Identical

by Ellen Hopkins

home, tucked deep inside.

  Raeanne

  We All Have Demons

  Some inside us, some outside.

  (Madison is a fine example

  of the exterior variety.)

  It’s a lie

  to say otherwise. Kaeleigh

  can successfully stow hers

  away in some dark corner, but

  in my eyes

  it is better to confront them

  than let them roil you into

  turmoil. And so at the moment

  I’m thinking I’d

  better go

  get in Madison’s face. For a day

  or two, I wasn’t sure Mick was

  worth it. And hey, he probably

  isn’t. But she has to learn not to

  poke

  sticks at snakes, at least not

  venomous ones. Today my

  fangs are exposed. All

  I have to do is sink

  them

  into the proper artery, pump

  a little poison, watch her bleed

  out,

  one less demon to contend with.

  I Guess I Might

  Just leave well enough alone,

  but I’ve been thinking about Mick.

  One way or another, I have to

  decide whether I want to keep him.

  He actually gave me an ultimatum

  when he found me doing the deed with Ty.

  Maybe that’s why I got so ballsy, had sex

  with Ty where I knew Mick could

  find us. Maybe I had to know if he

  cared or not. He did! He was jealous.

  I’d like to think the reason

  he was flirting with Madison

  that night was to make me jealous.

  But I don’t think he’s that complicated.

  “Complicated” takes more brains.

  Not that Mick is a total dolt,

  but he isn’t exactly Einstein, either.

  Anyway, most of Mick’s brains reside

  in the general area of his groin.

  One thing for sure, sex will never

  be about love with Mick. I don’t love

  him, and he definitely doesn’t love me.

  Still, he semi-fills a gaping black hole

  inside me. That place wants love,

  maybe even needs love, but love is

  something I’m pretty sure doesn’t exist.

  With or Without Love

  I’m not ready to let him go, not

  without a fight. Besides the easy

  sex thing, there’s still the pot.

  I know they say marijuana isn’t

  addictive, not like speed or heroin,

  which claw into you and won’t let go.

  Pot is more of a sweet talker, and I’m

  all over that sexy voice. I went Saturday

  without it, but by yesterday afternoon,

  I was getting antsy. I called Mick,

  asked him to pick me up after church.

  Yes, I sometimes sneak off to Sunday

  services, always in need of forgiveness,

  if not always exactly sure why. Freshly

  forgiven, I was eager for corruption.

  Okay, I’ll come get you, he said.

  But not if you’re gonna fuck off

  on me. What was that about?

  Not like we’re exclusive, or have

  ever pretended to be. But the dope

  was calling. Had to play contrite.

  Even if it isn’t my best game. “Sorry.

  Guess I was jealous of Madison

  and wanted to make you jealous too.”

  Yeah, well, I could have screwed

  her Friday night too. I didn’t,

  even though she wanted to.

  Zing! Off went a flare in my head.

  My temper [ature] started to rise.

  But I kept it in check. “Obviously.”

  Anyway, Madison says you see

  other guys all the time. Friday

  kind of proved that, didn’t it?

  Okay, I was starting to lose it.

  “That’s just bullshit! If she doesn’t

  watch her effing mouth, I’ll…”

  He waited for me to finish it,

  but when all I could do was stammer,

  he asked, You’ll what?

  “Kick her ass.”

  But Kicking Ass

  Could definitely be

  a double-edged

  sword. Not that

  I’ve ever tried it.

  But I can see how getting physical could relieve some tension,

  at least in the short run. Hauling off, letting my fists fly, and

  feeling them connect with her surprised face just might

  make me feel a

  whole lot better.

  That is, until the

  inevitable fallout.

  Suspension for

  sure. Restitution,

  possibly. Maybe

  lockup? I could

  even find myself

  in my dear old

  daddy’s court.

  No, the more

  I think about

  it, the more I

  believe there

  has to be a

  subtle yet

  satisfying

  method of

  revenge.

  I Just Have to Find It

  And that might take a while.

  Patience? Not my best thing.

  I make it through Contemporary

  Lit, still puzzling over it.

  Spanish II. Si, quiero

  venganza. I want revenge.

