The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

  Uh, yeah! But I had to think of a way to be in touch without him calling the house. I asked Tati if he could call her and leave me a message. She looked at me as if I’d totally lost it, but agreed anyway.

  Jason took my hand, pulled me off to one side. “Okay if I kiss you?”

  I’ve kissed a boy or five, but none has ever asked if it was okay. That surprised me, and so did the kiss. I expected a soldier’s lips—rough, harsh. But his were gentle, at least at first, and it might have stopped right there, except I wanted more. It was me who moved toward urgency, not that he complained.

  Truthfully, instinct drove me. His lack of demand pushed me forward, as if I had something to prove. And when he responded as men do, or at least as much as they can in a public place, I felt vindicated. More than that, I felt desirable.

  And since I got home, I’ve been carefully considering how Sergeant Jason Baxter might fit into my escape plan.

  Ariel

  I Don’t Get a Car

  For my birthday.

  I do get a couple of cards.

  Monica gives me one

  at dinner. On the front

  it shows two girls holding

  hands, getting ready to go

  down a giant waterslide,

  and it says: FRIENDS DON’T LET

  FRIENDS DO STUPID SHIT ALONE.

  Inside, she wrote: Let’s do

  something stupid together.

  Te amo, Monica.

  Dad follows that up with

  one of his own—a generic

  birthday card decorated with

  pink roses, and too few candles

  to accurately represent the day.

  Inside is a twenty-dollar bill

  and: Roses are pink, money

  is green. I can’t believe my

  little girl is seventeen.

  Happy birthday. Love, Dad.

  PS: Don’t spend it all in one place.

  Dad’s Lame Attempt

  At humor is not amusing.

  Twenty bucks wouldn’t buy

  a movie with popcorn and Skittles.

  I suppose I have to give him credit

  for treating Monica and me to

  a post-dinner flick, no popcorn

  or Skittles included, unless I want

  to spend the twenty. That’s cool.

  Syrah comped our dinner, with

  sundaes for dessert. Mine had

  a candle, and there was singing.

  So I’m full as we walk into the theater,

  which is pretty busy. Not surprising

  considering it’s Saturday night. What

  is surprising is Dad doesn’t go in.

  You girls have fun, he says. I’m going

  out for a couple of beers with Zelda.

  I’ll pick you up after the show.

  Excellent! He’s not mad at Zelda

  after all. “You have your phone,

  right? In case I need to remind you.”

  Aw, come on. I only forgot you one

  or two times. More like a dozen

  over the years, but why argue?

  I Pick a Horror Flick

  About a girl who gets called to babysit

  for strangers, clueless that the adorable

  little boy’s in serious need of an exorcism.

  Of course the house is at the end of a road

  in an unpopulated area, surrounded by

  dark, scary woods, and when she finally

  finds enough sense to run, she discovers

  the giant creepster trees could use the help

  of a good priest, too. It’s one of those movies

  where you’re expecting stuff to happen, but

  when it does it makes you jump anyway.

  We sit way in the back, with no one behind

  to bother us, and during a particularly tense

  scene, Monica snakes her fingers into mine,

  pulls my hand against the taut muscles

  of her belly. Beneath her shirt, her body

  is warm, and the connection is comforting,

  and this feels so right it makes me sigh

  contentment. At the sound, she unknots

  our fingers, allowing hers to softly explore

  the skin on the back of my hand. Back

  and forth they travel, inviting mine to

  reciprocate. And just as I do, the kid on

  screen grabs hold of his babysitter’s foot

  and starts to drag her backward toward

  the leering house and our hands fly up

  in response, and after we scream

  we both bust up at our over-the-top

  reaction. I believe that’s what people call

  a mood breaker, and I’m fine with it

  because I’ve got no idea what to do with

  what just happened between us. Every

  small movement was saturated with

  importance. But what does that mean?

  Another question looms even larger.

  Where, oh where, do we go from here?

  To Start With

  We go home.

  Dad’s even out front

  close to on time, no

  reminder necessary.

  It surprises me,

  but what doesn’t is

  the smell inside the car,

  which just about knocks me

  over. Amazing

  how much beer he

  must’ve consumed

  in the last couple of hours.

  He looks a little

  unsteady, and Monica

  seems unsure, so I offer,

  “Hey, Dad. Want me to drive?”

  Hells to the no.

  If you messed up

  and your friend got

  hurt, I’d be held liable.

  Flawed logic.

  Just who’d be held

  liable if he messed up

  while driving a little tipsy?

