The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

  she so bluntly requests, managing

  to land a three-pointer, not that those

  count in practice. “How’s that

  for an apology?” I shout back.

  But I’m so busy being a smart-ass

  that I don’t notice Syrah right in

  front of me. I crash into her at

  decent speed and we both hit

  the floor. Jesus freaking Buddha!

  Syrah screeches, using the Spanish

  Hey-suess pronunciation. That

  makes everyone laugh, including

  Syrah and me, despite what

  I’m sure will become awesome

  bruises on both our rear ends.

  Monica Sprints Over

  Holds out her hands,

  offering to help me

  up from the floor.

  When they connect

  with mine, the subsequent

  electric arcs almost make

  me pull away. Instead,

  I let her tug me to my feet.

  That had to hurt,

  she says. You should

  pay better attention.

  I’ve got plans for you later.

  Her words are sinking in,

  seeking meaning, when

  Syrah, who’s still splayed

  on the court, complains,

  Hey, what about me?

  Sorry, I got no plans for you,

  jokes Monica, letting go

  of my hands so she can pull

  Syrah off the hardwood, too.

  Coach Booker tells us to hit

  the locker room, and as I

  limp from the gym, I try

  not to think too much about

  what Monica’s got in mind.

  I Also Do My Damn Best

  Not to gawk at her

  in the shower, hot

  water coursing through

  her waist-length dark

  hair and down

  over her suede skin.

  She wouldn’t care,

  of course. But, while

  most of the girls must

  suspect the gravitational

  pull between Monica

  and me, I’d rather keep

  them guessing, at least

  until I’ve eliminated

  all personal doubt.

  The temptation to stare

  has become harder and

  harder, however, and now

  she turns to face me,

  a soft soap lather barely

  disguising the sinews

  of her breasts and

  black curls beneath

  her belly button, and

  I have to close my eyes,

  pretending shampoo

  is what I’m worried about

  getting inside them.

  Something Shifts

  Inside me,

  something elemental,

  as if

  the earth

  has tilted,

  barely perceptibly,

  on its axis,

  bringing it right again.

  Don’t know what this

  means, but the motion

  tips me

  slightly

  off-kilter.

  I inhale boldly,

  exhale slowly, then,

  just as I regain balance

  she brushes by and

  the cartwheeling inside

  is like

  dropping

  from a high dive.

  Thrilling. Electrifying.

  Borderline terrifying.

  Not sure

  I’ll ever be

  vertical again.

  The Whole Time

  We get dressed, I keep my eyes

  turned away from her. I don’t want

  to tumble off that cliff again, despite

  enjoying the strange, precipitous fall.

  Clean panties and bra on, I take

  a few seconds to brush through

  my tangled hair before buttoning

  into an oversize plaid flannel shirt.

  I manage to catch a glimpse of Syrah,

  sliding into her jeans. “Whoa. Tell me

  my butt doesn’t look like that! Yours

  looks like grape jelly. The color, that is.”

  She snorts. Thanks for clarifying.

  Anyway, whose fault is that? She shuts

  her locker. I’ll meet you guys outside.

  Most of the other girls have gone,

  and the couple remaining are not close

  by, something Monica notes before coming

  over. Turn around. Let me see. When I do,

  her hand slithers down my thigh. Feo.

  “Hey. Who’re you calling ugly?” I force

  my voice light, hoping she doesn’t notice

  the way I’m trembling at her touch.

  But when I turn to face her, her smile

  tells me she’s seen it. Now I’m staring

  at her lips, and it’s all I can do not

  to kiss them. No. Not here. This is

  not the time. This is not the place.

  I clear my throat. “Syrah’s waiting.

  We’d better go or we’ll lose our ride.”

  She nods, but is reluctant to move,

  and I dare to whisper, “Later.”

  Her eyes widen, and her smile

  deepens. Sí, novia. Más tarde.

  At the far end of the row, Darla

  slams her locker door shut,

  a reminder that we’ve almost

  completely blown our cover.

  Monica goes to put on her shoes

  and I finish dressing, too.

  I believe I just gave her a promise,

  wrapped in a single five-letter

  word. I hope it’s not more

  than I’m truly willing to deliver.

  On Our Way

  To the parking lot, we walk

  so close to each other

  her jeans whisper

  against mine, promising

  much more to come

  más tarde.

  The obvious energy

  exchange makes me dizzy

  with anticipation.

  I’m so focused

  on imagining what that

  might mean I barely notice

  the knot of people

  standing on the sidewalk.

  As we start past them

  Garrett steps in front

  of us, blocking our path.

  Why don’t you girls

  give us a little show?

