The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

  I’m so lonely, only you and your daddy to talk to.

  I never made a lot of friends at Fort Hood, but here I don’t even have Auntie Tati nearby. She isn’t your real aunt, just my very best friend in the world. Austin was only an hour away, and sometimes she’d drive out to the base. Boy, did she ever love you!

  As soon as she walked through the door, she’d beg, “Let me hold her! Please?” You’d snuggle right into her arms, look up at her with your huge brown eyes, and smile. Pretty sure she got your first real smile. That only made me a little jealous.

  Tati’s favorite thing was buying you pretty dresses, something I can’t really afford. You’re wearing one of them now, in fact, as you push across the tile in your walker. I’ve read it’s not good to keep you inside it too long, but you love moving so much! You’re seven months old, and not quite ready to walk yet, but I can tell how much you want to.

  Oh, Casey, you are such a beautiful little girl, and always happy. Tati says it’s from all the good breast milk you scarf, and I think that’s probably true. I don’t think your daddy likes sharing, though. He keeps saying, “That baby’s getting too big for boob sucking. Time to take her off the teat.”

  But I can’t stand the thought of weaning you. Not yet. You’re eating cereal and mashed bananas and applesauce, and we’re working on carrots, too. You should see what that does to your poo! Is that gross to say to a baby?

  I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I’m running totally on instinct. Well, instinct and love. The connection we have is amazing, and you are the one thing keeping me sane. I hate military life. Some people like the order, the routine, the sameness.

  Your daddy loves all of that. I think he wants to be the handsome soldier in magazine pictures. He likes polishing his boots and cleaning his rifle. He makes me keep his uniform spotless, and ironed. I never used an iron in my life before I married Sergeant Jason Baxter. But I don’t dare argue with him. He isn’t nice when he’s angry. Sometimes he scares me a little.

  I’m supposed to feel safe here. You know, because soldiers with guns behind fences provide lots of security. But soldiers flip out sometimes. Just a few years ago, right here on this base, one of them went off and shot nineteen people. Only one unlucky officer died, but you never know where a stray bullet lost in a barrage of gunfire might go. Maybe even through our living room windows.

  “You’re nuts,” Daddy says. “There isn’t a more secure place on the planet.”

  I try to believe him. Try not to worry. I take you out for walks in your stroller and put you in a baby seat on the back of my bike. You even have a baby helmet, just in case. If anything ever happened to you, I would take the easy way out.

  But you’re here, and safe, so I’ll keep going for you. You’re really all I have. I don’t count your daddy, but I wish I could. Once upon a time I thought I loved him and that he loved me. But even after I knew that wasn’t true, I married him anyway. It was my only chance at escape. I figured one way or another we’d make it work.

  Maybe we will. Who knows?

  Ariel

  December Delivers Short Days

  And counting down toward

  the end of another year, things

  are very different from even

  a month ago. Let’s see.

  I’ve got a car.

  A car I can drive

  because I got

  my license,

  passed the test

  with only one

  little mistake.

  It was Zelda who talked Dad

  into showing up at the DMV

  right when I needed him.

  I made the appointment,

  told him when

  to be there. At first

  he said he couldn’t

  get off work, but

  Zelda dropped by

  the shop, asked

  his boss to comply,

  and then he had

  no real excuse.

  Later, he was mad, of course.

  You and that bitch double-

  teamed me. Admit it, you planned

  it together, didn’t you?

  I reminded him

  that Zelda and I

  rarely even speak,

  and when we do,

  he’s pretty much

  always around,

  so, no, we made

  no secret pact.

  “Maybe she believes I deserve

  the privilege, or maybe she just

  wants you to be a little freer

  to feed your, uh, appetites.”

  Then it got really

  strange because

  he went totally

  silent, and stayed

  that way until I

  saw him again

  the next evening

  and then he said,

  Wash up for dinner.

  One of my appetites

  needs to be fed.

  Dad Holds Grudges

  I’ve known that, like, forever,

  and have tried to make sense

  of them. He harbors hate

  for my mother, which is well

  enough deserved; bitterness

  for Nadia, Cecilia, Jewel, and

  more than a few whose names

  I don’t remember, despite

  dredging up their faces

  in random daydreams. I’m only

  marginally aware of the details,

  but it seems the splits were mutually

  acceptable, so I can’t explain

  his reasons. Rhonda he escaped

  from, contraband in pocket; and

  Leona is little more than a sketch

  in my memory notebook. These two

  he rarely mentions. Still, as far

  as I can tell, none of them deserved

  his abuse, verbal or otherwise.

