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and we got loud and ridiculous. I was a stupid, reckless drunk, singing my commercial jingles and dancing around, hating my body, but I barely remember this. I do remember the beds outside where we slept. They were old iron frames with striped mattresses that smelled like bug spray and suntan lotion. I wore turquoise and purple plaid preppy shorts and a sky blue Izod shirt. “Is this okay?” He asked. Tongues, lips, no bra. Shorts sliding down past my knees. The sky shimmered with blurry lights, like water with eyes. “You must be my Lucky Star,” I said, moving my arms up in a sloppy cheerleader move.
    â€œAre you sure?” Rudy asked. I remember the question but not the answer. Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” played over and over, someone had put it on repeat and then passed out. His hair was fine and silky. I shrunk when he was on top of me, finally the thin girl I wanted to be—under a big black sky that was asking, “Are you sure?”
    My tongue must have tasted rotten with vodka and my teeth rancid from puke. If there was pain, it was an echo of a Shasta soda pop commercial, a crinkle of tin. “I want a thrill, I want a wow, I want that taste I want it now.” The music faded and the stars blurred. I remember the musty smell of damp Redwoods and little else. When I woke up, my head pounded. There was a bump the size of a walnut on the back of my head where I must have hit it against the headboard. I looked down. There was blood dripping down my legs, running down my thighs. Rudy was asleep next to me with his back to me. The mattress springs dug into my back. I found my crumpled T-shirt and pulled it over my naked body and went to find Kate and Sandy.
    â€œWhat happened?” Sandy asked, seeing the blood.
    â€œI think we did it,” I said. “Please don’t tell Kate.” I was embarrassed, ashamed, and scared. I held my sore head in my hand. I found my plaid shorts under the bed. They were also bloody. I went inside the bathroom and watched my highlighted hair fall into the toilet water as I puked. I thought about Tab Cola, with just one calorie for beautiful people—like me. I felt light headed and held the toiled bowl sides to keep from falling. My head ached. I was losing weight. I rinsed my baggy, wrinkled, damp shorts in the sink. I could throw up, but I could never take it back. I reached for the pink can of Tab, swallowed it, and made Rudy my boyfriend until he wasn’t.

Part 2
    â€œKilling me.”

7
    I met the orchid breeder at the coffee shop in Old Town, Eureka, which was packed with hippies and artists. I’d gotten out, away from my mom and step-dad and dad and was living on my own by seventeen. Being a barista was one of my many shit jobs, which led to another shit job: artist’s model. Some of my customers hired me to pose nude for them—for an untaxed hourly wage—in studios and warehouses nearby where they painted or sketched. I stood or sat naked, and they collected money in a basket like church and gave it to me afterwards.
    A squat man with a posture like he’d just had a prostate exam asked me for a small coffee. “You’re fetching,” he said. His shiny black hair hung in his bulging eyes. He brushed it away.
    â€œThanks.” I handed him a white mug of burnt coffee. He gave me his business card, which read: Orchid Breeder. Painter.
    â€œYou should sit for me,” he said.
    I shoved the card in my sock. The café was packed, with a line out the door. Two craggy men in plaid flannel shirts played chess and camped out. Shop owners left with their trays of lattes and muffins and four local punks occupied their usual table.
    â€œWill you turn the music up?” the one with spiky purple hair asked.
    I walked in the back and turned up David Byrne’s “The Catherine Wheel” and emptied the tip jar in my apron pocket. I had to pee.
    I poured coffee grounds in the trash,