Identical

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Identical Page 12

by Ellen Hopkins

I was invited, and, thinking about

  it, I might just have to go.

  Sounds like more fun than spending

  the evening answering the doorbell

  and topping off greedy kids’ pillowcases.

  I’m Almost to Work

  When a car beeps and slows

  to a stop nearby. It’s a truly

  forgettable vehicle—a well-

  used Toyota something, silver.

  The surprise is who’s driving.

  Brittany. She and I have known

  each other for years. But not

  well enough to swap secrets.

  Hey, girl! Bet you can’t guess

  what I did this afternoon.

  She pauses, and must decide

  I’m really dense. Like my ride?

  “Hmm. Let me see. Did you

  get a haircut? No. Manicure?

  Nah. Your nails look awful.

  Oh. What did you say?

  Something about…your ride?”

  I smile. “Got your license, huh?

  Oh hey, did you leave school early?

  You missed all the excitement.”

  I heard about it on the news.

  Top of the hour on the radio.

  Not the best radio, but at

  least I’ve got tunes.

  My smile grows. “Yeah, except

  for top of the hour. Congrats

  on the license. I probably

  won’t get mine until I’m old

  enough to drink legally. Anyway,

  I gotta run. Drive carefully. We

  don’t need another statistic,

  as my dear old dad would say.”

  No worries. I don’t plan

  on being a statistic, unless

  it’s a good one. Hey, want

  a ride to school tomorrow?

  I hardly ever take rides from

  friends, and I start to say no,

  but she looks so hopeful,

  I just can’t. “Why not?”

  We agree on a time and away

  she goes, and as I pedal up

  the driveway, it occurs to me

  that Brittany (plus Toyota)

  just might come in handy,

  especially when winter

  hits for real. Long as her car

  has a heater, of course.

  No Party Tonight

  At the old folks’ home,

  just more of the same ol’,

  except for one major thing.

  Greta has a visitor. Someone

  very special, from the past. I can

  tell he’s special by the sparkle

  behind her spectacles. I can

  tell he’s from her past because

  they’re speaking in Danish,

  something I’ve never heard

  her do before. I’m fascinated,

  and even though I can’t

  understand more than a word

  or two, I keep finding excuses

  to exit the dining room (where

  I’m supposed to be getting

  everything set up for dinner)

  in favor of the sitting room.

  Greta and her visitor have

  parked themselves in front

  of the fireplace, and their

  conversation seems every bit

  as cheerful as the song of wood,

  crackling behind them.

  As dinnertime nears, more and

  more people stir around them,

  but they are so caught up in

  each other, they barely notice.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d

  definitely guess this was love.

  Looks Like Love

  And dear Greta so deserves love,

  it makes me happy to see it glowing all

  around her, glowing inside her, filling her

  up with this beautiful light. Such brilliant

  light must come straight from heaven,

  if such a place really exists. She

  believes it does, so for her,

  it’s real, and may be

  that’s enough

  to make

  it so.

  Real

  or no, this

  gentleman caller

  dropped in from out

  of the blue, so I’ll just go

  ahead and make believe he was

  divinely inspired to bring a healthy

  dose of light into Greta’s life. Her smile

  is ethereal. It makes me shiver as all up

  and down my arms, a colony of goose

  bumps lifts. And suddenly, a jab

  of jealousy

  nails me in the gut.

  Envy Surges

  Scarlet hot through my veins.

  I mean, the woman is like

  eighty-two years old or some

  thing. Why should she know

  love when I don’t? When I can’t?

  She’s only got a few years

  at best. Why should they be warmed

  by love when my own coming

  decades are doomed to frigidity?

  Greta’s beau shares the dinner

  table with a half-dozen old

  women, but he sees only her.

  And she sees only him, despite

  the banter and pleasantries exchanged

  all around and between them.

  I can’t help but watch through eyes

  tinged green. Then Greta laughs,

  from the heart, like she has laughed

  with me, only sweeter. And suddenly

  I am ashamed. No, horrified, at myself.

  How could I think that way?

  That Was an Incredibly Bad Scene

  Like looking inside myself

  and finding a stranger,

  someone not only vicious

  but downright

  evil.

  How odd, to suddenly

  glimpse a facet of me

  I didn’t know existed.