  Tipsy or not,

  he’s not changing

  his mind, so I sit in back,

  wishing Monica and I could

  hold hands

  or maybe attempt

  something more. Now I

  wonder if she’s ever tried

  something more,

  and if so, with whom.

  We’ve never discussed it,

  for whatever reasons, but since

  I’ve lived here,

  she hasn’t been with

  anyone else, at least not

  that I’m aware of. I do know

  she’s not out to

  her family. No, she said

  when I asked. Mis padres

  wouldn’t understand, or accept.

  Yet she accepts

  herself just as she is,

  doesn’t try to hide from

  the truth of who she is inside.

  I Want to Be

  That sure of the truth of me.

  I feel like I’m teetering

  on the edge

  of semi-certainty,

  which is pretty

  much meaningless.

  But I’ve got lots of time

  to figure it out, so for now

  I’ll resign myself

  to enjoying the research.

  When Dad pulls up in front

  of Monica’s house,

  I jump out to claim shotgun.

  Totally aware of spying

  eyes nearby, Monica and I

  exchange an awkward good-bye.

  “Thanks for the card.”

  I wink. “Let’s do something

  stupid together soon.”

  Monica smiles. How stupid

  can we get? You better think

  about that. Happy birthday,

  novia. She turns and motors

  on up the walk, calling over

  her shoulder, See you mañana.

  In the Car

  Dad’s singing along

  with Garth Brooks.

&nb
sp; His voice carries a hint

  of the twang that has almost

  disappeared with time

  and distance from his home state.

  When he starts a slow cruise,

  I ask, “Do you ever miss Oklahoma?”

  He keeps humming

  for a second or two, but

  finally answers, Not much.

  I left a lot of bad behind

  there. Nothing in Oklahoma

  but pain and worry, and that

  includes your grandparents.

  Boom. He never talks

  about Pops and Ma-maw—

  that’s what they insisted

  I call them. “Do you ever hear

  from them?” I’m not aware

  of any communication.

  His hands tense

  on the steering wheel,

  and his jaw juts forward.

  Every once in a while.

  Look, Air, there’s no love

  lost between them and me.

  Not sure that’s true.

  Ma-maw griped about Dad,

  but affectionately, at least

  from what I can remember.

  It’s been a long while

  since I’ve seen her.

  “What about . . .”

  I don’t know if I’m allowed

  to ask. Ah, why not?

  “What about your brother?

  I mean, don’t you want

  to stay in touch

  with any of your family?”

  You’re my family, Air.

  Besides . . . He trails off,

  then continues. Okay,

  I never told you this because

  it didn’t seem important

  for you to know, but Drew

  was killed in the line of duty

  a few years ago. He was a damn

  good cop, but he messed up

  bad that day. Never assume

  someone with their hands in the air

  isn’t concealing a weapon.

  Uncle Drew

  I can scarcely picture him, and what

  surrounds the memory is the smell

  of tobacco on his fingers when he held me.

  “Of course it was important for me

  to know, Dad! You and I have always

  been so isolated. So insulated.

  And you’re the one who kept us

  that way. I’d like to think I have family

  outside of just the two of us.”

  Family is a recipe for heartbreak,

  Ariel. A recipe for heartbreak,

  he repeats, louder, for emphasis.

  We’re almost home before I finally

  find the courage to ask the question

  that prickles on every birthday.

  “Do you suppose my mother’s missing

  me today? Not that I really care, but

  do you think she wonders about me?”

  I expect his usual barrage of expletives.

  Instead, he sits quietly for several

  long seconds. Finally, he sighs heavily.

  You know, sometimes I ponder

  that. When you first came along,

  Jenny seemed like such a good mama.

  My Jaw Drops

  I

  am

  blown

  away.

  I can’t remember

  him saying one

  nice thing about her.

  He hardly ever even

  mentions her name.

  “Really?”

  I hope I didn’t sound

  too eager. But I know

  nothing about my babyhood.

  It’s not something he discusses,

  and he doesn’t have

  a single picture of me

  before the age of three.

  Yeah. Jesus, did she

  have me fooled! You know,

  I’ve been with a lot of women

  in my time. Enjoyed the company

  of ladies near and far.

  But Jenny was the only one

  I ever let myself love.

  I’ll never make that mistake again.

  The Confession

  Materializes from inner

  space, so unrecognizable

  it’s totally alien.

  And yet it makes Dad human.

  “You were in love with my mother.”

  The simple declarative sentence

  pushes Dad over the edge.

  Goddamn straight. Why

  does that surprise you?