  I’ve always wanted

  to watch lezzie action

  up close and personal.

  Cállate, idiota, responds

  Monica. Shut up, idiot.

  And move the hell out

  of our way.

  Or what, bitch? He draws

  himself tall and wide

  and puffs out his chest.

  Most of the group shrinks

  back against the wall,

  but Keith moves into place

  at Garrett’s right elbow.

  “What’s the problem, Garrett?

  We weren’t bothering you.”

  I pretend courage

  I’m really not feeling.

  The problem is I don’t like

  gays. It ain’t natural.

  Besides . . . He dares to run

  his hand down over my left

  breast. It’s a waste of pussy.

  Monica steps in between

  Garrett and me. Don’t you

  touch her. And what would

  you know about pussy?

  I’ve never seen you with

  a girl. Only with your friend

  there. She points to Keith.

  The Other Kids Laugh

  At the implication.

  Keith hurls an expletive.

  Garrett’s face ignites

  and he starts to lift

  his right hand, but


  thinks better of striking

  a girl—lesbian or not—

  in front of so many people.

  Monica stays in place,

  as if willing to jump

  one-on-one with this

  arrogant prick, but

  I won’t let it go that far.

  “Come on. Syrah’s waiting.

  Sorry, Garrett, no show

  for you. You’ll have to do

  what you always do and

  find it on pay-per-view.”

  I steer Monica around

  Garrett and Keith, off

  the sidewalk, and into

  the parking lot. “What

  were you thinking?

  He could have hurt you.”

  No estaba pensando.

  I wasn’t thinking. I just

  wanted to protect you.

  I Don’t Care Who’s Looking

  I reach for her hand, weave

  my fingers into hers as we head

  toward Syrah’s car. “That was

  dumb. But thank you.”

  What’s his problem, anyway?

  I shrug. “Maybe you got it

  right. They say the biggest

  homophobes are often

  closet queers.”

  Who says that?

  “I don’t know. I just read it

  somewhere. You take shotgun.”

  I let go of her hand, slide into

  the backseat where I can think.

  While Monica explains to Syrah

  what happened with Garrett,

  I consider the homophobe theory,

  which can’t apply to all of them,

  or my dad would be totally gay.

  Pretty sure he’s not, but wouldn’t

  that be crazy? What if my queer

  gene came from his side of the family?

  When We Get to My House

  There’s a strange car in the driveway.

  What’s even weirder, Dad isn’t home,

  and I don’t see anyone around. “Do

  you guys think there’s someone inside?”

  I don’t know, says Monica. You and

  your dad lock your doors, don’t you?

  “Yeah. Dad’s all paranoid about it,

  in fact. Kind of obsessive compulsive.”

  Syrah jumps out. One way to know.

  Come on. There’s safety in numbers.

  We circle the house, looking for any

  sign of a break-in, but the windows

  are intact, both doors still locked, and

  we find no hint of possible covert entry,

  so I use my key and one by one, we cross

  the threshold to take a look inside. The house

  is empty. Let’s check out the car, Monica

  suggests. Hope there’s no dead bodies inside.

  That’s dumb, says Syrah. Who leaves

  corpses in some stranger’s driveway?

  We Don’t Find Corpses

  But on the front seat

  of the candy-red Ford

  Focus is an envelope,

  and it’s addressed to me.

  Inside is a thank-you

  card, and a note which

  reads:

  DEAR ARIEL,

  I REALLY CAN’T THANK YOU

  ENOUGH FOR WHAT YOU DID

  FOR HILLARY. PLEASE ACCEPT

  THIS GENTLY USED TOKEN

  OF MY THANKS. I’VE TAKEN

  THE LIBERTY OF REGISTERING

  THE CAR IN YOUR NAME AND

  PAID UP THE INSURANCE FOR

  SIX MONTHS. ENJOY!

  CHARLES GRANTHAM

  P.S. I TOLD THEM YOU WERE

  MY NIECE, SO PLEASE LET’S KEEP

  THAT OUR SECRET. ALSO, TO BE

  HONEST, THIS WAS HILLARY’S

  CAR. SHE’S GETTING A NEW ONE.

  IT WAS HER IDEA TO GIVE THIS

  TO YOU.

  No Freaking Way!

  Hillary Grantham’s given me

  her car? This has got to be

  some kind of joke. The girls

  and I exchange incredulous

  looks. “This can’t be real, can it?”

  Sure looks real to me,

  comments Syrah. And

  “gently used” is right.

  The odometer only has

  38,000 miles. She opens

  the glove box and pulls

  out the owner’s manual.

