The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

  hoping Dad doesn’t

  notice and take it

  the wrong way.

  Which would be

  the correct way.

  But he’s too busy

  sloppy kissing Zelda

  to notice anyway.

  Let’s blow this joint! orders

  Syrah, and Monica reluctantly

  lets go. Zelda, on the other hand,

  seems happy enough to disconnect.

  Trouble in paradise?

  I hope not. Even though

  she’s only been tethered

  to Dad for a few short

  months, she’s an anchor,

  holding us in place here.

  Just to be safe, I offer again,

  “Dad, if you want to take

  Zelda home and watch

  the game, I’m good with

  it. We can do a movie

  and dinner in town later.”

  He thinks it over, but finally

  says, Nah. I’d have to come

  back out and pick you up.

  I’ve got a better idea. You girls

  go ahead. We’ll talk about

  dinner and give you a time.

  Once the Others Leave

  Dad tells me to get dressed,

  we’re going for a drive, and as

  I don a pair of loose-fitting jeans

  and my favorite camouflage tee,

  I can’t help but think about Zelda’s

  comment. Could Dad be taking

  us shopping for a used car?

  Because that would make this

  birthday just about perfect.

  A car that belongs to me.

  How awesome would that be?

  Not because of some grand

  desire to hit the road and explore

  the country. I’ve already done

  that, and so if I inherited Dad’s

  wanderlust, it’s already been

  satisfied. But just the ability

  to drive myself to school, or

  home after practice, without

  asking for help or permission.

  That, to me, defines freedom.

  Not just the independence part,

  but also the ability to decide

  it’s time to go and find my own way

  home.

  I’ve Been Old Enough

  To get my license

  for a year now.

  Everybody I know

  already has one.

  That includes Monica,

  though she rarely

  gets to use it because

  she doesn’t own a car.

  That’s been Dad’s

  excuse, too.

  No vehicle to drive,

  why bother with

  all that paperwork?

  But I’m pretty sure

  Dad wants to control

  how I come and go

  so he can inform

  my every decision.

  To be honest,

  I used to think

  that was okay.

  I believed I needed

  a decent keeper,

  that independence

  was too much

  responsibility.

  It was easy,

  being told what to do.

  But now that I’ve had

  a taste of free will,

  my appetite

  for self-discovery

  is growing.

  I’ll never figure out

  who I am and what

  I want from life

  if I keep relying

  on Dad’s input.

  Time to leap

  from the nest,

  experience flight,

  even if it means

  a crash landing or two.

  I don’t say anything

  like that to Dad, of course.

  He enjoys his role

  as overseer.

  But maybe,

  if I’ve played my cards

  perfectly, he’ll loosen

  the reins and let me try

  to find my flight path.

  But as It Turns Out

  That’s not exactly what Dad’s got

  in mind. In fact, it’s not even close.

  He grabs a six-pack of Budweiser

  from the fridge, tells me to get

  behind the wheel of his LeSabre.

  You drive. You can use the practice.

  That has me going for a few, but

  now he tells me to turn up country

  rather than toward town. “Where’re we

  going?” I ask, still hoping he’ll tell me

  to look at a car. Instead, he says,

  We haven’t taken a nice long ride

  in a while, and I’ve been wanting

  to check out this place called Indigeny

  Reserve. It’s apple season, you know.

  Plus I’ve got a hankering for cider.

  Well, at least he’s letting me drive.

  Once in a while when I was little,

  he used to sit me on his lap and have

  me steer while he worked the pedals.

  Then later, when my legs grew long

  enough to reach the gas and brake,

  on way-out-of-the-way roads, usually

  dirt, he’d let me handle it all. So I mostly

  know what I’m doing. “When can I get

  my license?” I nudge. “I can pass the test.”

  Yes, I know. You just need my signature

  on the application. You’ve been saying

  the same thing for months. But since

  you don’t happen to own a car—

  “But Zelda said . . .” I realize suddenly

  maybe I should’ve kept quiet about it.

  Zelda said what? Open-container

  laws be damned, he pops a beer.

  Too late to turn back. “Oh, kind of in

  passing she mentioned you’ve been

  looking at used cars. Guess I assumed—

  or hoped, really—it was for me.”

  He splashes into a big pond of anger,

  comes up stuttering. Bigmouthed bitch.

  Damn, Damn, Damn

  I’ve done it now. Last thing

  I wanted to do was get him

  angry at Zelda. “Don’t be mad,

  Dad. She’s just excited for me.

  If she was wrong about your

  intentions, it’s no big deal.”

  He slurps his beer, reels

  himself in. Look, Air, I’d like to

  get you a car, but I haven’t been

  able to find an affordable vehicle

  worthy of the investment. I can

  do the labor if something goes

  wrong, but parts are expensive,

  plus there’s insurance and gas.

  Way to explode my zeppelin,

  Dad. But, hey, here’s an idea.