  I guess it really

  isn’t

  all that unusual to surprise

  oneself with an ugly bit

  of ego. But was this

  unsuspected piece of me

  born

  at the same instant I was?

  Or was it spawned some

  time between that moment

  and now? I know, I know

  it’s

  a question with no answer,

  undeserving of introspection.

  But was this hideous thing

  conceived, or was it

  created?

  Raeanne

  Kaeleigh Takes Herself

  Way, way too seriously.

  Everyone has a secret side,

  one that’s not so nice. But

  evil?

  I prefer to reserve that

  designation for presidents,

  terrorists, and Madison.

  Okay, I guess the bitch

  isn’t

  really evil either. Too stupid

  for evil. Oops. That lets presidents

  off the hook too. Terrorists are

  rarely stupid, but even they aren’t

  born

  evil. But you know, preach it—

  whatever “it” is—loud enough,

  long enough, someone will buy in.

  Witness Jerry Falwell. Ask me,

  it’s

  a sin to pervert faith with religion.

  Despite every church, mosque, and

  synagogue in it, this is not the world

  any God worth his salt would have

  created.

  But Whatever Created It

  It’s my world, the only one

  I’ve got. Might as well make

  the best of it, right? Might as

  well have a little fun while

  I’m here. Or a lot of fun.

  Might be dead tomorrow.

  I’d call Mick, but he’s out

  of dope,
and anyway, he’s

  an irritating prick. Stupid,

  too, all ranting about how

  he’s going to sue the sheriff’s

  department for stealing stash.

  I told him to shut up and think

  about it, and hopefully he’s

  doing exactly that about now.

  I do know a few other people

  who might have some bud.

  But the one who comes first

  and foremost to mind is Ty.

  He gave me his number,

  for the next time you

  find your mouth watering

  for a hot red lollipop…

  Yeah, he’s totally disgusting.

  Why do I like men that way?

  Oh, and Guess What

  He answers his phone first ring,

  and he isn’t busy at the moment.

  Lucky, lucky me. It’s a school

  night, and I might very well hear

  about not coming straight home, but

  hey, if I go straight home, I won’t

  be going out tonight. No-brainer.

  I wait for him at a little convenience

  store, and about the time I grow

  impatient, a sheriff’s sedan cruises

  by, reminding me I do not want to

  be caught in the backseat of a car

  in a compromising position. Turns

  out that’s not a problem. Ty whips

  into the parking lot, in a blue BMW

  Z4 convertible. Top down. No back-

  seat. We won’t be smoking or making

  out in this stunning little car.

  He smiles at the look on my face.

  Get in. How ’bout we take a little spin?

  Zero to Sixty

  In five point six seconds, says

  Ty. Seemed faster to me. I love

  the way acceleration presses me

  back against my seat. But what’s

  really interesting is that Ty can afford

  this car at all. Might as well just ask.

  “So what do you do, anyway?

  Or are your parents loaded?”

  He smiles and settles the car

  into an easy cruise mode.

  Actually, my parents are

  loaded. More ways than one.

  I really look at him for the first

  time. Handsome face, chiseled,

  strong. Works-out-in-the-gym

  body. Dark, longish hair, tied back.

  Simple black T-shirt and Levis,

  though clean, totally belie the Beamer.

  And what exactly did he mean

  by more ways than one?

  Might as well just ask. “Your

  parents get high? Do they deal?”

  Nah, they don’t deal. They indulge

  plenty, though. See, my dad is

  Chumash. When the casino was built,

  he made—how best to put this?—more

  than a tidy little sum on the deal.

  He and my mom now own quite an

  operation out Foxen Canyon Road.

  Cattle. Horses. Young vineyard.

  Who would have guessed?

  Certainly not me, not even

  after our little private party

  up there on Figueroa. Still…

  “So how about you? What do you do?

  Do you live with your parents?”

  A bunch more questions pop

  into my head, bubbling over

  like champagne, but the answers

  to those two might answer the rest.

  Shit, yeah. In a guest house,

  actually. Once our vines mature,

  I’ll play vintner. Right now,

  I’m apprenticing at another winery.

  Several questions answered indeed.