  And beyond every single one

  of them, I can’t help but ask myself

  what it is I’ve done to make

  my dad hold grudges against me.

  What Hurts Most

  Is I think his main grudge

  against me is . . .

  me.

  For someone so determined

  to maintain a desperate hold,

  he

  would rather I not be here

  at all, at least that’s how

  I

  feel much of the time.

  It hurts. And the longer

  we

  are entrenched here, where

  attachment is available to

  me,

  the lonelier this house

  seems with just the two of

  us

  sharing these rooms.

  Sometimes, in Fact

  I vastly prefer being alone

  to subjugation, and for Dad,

  winning is everything. I tried

  playing chess with him exactly

  three times. The first, I’d never

  played before and didn’t know

  the rules. What he taught me

  was how the pieces moved,

  and that was enough that time.

  The second, I’d learned some

  basics from a teacher I can

  barely recall. Strategy wasn’t

  something I could define, let

  alone make sense of. What

  Dad showed me that time

  was the cruelty of make-believe

  war, and oh, how he made fun

  of my childish upset. After that

  I refused to sit across the board

  from him until I had the chance

  to read up on possible moves

  and probable outcomes. I truly

  believed I had that game won

  until Dad’s bishop managed an end

  run and put me in checkmate.

  He laughed and laughed, and

  what he made very clear that

  time was I’d better not lose and cry.

  Crybabies

/>   Top Dad’s most-

  disgusted-by list. Right

  below come:

  queers

  (zero exceptions)

  foreigners

  (white Europeans mostly exempt)

  pussies

  (except the feminine kind)

  cheaters

  (his cheating excepted)

  whiners

  (drunk whining forgiven, depending)

  know-it-alls

  (generally in reference to me).

  Over the years, I’ve made

  that list more times than

  I care to remember.

  He’s my dad, and he loves me.

  Most of the time we get along fine.

  But once in a while I feel like

  he would’ve preferred to stay child free.

  But Everything’s Better with Wheels

  School, because I can come

  and go on my own schedule,

  not have to worry about

  waiting for Dad in the morning

  or Syrah after practice.

  Work. I started at the Triple G

  last Saturday, and so far, so good,

  even though I have to get up early

  on my weekends. They want me

  there no later than eight,

  which makes sense considering

  the number of horses I’m expected

  to exercise within two six-hour days.

  Over the course of twelve hours,

  I rode nine, twice each. Boy,

  was my butt sore come Sunday

  night, but I figure that’ll get

  better once I develop some

  gluteal calluses. Peg was right.

  Most of the Thoroughbreds

  are green, which means challenging

  because their training is elementary,

  so it’s mostly about staying astride

  while they gallop out their excess

  energy. In comparison, Niagara

  is a lope around the carousel.

  I’m looking forward to working

  with her more. This week I’ll only

  get Sunday in because of the game,

  but Peg and Max are understanding

  about prior commitments. I had

  to talk Dad into the work thing myself,

  but once the car was accomplished,

  it wasn’t hard. “Twelve bucks an hour,

  and even only working weekends,

  I can pay for my own gas. Besides,

  it’ll keep me busy. You prefer me

  busy, don’t you?” He agreed that

  he does, and I know it’s true,

  especially considering how much

  time I’ve been spending with Gabe.

  Monica, too, but Dad doesn’t notice

  her the same way, which is kind

  of odd, all things considered.

  But I’m not going to question it.

  Tomorrow is Monica’s birthday,

  and tonight Syrah’s mom is out

  of town, so I’m going over there

  for a party, though I phrased it

  “cake and ice cream” to Dad.

  I Even Baked the Cake

  Not from scratch. I’m not that

  great of a cook, but the mix

  stuff isn’t so bad. I’m frosting

  it (canned icing, of course)

  when Dad comes into the kitchen.

  That there looks pretty good.

  Save me a piece. A big one.

  “Sure thing, Dad. Like there’ll

  be any left. Hey, don’t forget

  about my game tomorrow.”

  It starts at noon, and since I

  figure we’ll party fairly late,

  I’m spending the night at Syrah’s.

  Since when do high schools play

  girls’ basketball on Saturday?

  “We only have a couple of weekend

  games. The rest are Monday or Friday

  nights. But this is a tournament.”

  Well, I’ll try, but no promises.

  Saturday’s my day off, you know.

  In other words, he’d rather drink

  beer and play with Zelda. Thanks

  so much for all your support, Dad.

  I Leave the Cake

  On the counter, with a stern warning

  to Dad, “Do. Not. Touch. The. Cake.”