  “What if I get a job?” I expect

  him to embrace the concept,

  but his immediate reaction is,

  No frigging way. Not on my watch.

  If I can’t pay for it, you don’t need it.

  Pride? I don’t think so. But if

  not that, what then? “Lots of kids

  get jobs, Dad. In fact, lots of parents

  require their offspring to prove

  how responsible they actually are.”

  Except for a Slurp

  Of his beer, he’s quiet for a good

  half mile. Okay, it’s more like three

  or four slurps, before he finally says,

  I’ve failed you in so many ways,

  little girl. I simply can’t let you work

  when I’m responsible for your needs.

  “But, Dad, you said it’s important

  for women to make their own way

  in the world and not rely on a man.”

  He thinks that over for a second.

  I don’t believe I’ve e
ver said that, and

  definitely not when it comes to you.

  An uneasy silence bloats the space

  between us. I heard him say those precise

  words before, and now I search my memory

  vault to dig up exactly when. I’ve got it.

  We were staying with Cecilia, one

  of several women Dad hooked up with

  along the way during our nomadic days.

  That was a pattern. Touch down

  somewhere he felt like hanging

  around, he’d pick up a woman hungry

  for a man and willing to put up with

  his kid. Dad was all charm, and the world

  offered up plenty of lonely ladies.

  Talking them into putting us up for a while

  was something he accomplished easily.

  When I was really young, I totally

  thought he was seeking a replacement

  mom for me, but as I got older, I came

  to realize the relationships were never

  meant to become permanent. Rather,

  they allowed us periods of home-cooked

  meals, regular showers, and a temporary

  address that accommodated school.

  Oh, not to mention fairly frequent sex

  for Dad, who happily accepted all benefits

  as long as they didn’t require monetary

  compensation. Once in a while he took

  part-time work, but that was rare, and as

  far as I know, he contributed very little

  of his paychecks to our upkeep.

  Things were no different at Cecilia’s, where

  we’d stayed for a couple of months. I guess

  I was twelve because I got to ride the bus

  to school for a whole sixth-grade semester.

  Maybe if Cecilia had just accepted Dad

  being a lazy ass, we would’ve stayed longer.

  She’d recently lost her job, and while

  unemployment might have been enough

  to provide for a single woman, it stretched

  awfully thin for two hard-drinking adults

  and one kid—even one who ate like a bird.

  I’m not sure about Dad’s criteria when it

  came to working or not, but at Cecilia’s

  he heaped one excuse on top of another

  for not finding a job. Finally, she decided

  enough was enough, and as was often

  the case, everything came to a head

  after a night out at a local tavern.

  They’d left me alone and I was asleep

  when they bungled in, already immersed

  in a heated argument loud enough to yank

  me out of an indigo ocean of dreams.

  . . . do you think you are, you goddamn

  leech? I’m sick of buying your beer.

  Come on, pretty baby, Dad soothed.

  You know you never had it so good.

  Besides, you want to be independent.

  It’s not good for a woman to rely

  on a man. Independence! That’s what

  you want. Celebrate your freedom.

  She Celebrated

  By kicking us out

  a few weeks later.

  When it became clear

  that’s where things

  were headed, I begged

  her for enough time

  to finish the school year.

  Kindly, she agreed,

  but tension hung like

  a static curtain in that

  little house. Summer

  was heating up, and

  along with it tempers,

  and I was very glad

  the day Dad and I piled

  into his car and took off.

  We spent June and July

  mostly camping out,

  and by the time school

  started in the fall,

  we’d shifted states again,

  from Idaho to Oregon.

  I celebrated my thirteenth

  birthday in a Corvallis trailer

  park, with a whole new woman

  attached to Dad’s hip.

  Maya

  School blows, man. The first quarter is almost over and I shudder to think what my report card will look like, though Mom probably won’t even ask to see it. She’s so blinded by her “church” work she barely remembers I’m here. Bad for her. Good for me, except when she tries to draw me into that insanity. All I’ve got to say about that is hell no, at least behind her back.

  Mom got lured into Scientology by one of the women she works with at the credit union. Bethany convinced Mom that L. Ron Hubbard’s brand of pseudoscience could fix her “ruin,” which at the time was marriage to an uncommunicative husband. Of course, Mom never mentioned that the reason Dad didn’t talk much was because she never shut up long enough to give him the chance. Just bitch, bitch, bitch. I learned to tune her out around kindergarten.

  Dad chose gin as his way to cope, and as he relied more and more on that habit, Mom retreated further and further into the belly of her cult, and that is exactly what Scientology is. She paid for their books. Paid for their courses and seminars. Moved from member to counselor to auditor and hopes to climb even higher in the organization. Whatever turns her on.