  I am on my way to history

  when opportunity falls

  smack in my lap, à la

  a quick bathroom break.

  As I start toward the girls’

  room, I notice Madison

  ahead of me. She reaches

  into her purse, roots inside.

  She glances around, but

  doesn’t see me watch her

  extract a tampon, palm

  it, and step through the door.

  I can wait to pee. And now

  I’ve got my ammunition.

  I’ll Have to Wait to Use It, Though

  First I have to get through history.

  I sit in my usual seat in back,

  by the window, as Mr. Lawler

  passes out last week’s essays.

  I can’t help but notice how

  he moves with feline grace.

  A big cat. Jaguar, maybe.

  Or a tiger. Secure within his stripes.

  Pinstripes, actually, on dark

  trousers, snug at the waist

  and across his hips,

  before falling loosely

  down over his thighs.

  And just as my disgusting

  brain gloms onto a sick

  image of what those thighs

  look like, his voice descends.

  Interesting piece of writing.

  I’d like to discuss it further.

  Can you wait after class,

  or come in at lunch?

  Interesting, good? Or bad?

  My eyes drop, focusing on

  a large red A at the top of

  my paper. Apparently,

  good. “Let’s do lunch.”

  Doing Lunch

  With Mr. Lawler will postpone

  exacting revenge. Lunch would

  have been a great venue for what

  I’ve got in mind. Instead I’ll wait

  for drama—not my class, but I’ll

  go to watch Kaeleigh rehearse.

  At least, that will be my excuse.

  Madison will be there too.

  And anyway, lunch with Mr. Lawler

  and his pinstripes could prove quite

  interesting. Sheesh. Sometimes I turn

  into a major vamp. It’s a fun game.

  I’m all into games, distra
ctions

  from the day-to-day crap. All vamp,

  I open Mr. Lawler’s door. “Ready

  for me?” His smile tells me definitely.

  Come on in. I’m just finishing

  up here. Have a seat. He gestures

  to a chair beside his desk, scribbles

  something in his grade book,

  and finally looks me in the eye.

  I’m fascinated with your take

  on the Scopes trial. How did you

  arrive at your conclusions?

  I outline my research, add a bit

  about my father and his take on

  this sensational piece of history—

  how different attorneys might have

  made different arguments, the court

  might have allowed the jury to

  sentence Scopes, and the Bible

  might have been the only source

  for schoolchildren for many years

  to come. Hard to believe they were

  such cretins in 1925, jailing a high

  school teacher for offering evolution

  as an alternate theory to creationism.

  Just who were the monkeys in the “Monkey

  Trial”? Anyway, the entire time I talk,

  Mr. Lawler’s eyes stay fixed on mine.

  I’m very impressed. You took

  a relatively straightforward

  topic and gave it a unique

  spin. I appreciate the extra

  effort that went into this essay.

  And then, in a completely

  unexpected move, his hand

  settles gently on top of mine.

  I should pretend propriety, pull

  my hand away. But I like how

  it feels beneath the warmth

  of his. I give my most vampish

  smile. “Extra effort is my middle

  name. Thanks, Mr. Lawler.”

  That Was Fun

  Maybe even more fun

  than what I’ve got on my

  agenda now. We shall see.

  I wander into drama, wearing

  “innocent”

  like baby powder perfume.

  Onstage, waiting for direction,

  Madison stands with a couple

  of girls and several guys.

  Perfect.

  God, she’s such a cow,

  hardly even worth my

  jealous

  response. I almost change

  my mind, but then she catches

  sight of me and her expression

  puts me on my feet. Totally

  guilt

  free, I saunter up the stage

  steps. Kaeleigh hasn’t yet

  appeared,

  and Ms. Cavendish won’t

  know the difference unless

  I try to sing. I pass Madison’s

  knot, sniff the air beside her

  dramatically,

  loudly project, “Ugh! What’s that

  smell? Madison, are you on the rag?”

  Kaeleigh

  Everyone’s Laughing

  At Madison, whose face has turned

  the approximate color of pickled beets,

  as she struggles for a comeback. I almost

  feel sorry for her, not that she’s exactly

  innocent

  of saying mean things to people.

  Or about people, behind their backs,

  or even worse, where they can overhear.

