The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

  up the empty bottle and outline my plan.

  No one objects, so off we go down

  the road to Garrett’s house. By the time

  we arrive, there’s no sign of the guys,

  though the bass boom of music tells

  us they’re inside. Easy peasy. “Think

  I should wipe off our fingerprints?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I use

  my shirttail to do just that, then place

  the bottle in the bed of Garrett’s pickup.

  Syrah Isn’t Finished

  Keep an eye out, she orders.

  More quietly than I would’ve

  thought possible, she opens

  the truck’s passenger door,

  sticks her head inside.

  She’s making me nervous,

  whispers Monica, and I agree.

  Monica looks in one direction,

  I keep tabs on the other,

  while Syrah pokes around

  in the glove box in search

  of what, exactly, I have no clue.

  Surely Garrett wouldn’t leave

  valuables in his truck.

  Ha! It’s not weed, but . . .

  She exits the cab suddenly,

  with a box in her hand, shuts

  the door almost as noiselessly

  as she opened it, nudges Monica.

  Hurry up. Let’s go.

  We Quick-Time

  Away from Garrett’s,

  where the music’s still

  blasting, obscuring all

  the noise we’ve made.

  I’ve got no idea what’s

  in Syrah’s right hand,

  but it must be amazing

  because she’s laughing

  in a way that means

  she’s congratulating

  herself. We trot

  toward home at an easy

  gait, but as we pass

  the first neighbor’s house,

  his dog starts barking—

  huge hoarse hrrufs

  that make us pray

  his fence is solid,

  and send us sprinting

  up the middle

  of the road, howling

  laughter in response.

  “Don’t look back!”

  I urge, but of course

  all of us keep glancing

  over our shoulders.

  See anything? hisses

  Monica, trying not to trip

  over obstacles obscured

  by night’s shadows.

  “Nah. There’s nothing

  behind us.” No dog.

  No dweebs. No sputtering

  truck. Looks like we

  escaped in the clear.

  Finally, damp-haired

  with sweat and winded,

  we turn into my driveway,

  Syrah still in the lead.

  Once we’re on the porch,

  I tap her shoulder.

  “So, tell us, Sherlock.

  What did you find?”

  When she turns, the look

  on her face is priceless.

  Check it out. Why would

  Garrett need these?

  She lifts a small carton

  up under the porch light.

  Trojan condoms. Latex.

  Ultrathin. Lubricated.

  Thirty-six-count value pack.

  “You stole Garrett’s

  condoms? What if he

  actually does get lucky?”

  We all look at one another

  and totally bust up.

  Garrett would never get

  that lucky, says Monica

  when she finally stops

  hiccuping laughter.

  That’s for sure. This right

  here is a lifetime supply

  of rubbers for Garrett,

  adds Syrah, and that makes

  the three of us dissolve

  into a fit of amusement

  again. We go inside, still

  laughing, retreat to my

  room in case Dad comes

  home. I put on some music

  and for some crazy reason

  that no doubt has everything

  to do with vodka and weed,

  Syrah decides to play with

  the foil packets. She opens

  one, extracts the condom,

  stretches it full length.

  Jeez, the guy thinks a lot

  of himself. I kind of thought

  he was dickless. Hey, think

  fast! She tosses

  a couple at Monica, who

  catches them on the fly.

  What am I supposed to do

  with these? she complains.

  Syrah shrugs. Use ’em for

  water balloons? Give ’em to

  your big brother? I just know

  I don’t need all of them.

  I haven’t gotten lucky

  myself lately. Okay, ever.

  Now she opens the drawer

  in my nightstand, practices

  sinking shots from across

  the room before finally

  growing bored with the game.

  All right, everyone’s stocked

  up on latex. Everyone except

  Garrett, that is. And . . .

  We’re laughing again. Hot

  damn, is it great to have friends.

  Maya

  Funerals stink. Especially your daddy’s funeral. Especially, especially when you have to sneak out to go because your crazy mother would totally flip if she had a clue that was your plan. And, hey, why not toss in the fact that your lunatic mom was most of the reason your dad drank himself to death to start with?

  Mom chased Dad out of the house and all the way to San Antonio four years ago. Maybe it’s just eighty miles from Austin, Texas, but it might as well have been eight hundred. I’ve only seen him a half dozen times since he left, and the only way I even know he died was because I happened to answer the phone when Uncle Wade called. Mom wouldn’t have said a word. I didn’t bother to tell her, either.

  Instead, I bummed a ride with Tati, who only griped a little about spending her Saturday taking me to the funeral of a dude she’s never even met. “What are best friends for?” I asked, when she hesitated to say she’d drive.

  “Sex?” she answered, and all I could do was laugh.

  I’ve been in love with Tatiana Holdridge since seventh grade, but that’s not something I can say out loud, and it’s got nothing to do with sex. Tati is the one person who knows me inside out, and sticks around anyway.

