They do desire the cut of truth. —Natalie Goldberg 24 Jia had called me, and she didn’t sound very happy to talk to me. In my slightly (more like, very) intoxicated state, I wasn’t prepared to handle an angry teenager. “Hello, Jia,” I slurred. “I need to talk to you,” she repeated. “So you said.” “Now.” I flopped onto my back, resting my head on my free arm. “I’m listening.” “No, not on the phone.” “What? You want me to drive over to your house?” I could literally hear her eyes roll. I hadn’t realized that was possible until now. “Yes, I want you to drive over to my house. My parents will beat my ass if I leave the house this late. And I’m scared to go anywhere after . . . the attack. I watched the weather report. There’s a chance of thunderstorms tonight.” I shook my head. Whew, the world gets a little tipsy-topsy when I do that. “Sorry, I can’t drive right now.” “Why not? Are your parents going to beat your ass too? Oh, that’s right, you’re too old to be living at home with your mommy and daddy.”