  Most everyone I know thinks she’s a

  perfect

  bitch. Even her friends don’t like her

  much, that’s my guess. Maybe I’m

  jealous

  somehow. Nah. She’s the one

  with the problem, not me.

  Anyway, the more I remember

  how nasty she can be, the less

  guilt

  I feel about thinking what just

  happened is funny. Still, Ian

  appeared

  just about the time she sputtered

  off. He looked at me like I was

  at fault. Whatever.

  Dramatically,

  I tilt my face toward the ceiling,

  walk by him without a word.

  Ian Retaliates

  In his own subtle way, goes

  and sits by Shelby, rotates

  completely away from me.

  I’ve studied this scene, know

  my lines. So why can’t I

  remember a single one?

  Uh, Kaeleigh? You seem

  a bit distracted today, says

  Ms. Cavendish. Everything okay?

  Wonder if Ian…oh, did she

  just ask me a question?

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Definitely distracted. Get your

  script. You and Ian run lines.

  We’ll block this scene later.

  I slip quietly into the vacant

  seat on the other side of Ian.

  “She wants us to run lines.”

  He nods and Shelby retreats.

  Ian and I crack our scripts

  without exchanging glances.

  Eventually

  We reach a romantic scene.

  Onstage, Ms. Cavendish

  has the chorus singing a big

  ol’ production number.

  It’s an unusual backdrop

  for Ian’s and my scripted passion.

  But even with numerous

  vocal errors, corrections,

  and amended directions,

  so many distractions,

  our declarations of love intertwine.

  And even as Madison

  stomps back into the theater,

  to be corralled by Ms. C and

  told to join the others onstage,

  Ian finally looks up, into my eyes.

  Just then the bell rings,

  and as everyone deserts

  the stage, locates possessions,

  escapes the building, he says,

  Sometimes I just don’t know who you are.

  Not Exactly

  The words I’d hoped to hear.

  Then again, what exactly

  were the words I’d hoped for?

  Anyway, to be honest,

  sometimes I’m not so sure

  just who I am either.

  So I admit, “That makes

  two of us, I guess.” At least

  when I smile, he does too.

  He offers me a ride home,

  but I opt for the bus. “Maybe

  tomorrow? I need to think.”

  Ian walks me to the yellow

  dinosaur, bends down,

  kisses a sweet good-bye.

  As the bus belches and squeals,

  pain bubbles up inside, an evil

  spirit, demanding escape.

  And by the time I reach home,

  I know I’ve got to uncork

  the bottle, free my evil genie.

  It’s Been a While

  Since I’ve really binged.

  Mostly, I guess, because things

  have seemed fairly flatlined

  recently. No major upsets.

  No major downslides.

  But that episode with William

  has bothered me since

  it happened. I let it fester,

  though on the surface

  the blister has popped,

  scabbed over. William didn’t

  cause the infection, he was just

  its manifestation. God, I’m so

  in need of spiritual antibiotics.

  Then the Madison thing.

  She is a major, total shit

  stirrer, vicious clear through,

  and obviously out to shred

  any living thing that stands

  in the way of what she wants.

  On one level, what happened

  in drama was the funniest

  thing ever. I laughed out loud,

  along with
most everyone

  else. So why did I feel bad later?

  But When It Comes

  To my personal sundae

  of interior upheaval,

  Daddy is the ice cream.

  Raeanne is the hot fudge.

  Mom is the whipped cream.

  And Ian is now, and maybe

  forever, the cherry on top.

  Why can’t he and I find

  a way to accept each other,

  lose ourselves in all-

  encompassing love,

  the kind that can save you?

  The kind that can glue

  all the fragments of two

  broken hearts together.

  Sometimes, every once

  in a while, it feels like

  we’re almost there. Close.

  So close. But then something

  happens, something out

  of my control, and mostly

  it comes from inside of me—

  this terrible black energy,

  wrenching us apart. I think

  I should be able to control

  it, make it go away. But I can’t.

  And So, Right Now

  I will control one of the few

  things I can. Gaining curves.

  Funny thing is, I still haven’t

  graduated to double digits,

  despite semiregular binges

  amounting to amazing quantities

  of food. Maybe stress burns