  “Are you sad?” she whispered as we slipped into seats near the front of the mostly empty funeral parlor.

  The simple question was hard to answer. Dad was in my life daily till I turned twelve, but even when he was home he was mostly absent. Kind of like how I am in chemistry class—there, but not. Still, he was gentle, funny, and offered himself up when Mom aimed her anger my way. The few times I’ve seen him since, he always did nice things—took me clothes shopping or to a movie, something Mom considers frivolous. That’s her word for anything fun. “Frivolous.” Things that qualify: movies, arcades, amusement parks. Even television.

  Dad’s funeral wasn’t frivolous. It was spare. The only people there were his girlfriend Claire, his brother Wade, a few of the guys he worked with, and a couple of kids from the middle school where he was a janitor. That was sweet. They told me he didn’t put up with the bullies who harassed them, and they wanted to pay their respects. I’m glad Dad was a hero to someone.

  Throw pride into my jumble of feelings. Sadness was in there, of course. I also felt pity for Claire, who looked swallowed up by grief. She never said a word to me, or anyone else that I could see. But then, if I barely knew my dad, I didn’t know her at all.

  I felt grateful for Uncle Wade, who took care of all the details. His eyes watered as the minister recited his canned eulogy, and that made me remember the last funeral I went to. He
was there, too, and Dad, when Grandma and Grandpa McCabe were killed in a car wreck. That must’ve been five years back.

  Today, after the minister talked, everyone offered a favorite memory. Claire talked about the day she met Dad, working at a car wash fund-raiser for the school. Uncle Wade told about going fishing when they were kids, and how Dad insisted on using stink bait so he wouldn’t have to thread worms. One of the kids shared about the bullies.

  And me? “Mostly what I remember about Dad is watching games on TV on weekends. He taught me baseball and football and basketball. Tried to get me to watch hockey, too, but it’s not my thing. My best-ever memory was going to an Astros game and they creamed the Dodgers. My dad was so happy he sang all the way home. He could really sing.”

  That choked me up. When we were called forward and I bent to kiss Dad’s white wax cheek, it was like the air got sucked from my lungs. It hurt to breathe. You always think you’ll have more time, you’ll get another chance to make things right with someone you should be closer to. Sometimes that doesn’t happen. But why did it have to be Dad, and why so soon?

  Tati escorted me to the open casket. I could tell she didn’t want to, but in the moment I crumbled, she reached for me, propping me up with a subtle merge of fingers. “I’m here for you,” she whispered. Well, of course she was, though as soon as we turned to leave, she let go of my hand. Considering where we were, that was necessary. But painful.

  Outside, Uncle Wade stood sweating in the sweltering late August shade. “Would you like to follow the hearse to the cemetery and witness the lowering?”

  Watch the earth swallow my dad, bait for my nightmares? I shook my head. “I have to get back to Austin or Mom will throw a fit.”

  He handed me a manila envelope. “Your father wanted you to have this. He loved you very much, you know. He was sorry he didn’t have more to give you.”

  All I could do was nod and look inside. I’d thought every photo of my father was gone—trashed in one of Mom’s rages. But Dad had kept a handful of the two of us, and now they’ll be my hidden treasure. I have to hide them from Mom, along with Dad’s handwritten apology for leaving me, and $1200 cash.

  “He saved every penny he could,” Uncle Wade said. “He hoped it might help you go to college, so try not to spend it all in one place.” He winked, as if to say he knew college isn’t in my plans. I’ll be lucky to graduate high school. Not because I’m not smart enough to do the work, but as my counselor says, I lack motivation.

  What I am motivated to do is find a way out from under my mother’s heavy-handed rule. Case in point: when Tati dropped me off at home (she never comes inside, not that I blame her), I stashed my treasured envelope behind a bush outside my bedroom window, knowing it was sure to draw Mom’s attention, and it would’ve. The second I walked in the door, she pounced. “Where have you been?” Spit pooled in the corners of her mouth.

  I could’ve lied. But in that moment it seemed disrespectful. Not to her. To my father. “I went to Dad’s funeral.”

  “That’s the best you can do? You expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t care if you do or you don’t. He’s dead. And by now he’s buried. I didn’t hang out to watch.”

  She didn’t say she was sorry. Didn’t ask how I found out he’d died. What she said was, “I’m surprised he lasted this long. He got more time than he deserved. Regardless, I’m extremely unhappy with you. How dare you leave this house without telling me where you’re going, and who you’d be with?”

  That’s her Cardinal Rule, and I used to comply. Not so much anymore, though. Now I break it every chance I get, and if she happens to catch me, I come up with a good story. But I didn’t think I needed an excuse to go to Dad’s funeral. “I figured you’d say no.”

