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Hollywood, California, ladies and gentlemen. Please be sure to gather all your personal belongings before departing the bus. This is our final destination. Thank you for choosing Greyhound."

I sat bolt upright from a dead sleep. I was annoyed that I slept through our arrival, but who cared! We were here! Bouncing slightly in my seat, I pressed my face to the window to take in every new image. There, sitting in the parking lot, I spied it: the green van! "Roger's here, Mommy! Look, there he is!" My sisters and I started squealing with delight.

I didn't realize how much I'd missed him.

My mother's face flushed with anticipation. Though desperately trying to gather our things, round us up, and fix her hair all at the same time, she was beaming. I got lost in her beautiful eyes. She was so stunning and in control of everything in that moment, and I loved her more than ever. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how brave I thought she was, that it would all be different now. But I didn't know those words then. I watched her, soaking her in. The fear of being wrong suddenly nagged at me. But how could I be wrong? She looked like she'd just won something, and I hadn't seen her smile in such a long time.

We were off the bus, in that van, and on our way to Redondo Beach faster than I could say "Book 'em Dano." I barely caught a glimpse of Hollywood Boulevard as we pulled onto the 101 freeway, but I still remember the way the stars lay along the sidewalk. I lost my breath for a moment, in awe of the palm-lined street. We drove off just as I had truly arrived. I knew then I'd be back.

I just didn't know why.

6
Two Butch Palms
    We pulled into the driveway of a white-and-tan Spanish-style house in a typical middle-class neighborhood in Redondo Beach, California. Roger ruffled my hair as he pointed out the twin palms on the front lawn. "Those are our two 'butch palms.' " He laughed. We all giggled along with him, but I didn't have a clue what he meant.

Maybe it was California slang.

I couldn't help noticing all the cars parked in the driveway and wondered if they were for us. Maybe when we were bigger we'd all get to choose one. But until then they'd just sit there, pretty in the sun, waiting for us to grow up. My mother was getting close to the house and I had to be the first to touch the doorknob.

Racing up the steps, I threw open the front door, which was strangely unlocked. Maybe people are more relaxed in California, I reasoned with myself, bursting into the living room with my sisters right behind me. The first thing I saw was an extremely hairy fat man wearing boxer shorts, drinking a beer with one hand and smoking a really smelly cigarette with the other. I was pretty sure it was "reefer." I'd seen Roger smoking it before and knew Mother wouldn't be pleased. I wanted to punch this man in his jelly belly for ruining my perfect day. He was sitting on what I thought was supposed to be our couch. He smiled at me and said, "Hey, my name's Greg. You must be the Kuzmas. I'm your roommate."

I stood there, mouth gaping, staring at this bear of a man that would be living with us. Mother was behind me in the doorway. I thought she was going to cry as she scowled at Roger. The air was suddenly thick again.

7
Junior HIGH
    Junior high is a place where young people get stoned," my pretty, tan pot-smoking thirteen-year-old next-door neighbor, Dee Dee, informed me on my first day of school in southern California. I was sitting under a palm tree on the campus of my new school, completely amazed that we actually had to leave the building to go from class to class. The schools back east were all enclosed. You entered the building at sunrise and didn't see light again until that afternoon, if at all.

I'd been eyeballing my watch all morning waiting for my least favorite time of the day to arrive: lunchtime. I had learned long ago how dangerous and humiliating something as simple as lunch could be. Having been the new kid a dozen