  Personally, the whole thing turns me off. I was ten when she first fell prey to the hype, but Dad managed to buffer me for two years, and I listened to his warnings about the bizarre nature of the “not-religion,” as he called it. “They say they want to clear you of negative thoughts and events,” he told me. “But all they do is baffle you with their bullshit and keep banking your money.”

  After Dad left, Mom coerced me into a couple of auditing sessions, where strangers tried to erase a few of my personal negatives by asking questions designed to induce guilt in children. The first was, “Do you have a secret?”

  What kid doesn’t? I already knew that saying no wouldn’t cut it, but I also realized whatever I said would probably get back to my mom. So I answered, “I said a bad word.” When pressed, I admitted that word was “damn.” At twelve, I’d been practicing cussing for a while, and “damn” was not the worst of it, but that was all I was copping to.

  The guy made me tell him where I said it (school), when I said it (at lunch), to whom I said it (a girl who bullied me). He was older, and tufts of gray hair poked out of his ears, so when he insisted I repeat the story, I wondered if he had trouble hearing. But when he asked me to tell it yet again, he wanted me to add stuff—what did I have for lunch that day, who was with the girl, what were the two of them wearing? Each detail was supposed to lighten the burden of carrying the memory around. Maybe it did. Who knows?

  But, as I suspected, Mom scrubbed my mouth with soap on a nail brush. I guess it could’ve been worse, which is why I chose that secret to share. The one about letting our next-door teenage neighbor touch my boobs for a dollar? Yeah, not so much. I quit going anywhere near Mom’s “church” after I was stupid enough to admit shoplifting a pack of gum. Details. Juicy Fruit. The guy in line ahead of me was a large man, easily big enough to hide me from the cashier while I stuffed the gum in the front of my pants. Jeans.

  When Mom found out, I couldn’t wear jeans for days. They irritated the welts. So now, when she’s busy training or auditing or whatever she’s doing, I use the unsupervised time to enjoy things I’ll never confess to her or her minions. Especially not in Los Angeles. Uh-uh. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve done a little research. Lots of horror stories out there about freaking Sea Org. It swallows people whole, and those who somehow find their way out are stalked. Harassed. Billed beaucoup dollars for supposed training. No sir, not me. I’m still working on a solid getaway scheme.

  Today Tati and I headed downtown to see if we could scare up a good time. One of the bars had put together an unofficial Oktoberfest. Beer and barbecued sausages. Now that’s my idea of fun, especially when someone else is buying.

&nb
sp; Technically we weren’t allowed to drink, of course. We have fake IDs, thanks to Tati’s big brother, who’s got connections, but we’re kind of scared to use them. But luck was with us, because we hooked up with a couple of soldiers from Fort Hood. They were sitting at a table outside, sucking suds and half listening to the National League Championship baseball game onscreen inside.

  “Who’s winning?” I asked as we approached.

  “Atlanta. Fuckers.”

  “Hey, now,” said the other guy. “That’s no way to talk to a lady. Sorry, girls. Robin’s a little pissed at the Braves.”

  Robin. Weird name for an overbuilt hulk with a dark buzz cut and an iron jaw.

  “Houston was in over their heads,” I said, showing off just a little. “Atlanta was bound to beat ’em.”

  Mr. Polite checked me out. “You like baseball?”

  “Yeah. Football, too. Hockey, not so much.”

  Sergeant Jason Baxter laughed and introduced himself. “Sit down, if you want.” He turned his full attention to me, while Robin homed in on Tati.

  “Buy us a beer?” I asked boldly.

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  I flashed my bogus ID. “Old enough.”

  He rolled his eyes, but laughed again and went inside, returning with two frosty mugs of foamy brew. “So tell me how come you like sports. Most sports,” he corrected.

  We drank and talked for a couple of hours, exchanging information cautiously. I talked about Dad, and recently losing him, avoiding much mention of Mom. He talked about himself, mostly.

  Jason’s twenty-seven, and a Texas boy through and through. Tati thought I was crazy for picking a guy so much older than me, but I liked his manners and the way he made me feel like the prettiest girl in the whole place.

  “But he’s shorter than you,” Tati said.

  “Who isn’t?” I replied.

  “Plus, he’s got crazy eyes.”

  I have to admit that’s true. They’re the color of gunmetal, and ghosts live inside them. Haunted, that’s what they are, and I guess he might be, too. Not like I knew him well enough to ask. Anyway, he was fun to spend time with. Good-looking, and charming, too. And, while Robin got aggressive after several beers, Jason remained polite.

  In fact, at one point Tati was pushing Robin’s hands away and Jason stepped in. “Ain’t no fun if the lady’s not into it, you know?”

  Robin thought about making trouble, reconsidered, and stomped off. Tati was upset and wanted to leave. I thanked Jason for a nice day, and for reeling in his friend. “Only what’s right,” he said. “A man’s gotta do what’s right. Any chance you’d want to see me again? I have most weekends off and the base is only an hour away.”