  Finally I notice we have in fact

  been driving along Foxen Canyon

  Road. Ty slows the BMW and we

  turn up a long driveway through

  rows and rows of immature grapes.

  We make a left before reaching

  the rather overbearing main house.

  Finally Ty crunches to a stop

  in the gravel. Here we are. Home

  sweet home. Hope you’re up

  for fun and games.

  Fun, Ty-Style

  Begins with tall Jack Daniel’s

  and Cokes. As he mixes them,

  I wander around the “guest house,”

  thinking half the country would

  flip if they could live in a home

  like this. Two oversize bedrooms.

  Two bathrooms, one with a Jacuzzi

  tub. Beautiful kitchen, open to

  the leather-and-brass living room.

  With a flick of a switch, Ty lights

  the gas fireplace, which throws

  a gentle gleam across the hardwood

  floor. He gestures toward the rich

  burgundy leather sofa and goes

  into the bedroom. Blink of an eye,

  back he comes, holding a big wooden

  box. He sits close, opens the hand-

  carved oak, reveals the cache inside.

  This Is Something New

  My uncle has connections you

  wouldn’t believe, says Ty.

  He pulls out a baggie, a quarter

  full of some crumbly brown substance.

  When he cracks the bag, the perfume

  that escapes smells like heaven.

  Opiated hash. Ever tried it?

  I shake my head no, but Ty

  is quick to remedy that, filling

  a small pipe bowl with a miniature

  ball of opium-laced hashish.

  He takes the first toke, and now

  heaven’s on fire, and smoking.

  Still holding his hit, Ty cautions

  around it, Little tokes, now.

  Don’t want to cough this stuff out.

  Hold it as long as you can.

  Slowly I inhale a taste sweeter

  than any before. Greedy me

  wants more, but I remember

  his warning. The smoke expands

  in my lungs, and I’m glad I didn’t

  take more. I hold it until I just have

  to let go. When I finally do,

  my head is tingling all over.

  Ty looks at me, measuring.

  Having fun yet? ’Course you are.

  And sweetheart, this is just the start.

  We’ve still got games to play.

  Games, Ty-Style

  Don’t even begin until we’re well

  into the fun. Drinking. Smoking.

  Feeling the creep of the poppy,

  all along my spine, skull to tailbone.

  I know the high is mostly hash,

  not so different from regular

  cannabis (though even tastier).

  But the opium topper provides

  a whole new set of rushes. Body

  rushes, like little shivers. Head

  rushes, like turning in circles,

  round and round, don’t fall down.

  Shall we move the party

  into the bedroom? Ty reaches

  over, kisses me. Hard. Harder.

  My heart screams in my chest.

  His teeth rake my bottom

  lip, move down over my chin,

  down my neck. Not too hard.

  Not really. But hard enough.

  Should I have worn garlic

  and a silver cross? I laugh

  out loud at the thought, and

  I realize how fucked up I am.

  Ty stands, holds out his hand,

  but I am so messed up, all I can

  do is laugh. He pulls me to my

  feet. What’s so funny?

  “Nothing. Everything. You.

  Me. Especially me. My head

  feels like it came unattached,

  and my body is all tingly.”

&
nbsp; His grin is pure evil. Excellent.

  I know just how to fix that.

  He picks me up, carries me

  into his bedroom, half throws

  me onto the bed. When he starts

  to undress me, I burst into a new

  fit of giggles. My jeans are so tight,

  he can’t wiggle me out of them.

  “Want some help, my macho

  vampire?” I shed everything

  and he does too, but before we

  do another thing, he asks,

  How ’bout another bowl?

  Something to take you real,

  real low. He leers like a scary

  circus clown. Low as a girl can go.

  True to His Word

  He drops me real, real low.

  I’m floating on a poppy sea.

  Naked. Mellow. But a sudden

  wind rouses the breaks and low

  tide builds to major swells. Ty

  kisses me, all fang, pure vampire.

  “Hey. Take it easy.” But somehow

  my body responds to the pain.

  And Ty responds to that, clamping

  one hand around both my wrists,

  pulling them up over my head

  and pinning me helpless.

  It is then I notice the nylon cord,

  one end tied tight to the headboard.

  Ty’s voice is almost a snarl. This

  is one of my favorite games.

 

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