  I mitigate that and increase the odds

  of its survival by adding, “Please.”

  I’ll be good, he says, taking a package

  of hot dogs out of the fridge. He puts two

  on a plate, takes them to the table. “Raw?

  You could microwave those, you know.”

  He shrugs. It don’t matter to me. I’ll

  eat something hot with Zelda later.

  “Nice picture, Dad. I’m going to get

  my jacket and take off. Be right back.”

  On the way to my room, the telephone

  rings. That is a strange occurrence.

  We only have a landline because it

  came with the cable bundle, and our

  cell service can be iffy out here. I must

  sound surprised when I answer, “Hello?”

  The woman on the other end mutters

  something incoherent. Drinking, obviously.

  She apologizes, tries again, asks to

  talk to someone I’ve never heard of.

  “Sorry. You have the wrong number.

  No one here with that name.”

  I hang up as Dad yells, Stupid jerk

  telemarketers. Tell ’em to buzz off.

  “Wrong number,” I call, correcting

  him before finishing my mission.

  I grab my jacket, and by the time I get

  back to the kitchen Dad has finished

  his disgusting snack and popped

  a beer. I’m glad I can drive myself

  into town. Thinking about how many

  times I’ve ridden in a car with him

  driving under the influence is the stuff

  of nightmares. We’re both damn lucky

  to be alive and all in one piece. “Okay.

  I’m off. You be careful, okay, Dad?”

  He takes a long slurp. What makes you

  say that? Careful’s my middle name.

  “Okay, then. See you tomorrow

  at my game. Noon. Go to bed early.”

  Careful

  Go to bed early.

  Don’t eat raw hot dogs.

  Sheesh, I sound like his mom.

  Still, I’m careful

  with the cake, carrying

  it to my car and cautiously

  stashing it on

  the front passenger seat.

  I drive into town judiciously,

  vigilant about

  speed limits and hairy

  curves. I park sensibly, well off

  the road in Syrah’s

  driveway. I don’t plan on

  leaving tonight, so if I get blocked

  in by some partyer

  it won’t much matter

  until tomorrow morning.

  I’m wary about

  announcing my arrival

  until I’m sure Syrah’s mom

  has already left.

  So maybe careful is,

  in fact, my middle name.

  The Mom Unit Is Gone

  And seems like half the school

  knows Syrah’s place is an open

  invitation to fun, because within

  two hours her house is overrun.

  So much for anything resembling

  a private party. The one thing

  I insist on is Monica having a piece

  of her birthday cake. I don’t mind

  skipping, but she does, cutting

  a giant slice. Compartiremos.

  We’ll share. If I get fat, you do, too.

  We share cake. We share drinks.
>
  We share weed, but only a little

  because we both want to be on

  our game tomorrow. Syrah

  doesn’t much seem to care

  about that, though she’s starting

  in Hillary’s position, and should.

  The problem with this kind

  of party is nobody worries

  about trashing the place or

  making too much noise. Not

  surprisingly, Garrett and Keith

  show up, and they are two

  of the worst offenders,

  especially since they’re mostly

  soused when they get here.

  At first, Syrah not only goes

  along with their obnoxious

  crap, but actually flirts a little

  with Keith. When he goes to

  take a piss, I pull her aside.

  “What are you doing? Keith?

  He’s disgusting. Whatever you

  do, don’t let him kiss you. Who

  knows what goes in that mouth?”

  He could probably say the same

  thing about you. She’s borderline

  wasted. But that’s okay. I like you

  anyway. And don’t worry, I’d rather

  kiss him. She points to Gabe,

  who’s just come through the door.

  Shit. Gabe and Monica together

  again, and at Syrah’s party,

  no less. I’d ask him how he found

  out about it, but it’s obvious

  something’s happening here.

  Oh, and my Focus is in the driveway.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Monica,

  before making my way over to Gabe.

  When he sees me headed in his

  direction, he smiles and meets me

  halfway. Hey there. Noticed your car

  among the fleet outside. Thought

  I’d stop in and say hello and also . . .

  Don’t Kiss Me, Don’t Kiss Me

  Not in front of this crowd.

  Not in front of Syrah.

  Not in front of Monica.

  But he knows better,

  and besides that, he

  has important news.

  I was just at the AM/PM.

  Overheard some cops

  talking about this party.

  Someone called about

  the noise. They’ll either

  show up knocking or

  wait around the corner

  for people to leave.

  “Thanks for letting us know.

  I’ll spread the word.

  Maybe it’ll help clear

  the place out. This isn’t

  the kind of party we had