  She froze for a second, and in that moment her face morphed into something animal. Feral. When she spoke, it was a snarl. “Soon enough saying no won’t be an option. We’re moving to Sea Org in Los Angeles this spring. You’ll live on campus, in youth housing. They won’t put up with your shenanigans.”

  All I know about Sea Org is what I’ve overheard. It’s where high-level Scientologists go to become even higher-level Scientologists. I guess I should’ve paid more attention, asked a few more questions. I should have pretended to care. But one thing’s certain. “I’m not going anywhere. You might be sucked into that bullshit, but you can’t make me.”

  “Bet me.”

  I didn’t see the backhand coming. The prongs of her ring bit into my cheek, leaving four little red cuts to go with the ugly bruise meant to put me in my place. All it did was make me more determined than ever to leave this house behind as soon as I can figure out a way to go without her having me arrested.

  I’m considering my next move now.

  Ariel

  October 9, Six A.M.

  I rouse to a volley

  of flimsy snores.

  My friends are both

  asleep on the floor,

  Monica on the right

  side of my bed; Syrah

  on the left. She wanted

  to drive herself home

  last night. I said no way.

  Friends don’t let friends

  drive loaded to the max.

  Speaking of that, my head

  feels like someone poured

  cement inside it—thick

  and churning. Hope it

  doesn’t set up. My skull’s

  already hammering.

  Why do I drink again?

  Why does anyone

  drink to excess?

  Not the best way

  to start my seventeenth

  year celebration. Hopefully

  the day will improve quickly.

  I Slide Out of Bed

  Quietly, no more than a slight

  creak of the aging wooden frame.

  Tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom,

  noticing the snoring on the far side

  of my dad’s bedroom door is much

  louder than the tremulous snuffling

  on the floor of my own room. He and

  Zelda stumbled in really late last night.

  Neither of them should have driven

  home, but one of them must have.

  Dad’s LeSabre is parked just off the road,

  not quite straight on the dirt shoulder,

  as if trying to maneuver it into the driveway

  was just too damn much to manage.

  If they consumed that much alcohol,

  they should’ve stayed over at Zelda’s

  in town. Dad probably figured I’d be

  having a party, something he needed

  to supervise. I’m glad the actual partying

  part was well behind us when they arrived.

  My girls and I were still awake when

  we heard them come in bickering.

  We quieted for a minute, trying to figure

  out what, exactly, their problem was, but

  Dad shushed Zelda long enough to move

  their dispute to a more private location.

  So we went back to yakking about our

  upcoming varsity girls’ basketball season.

  All three of us are pretty great at the sport,

  though Syrah has to work a lot harder.

  Prior to starting Sonora High, I had no

  clue I had any athletic ability to speak of.

  But when we played in our regular PE

  class last year, I found out I could shoot

  with a high degree of accuracy, and I’m

  quick on the court, too. Somehow word

  got around and Coach Booker asked me

  to try out for the team. When I argued

  that I’d never participated in organized

  sports before, she silenced me. “Talent

  trumps experience, I’ve found. Show me

  what you’ve got.” So I did, and now, here

  I am—starting center. I had to convince />
  Dad to let me join the team. He works

  long days, and we live a fair distance

  from town, so extracurricular activities

  are difficult to accommodate. As for

  basketball, transportation would

  definitely be an issue except I stay after

  school to practice and Syrah chauffeurs

  me home, often with a stop for a burger

  on the way, so there’s less cooking to do.

  I hope Dad will make time to come

  to home games. He claims he’s proud

  of me, but I never see the truth of that

  reflected in his eyes. Words are easy.

  Maybe if he witnesses my ability

  on the court, he’ll recognize how hard

  I’ve worked to rise above mediocrity,

  and reward me with honest respect.

  That Being the Case

  I’d prefer he not realize the reason

  I’m in the bathroom not long past

  daybreak is because I need pain

  relief for the residual effects of too

  much vodka consumed rather quickly.

  I swallow a couple of aspirin, chase

  them with a whole lot of water, pee

  out what I can, and return to my bed.

  This time when I crawl over the foot

  and across the mattress, the groan

  of the frame wakes Monica. Hey,

  she whispers softly. Can I get in bed

  with you? Sleeping on the floor sucks.

  I pull back the covers, invite her

  beneath them. It’s a double bed,

  so there’s plenty of room. Still,

  our feet touch. Who knew toe

  connection could create sparks?

  It scares me, but I don’t move, and

  neither does Monica. Happy birthday,

  novia. Do you feel different this morning?

  We both keep our voices low, so we

  don’t disturb Syrah. “If you mean do

  I feel older, not really. If you mean do I

  feel hungover, damn straight. How

  about you? Do you need some aspirin?”

  I Expect Her

  To admit she needs exactly

  that. Instead, she shakes her head.

  No. Te necesito. I need you.

  She traces the line of my jaw

  with one gentle finger. Now

  I’m terrified. But I stay very still

  and she presses no further.