  “I don’t know. I just never

  heard you say so before.”

  I had to pretend she meant

  nothing, or lose my mind.

  She used me. Played me.

  But even if I could’ve gotten

  past that, I’ll never forgive

  her for screwing you over.

  Not one goddamn word in all

  these years! Too damn busy playing

  bushwhacker with her girlfriend.

  Bushwhacker?

  No comment. But now I have

  to hear the story again.

  I pretend to listen, catching

  snatches (ooh, bad word in

  context here) of his recitation:

  . . . from deployment, no one

  there to greet me.

  . . . got home and Jenny

  says she’s moving out.

  . . . in with her girlfriend. Girl.

  Friend. She left me—and you—

  for a goddamn dyke!

  . . . out the door, not so much as

  a good-bye kiss for her baby girl.

  Wish I’d have seen it coming.

  How could a mama do such

  a vile thing to her child?

  I’ve asked myself that very

  question many, many times,

  invariably after Dad repeats

  the tale. Usually, he’s two sheets

  into the wind, and today he’s

  at least a sheet-and-a-half-way

  there. How can he drive like this?

  It’s Nothing New

  Of course, and for the most part

  we’ve been lucky. I mean, considering

  the miles we’ve traveled, oftentimes

  with him drinking either before we got

  into the car or even after we were on

  our way, most of his beer-fueled faux

  pas were relatively minor. There was

  one time I can barely remember. I couldn’t

  have been older than three. It wasn’t

  long after we first started road tripping.

  Dad let me sit up front, where I was, for

  sure, not safe, despite the fact that his car

  was too old to have air bags. Luckily,

  it was equipped with seat belts. Thankfully,

  I was wearing mine when he swerved

  to miss something in the road, overcorrected,

  and skidded off the highway, rolling us

  down a muddy bank. We landed on the tires,

  and Dad was drunk enough to start laughing,

  even though he’d broken bones in one arm

  and one leg. Except for peeing my panties,

  I was totally fine. But we weren’t going

  anywhere, not in that wreck. Which is

  how we came to live with Leona, who

  witnessed the entire incident and stopped

  to ascertain the extent of our injuries.

  Funny, but I can see her face peering

  into my window as clear as water, and

  I can make out her razor-voiced words.

  Everyone okay in there? I’m a nurse.

  The details blur after that, but Leona

  helped us out of the car, noting Dad’s

  extremities. You stay right here. Don’t try

  to get up. I’ll go call for an ambulance.

  Ah, no, we don’t need that, insisted

  Dad. Give me an ACE Bandage
, I’m good.

  Mister, you’ve got a couple of hellacious

  fractures. ACE Bandages won’t fix those.

  But don’t you worry. We’re a long way

  from town. It will take them at least

  an hour to get here. You should be

  sobered up by then. You ought to know

  better than to take a chance hurting

  your beautiful daughter. I’ll be right back.

  Dad wanted to protest, but he couldn’t

  stand on his leg, let alone climb back up

  the embankment. I remember hating

  the way I felt, wearing pee-stinking

  clothes. But when Leona returned,

  she confirmed the ambulance was on

  its way before locating clean undies and

  pants in the car, and helping me into them.

  By the time the EMTs came scrambling

  down to the rescue, Dad had realized

  he’d be staying in the hospital for

  a few days. What about my little girl?

  I don’t know why, but Leona volunteered,

  If you can trust me, I’ll take her home.

  Everyone at the hospital knows who I am.

  These guys right here can vouch for me.

  They Could and They Did

  Besides, Dad didn’t really have much

  of a choice, so he said why not. Leona

  was nice—she even took a couple

  of days off work so she could care

  for me—but I cried and cried,

  terrified I’d never see my daddy again.

  I clung to him and begged to stay

  right there in the hospital. Promised

  I’d be very good. I’d already lost

  my mommy. What would happen

  if Daddy didn’t come back? Leona pulled

  me into her lap, stroked my hair, soothed

  my fears with the motherly touch

  I must’ve been missing. After enough

  time absorbing Leona’s kind attention,

  I said okay, she could take me with her.

  Mid-hysteria, something meaningful

  must’ve passed between Dad and her,

  something a little girl wouldn’t realize,

  because after surgery to repair

  his damaged limbs and a couple days

  recovering in the hospital, Dad joined

  me at Leona’s place, which is a bare-bones

  sketch in my memory. It was small, but

  I got my own bed, and I remember

  the sheets smelled sweet citrusy,

  like Ma-maw’s lemon meringue pie.

  There were trees outside the window