Teaser. Burt Weissbourd

the stone building had been a hardware emporium. She turned to face the Sound. From her seventh floor window she could just see the southern tip of Bainbridge Island, deep green against the grey sea and sky. When she was fourteen, Corey harvested sea cucumbers off that shore. It was the last innocent time she could remember.

      In 1987 she turned fifteen. While her girlfriends were smoking dope, drinking, and partying, she was canning fish. After her mother died in ‘89, she lived alone on their boat, the Jenny Ann, doing whatever she could for money.

      The phone rang. It was Luther’s CCO. The guy explained that Luther had his own room on Bentley, which she knew, and that he had an alibi, which she already knew, too. His CCO went on, detailing Luther’s post-prison routine.

      “You screwed up,” she interjected, matter of fact.

      “No, lady, you screwed up. That girl wasn’t my responsibility.” He hung up.

      She stared at the phone.

      Yesterday she had filled him in. Even if it was Luther—which he doubted—he had sixty clients; there was only so much he could do.

      Corey took a walk—no place special—over to Madison, up to Broadway. She tried to imagine how frightened Annie must have been to jump through a closed window. Annie had once told Corey how her Uncle Luther was an unhuman. She said he was way dead and full of worms and every time he touched her she died.

      She thought about Annie’s chances. Abe said that when things went badly, she was too hard on herself. She wasn’t sure. Corey sat on a bench in front of Seattle Central Community College, watching the kids drift by.

      “I’m wired,” Maisie said. “Like I can’t slow down.” She wore worn jeans, and a white, hand-woven Mexican blouse.

      Abe sat at his desk, watching her, waiting. Maisie had large, sea blue eyes. Her lips were full and her smile alluring. She was thin, delicate, growing into a sensual woman’s body—an intense, unwieldy business. Abe sensed that she was keenly aware of her nascent sexuality, though unsure how to manage it. Maisie fidgeted, anxious, running a hand through her short, brown hair.

      “Sometimes things start to spin,” she said. “I told Verlaine. The sixties-stoner stepdad wants me to take Prozac.”

      He almost smiled, caught himself. “Do you want to?”

      “Are you like kidding or something?”

      Abe wasn’t sure where this was going. He’d first seen Maisie three years ago when her mother remarried. Her stepfather was fifteen years older than her mom, and he was her boss at Microsoft. Maisie didn’t approve and she withdrew from family life. At that time Abe had prescribed a very low dose of an anti-depressant, and after just a few sessions, Maisie was back at the dinner table. He’d had little or no contact with her until six weeks ago when she called to announce, “My parents say I have to see someone and you’re it.” Since then he’d seen Maisie five times.

      “So sometimes things start to spin,” he repeated. “What would you like to do about this spinning?”

      “Well, I skipped flute yesterday, and today I cut Spanish. My mom was totally pissed when I missed flute.”

      “Why did you skip flute?”

      “I was getting it on with Aaron.” Maisie touched the gold ring in her eyebrow. “We met this really cool girl. She’s got a place near Broadway, and she lets us come over.”

      He waited before asking, evenly. “Does your mother know why you missed flute?”

      “I think she picks up on it. It’s like she can smell sex. She can’t be exactly satisfied in that department. I mean Verlaine wouldn’t even know if he got her off. Un-unh.” Maisie raised her palms—she knew that much. When Abe didn’t say anything, she leaned her forearms on his desk then rested her chin on them. “I saw Billy today. Why don’t you call him Will? I think Will’s better than Billy, don’t you?”

      “That’s up to him.”

      “I wish you were my dad.”

      Abe didn’t respond.

      “I mean Will’s so together, and I’m so, I dunno, what’s the opposite of together? Apart?”

      “Does Billy—”

      “Will. Hey, does he know you see me?”

      “Not from me.”

      “Does anyone know, except us, and the dot com deadheads?” And solemnly, before he could ask, “Devoted fans of the Grateful Dead.”

      When Abe still looked confused, she added, “Duh—the Microsofties—my so-called parents, okay?”

      “I haven’t told anyone.”

      “What about your wife?”

      “No, she doesn’t know.”

      “Our secret, huh?”

      “Until you say otherwise.”

      “Cool.” She sat back in the brown leather chair. “Now, can we talk about something personal?”

      “Sure.” Abe waited, watching her drum her fingers on the arm of the chair. He liked Maisie, liked her quickness, her directness, liked how she was more and more open with him. He could help her, he thought, if they could learn to rely on one another. As far as he could tell, she didn’t have this with any adult.

      The drumming stopped. “I tried some cocaine,” she volunteered. “Afterward, we got it on, the three of us.”

      Why, he wondered, is she being so provocative?

      “And?”

      “Is that crazy or what?” Maisie closed her eyes.

      “I don’t know. Here, with me, you often say something shocking, then measure my response. Did you expect something terrible to happen?”

      “Won’t it?”

      “Not necessarily.” Abe waited until he had her full attention; this was important. “The drugs worry me, though.”

      “When I’m stoned I sometimes do things in my mind. But this was different. I really wanted to try it. Do something just really hot.” She found his eyes. “I mean so hot just thinking about it would get me going. In class, at the dinner table, anytime.”

      He watched as she folded her legs up under her in the big leather chair. Abe thought Maisie seemed more edgy than excited. She closed her eyes again, unaware that her face was flushed. He understood her desire for intensity. He hoped he could help her find it in less worrisome ways. And without drugs. “What did Aaron have to say about it?” he asked.

      “He got off on it, I can tell you that.” She opened her eyes, smiled at him coyly.

      Abe ignored it. “Did you talk with him about it?”

      “I told Aaron it would help me see if I’m bisexual. I knew I might be. I mean I got really excited in the tenth grade when I was into pregaming—”

      “Pregaming?” Abe furrowed his brow, a question.

      “That’s when you make out with another girl before going to a party.” Maisie pursed her lips, touched them with her fingertip. “You know—like warming up.”

      Abe sat back. “I’ve never heard of that.”

      She smiled again. “Does it freak you out?”

      “No, I don’t think so. But the drugs do worry me. I’d like you to stay clear of them. Can you do that?”

      She made a face. “Even weed?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’m addicted to grass.”

      “I