UTOPIA

My mother is a heroine addict who got sent to prison for selling drugs in school compounds. My father was a heroine addict, too, but he's dead now. I was born addicted to the junk, and sometimes, deep down, I feel like I'll always be a heroine addict, always have a gaping hole inside needing to be filled. Sometimes I hurt so bad, feel so empty, and I just want something, anything to fill me up or make me forget. That's how it is, being me. I guess that my mother felt bad for a long time, that's why she started doing drugs. Except knowing this doesn't make me feel any closer to her. Gazing at the watermarks on the ceiling, I wonder what it would feel like to be expectant. Not so alone, probably. Loved. But I also wonder how something like a baby could fit into someone like me.

My grandma won't let me wear make-up, so I wait until I am down the street before I pull out my kit and put it on under a tree. I am basically a good kid, obedient, respectful, but things are changing inside, I feel all confused most of the time now. I want to be a responsible woman, grown. I walk over to Weko's house. Weko's mother isn't home so we have the place to ourselves. Weko's mother is hardly ever home. We get high with some weed Weko got from her brother and sit out on her front bench, sipping the toxic stuff and talking. Two girls sitting on some steps, helpless against the sun pressing down, wilting slightly. Will we live? We're women, wrapped up in little girls. Right now I am happy because Weko likes my outfit; I just got it the day before. I stole it from Mama Kim boutique. One of the reasons that we are best friends is that she notices things about me, little things, not just my lipstick, but different moods and things. Paying attention goes a long way in friendships.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Mouse?"  

I shrug. "I don't know." Because how can I say that I don't want to be anything, except alive, and loved? I don't like the question, it makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be alive after high school. "Maybe a lawyer." 

Weko nods. "Yeah, that's cool. I think I want to be a dancer."

We don't say anything for a little while.None of us sure if the future actually holds any hope for us.
 
I mutter."That's a good one." We are silent again and I look out into the street, catching pieces of life, but not the whole thing, scraped knees, the sound of a baby crying, car engines, deep laughter. It's hot. "Utopia" is my word. I taste it on the tip of my tongue. It's a good word. It fits.