that means you come with us. Now.”

I looked at my mom as I pulled on my boots, “I didn’t do anything mom. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

She had no light behind her eyes, no hope of my innocence. Just that same sadness that always seemed to be there. The cold tired look on her face made an unfamiliar feeling pulse in my chest. And then I ignored it and looked up at the cop. “well lets go.”