  It’s a 2012. Hillary must’ve

  only driven it to school.

  “I don’t think I can keep

  it. It’s way too extravagant.

  Besides, I didn’t do anything

  to earn it. Not really.” Even

  if I did, what’ll Dad say?

  What? You saved Hillary’s

  life. Do you want to hurt

  her feelings? Anyway, you

  gotta keep it. He put it in

  your name and everything,

  so it’s already yours.

  Every Argument

  I can think of gets shot down:

  “I still don’t have my license.”

  So get one. All you have

  to do is pass the driving

  test. You know how.

  “Dad’ll have to sign for it.

  (Which means he’ll have to

  approve this whole thing.)”

  Talk him into it. How can

  he say no? He won’t have

  to take you places.

  “Even with the insurance

  paid, I’ll have to come up

  with money for gas.”

  Do what everyone does.

  Go out and find a job.

  “Dad doesn’t want me

  to work. He insists he’s

  responsible for my needs.”

  Point out if you’re earning

  your spending cash, he’ll

  have more of his own money

  to spend on booze. Or maybe

  say Zelda instead. No need

  to underline the obvious.

  Excellent Point

  Not that I’m sure it—any of it—

  will work. But, hey, what have

  I got to lose, and I already know

  where I can apply for a job I’d like.

  Syrah hatches a more imminent

  plan. Let’s take her for a spin.

  The keys are in the ignition.

  You might as well get used to her.

  “You think we should? What if

  we get caught?” We most definitely

  shouldn’t, of course. But I really,

  really want to. I still can’t believe it.

  No cops out here, insists Monica.

  Anyway, don’t drive like an ass.

  They can’t tell if you got a license

  just by looking at you, can they?

  Another excellent point.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” The girls argue

  over shotgun, and eventually

  reach a compromise. Syrah

  will claim it first, then switch,

  with Monica on the inbound.

  It takes a few minutes to orient

  to the strange vehicle, figure out

  important stuff like how to turn

  on the heater, not to mention

  the radio. I let Syrah take charge

  of choosing the station. It’s late

  afternoon, and the November

  light has faded into an auburn

  sky, so we’ll be doing this with

  headlights on. Luckily, they work

  fine. In fact, everything seems

  to be working fine. The engine

  turns over easily, hums like

  a beehive, and while the Focus

  isn’t exactly a performance car,

  it’s got plenty of pep when I hit

  the gas pedal. Speaking of gas,

  “Check it out. The tank is full.”

  Which leads to bickering. Syrah take
s

  the lead. We could go all the way to Sac.

  Don’t be stupid. Two hours each way?

  That’s too far. Her dad will be home.

  He never gets home before midnight

  on Friday. In fact, that’s early for him.

  How do you know? You’re not there every

  Friday. Him and Zelda could get in a fight.

  The Suggestion

  Makes me pull over onto

  the shoulder. “Okay. Change

  seats. Let’s go back. I feel like

  a criminal. Besides, I’m getting

  hungry, aren’t you?”

  You crack me up, says Syrah,

  exiting the front. You underage

  drink, you smoke weed and inhale,

  but driving without a license

  makes you a criminal? Whatever.

  Monica settles in and as we

  turn toward home, she says,

  Hey. How come you got the car?

  What about your boyfriend?

  Did he get one, too?

  “Will you please stop

  calling Gabe my boyfriend?

  I have no idea why I got the car,

  or if he got one, too. Are you

  in a different time zone?

  We found out about this

  together, remember?”

  Her fingers tiptoe across the seat,

  to my knee and up my leg, then

  come to rest on the inner thigh

  curve. I’m glad he’s not your

  boyfriend. He’s so not your type.

  I Won’t Argue That

  Not with our current connection.

  I don’t want to quarrel, don’t want

  to feel confused, and at this moment

  I’m totally sure that Monica is my type,

  so I’m relieved to see the only vehicle

  parked in our driveway belongs to Syrah.

  Monica was right. When Dad and Zelda

  do fight, his early return can upset

  our plans. I’m glad tonight doesn’t

  seem to be one of those times. Of course,

  it’s early. “You coming in, Syrah? Afraid

  we’re stuck with frozen pizza rolls.”

  Yech. No thanks. Anyway, I promised

  Dad I’d babysit the twins so he and

  Marla can go out for their anniversary.

  That both relieves me and makes

  me a little queasy with anticipation

  about alone time with Monica.

  We grab our stuff out of Syrah’s car,

  start toward the house. Did you bring

  your keys? asks Monica. It would suck

  if your car got stolen the first day.

  True, and to be safe, I lock the doors

  of my 2012 candy-red Ford Focus.