Impulse

by Ellen Hopkins

  to have survived the incident

  with only the slightest hint

  of a bruise on either cheek.

  Then Conner had the nerve

  to go sit with Tony,

  who was stewing alone

  at the back of the room.

  He even joked him into smiling,

  something I couldn’t do.

  Now, as we get ready

  to go back to our rooms,

  close ourselves in, fall

  into our lonely vigils,

  he comes to me, touches

  the small of my back.

  Then he whispers, I just

  want you to know you light

  up this dingy room.

  Yeah, I know it’s a line.

  But it makes my face heat

  up—and something else, too—

  in a very good way.

  I Play It Cool

  As if boys say stuff like that to me

  all the time—no big deal, right?

  I whisper back a plain-

  Jane, “Thank you”

  but don’t dare turn around,

  show him how red

  my face has grown, a clear

  indication that I am not used

  to such compliments.

  I think the best thing Trevor

  ever said to me was,

  You’re pretty cute,

  with your clothes off.

  Clothes off is actually

  the worst view of me,

  a few too many pounds

  of flab, in all the wrong

  places (i.e., my thighs,

  but not my breasts).

  Of course, Grandma says

  I’m just right, a perfect

  size seven. Size three

  would be preferable.

  Still, I feel almost desirable,

  with Conner’s breath

  against my neck, his voice

  like a warm wind in my ear.

  At the very least, he’s pulled

  me way up out of the blue,

  into a new bloom of white.

  Two swings in one day.

  Something is majorly

  going on.

  In the Refuge of My Room

  I almost decide sleeplessness

  is better than the monster,

  come knocking at the little

  door smack in the middle

  of my forehead, begging

  for a teaspoon of Prozac.

  I know what I have to do

  but don’t quite know how to do it.

  They check my stitches,

  make sure they’re not infected.

  Or messed with.

  Wouldn’t want to come in

  and find your hand hanging

  by threads again, the nurse

  told me once.

  I don’t want that either.

  But I do need release.

  I’ve saved my “secret weapon”

  for a night like tonight,

  when nothing else will suffice.

  I borrowed it from Dr. Bellows’s

  desk one day, when his attention

  turned to a ring of his cell phone,

  stashed in his briefcase on the floor.

  The paper clip sat in plain sight,

  almost an invitation.

  I retrieve it from my hiding

  place, beneath the leg of my bed.

  It’s cool and comforting in my hand

  as I slowly unfold it, test

  its semisharp point with one finger.

  Careful not to probe

  too deeply, draw too much attention,

  I insert it just below the skin

  of my right wrist, down

  into a single blue vein.

  Oh God! Not enough!

  Easy now, right to left,

  vein to vein, connect

  the dots.

  Conner

  Walled in Again

  I walk to the window, sit

  in the chair, try to dissect

  the darkness with my eyes.

  How black it is out there!

  And how green it is in here.

  Still, I can almost stomach

  it tonight, just a few hours

  until I can escape it again.

  My head is light, cluttered

  with emotion, a jumble

  of lust, love, pride, hate,

  jealousy, devotion.

  I still want to protect

  Emily, the secrets

  we shared. But I’m not sure

  why—she turned on me,

  broke down and confessed

  every detail of our love

  affair. Dr. Boston says

  she won’t go to jail

  because I’m past the age

  of consent. But her days

  of teaching high school

  went out with the recycling.

  Weird, because they wouldn’t

  have suspended me. The same

  sex that was okay for me

  ended Emily’s career.

  I wonder if what I did

  made her hurt as much as

  she hurt me. Only fair, to

  trade hurt. But life isn’t fair.

  Life Isn’t Fair

  My dad has told me that

  at least a hundred times.

  Life isn’t fair, and luck?

  That is something you create.

  He’s spent forty-five years,

  creating a monster stash

  of luck, working twelve-hour

  days, hating every minute

  he had to devote to problems

  at home. Mom isn’t much

  better, but at least she can

  remain calm when everything

  turns ugly—like the day

  I spurted blood on her new

  Berber carpeting. Amazing,

  how she skirted the puddle,

  staunched the flow with a towel,

  and barely touched me at all—

  didn’t dare stain the Versace.

  Mom rarely touched Cara

  or me, though, not even when

  we were spotless. Diaper

  changing and bubble baths she

  left in the hands of our nanny.

  Leona pulled “Mommy” duty

  until Cara and I turned

  fourteen. She was plump, pretty,

  and I will always remember

  her with a love far beyond

  what a child might feel for his

  substitute mother. When Leona

  smiled, all was right in my world.

  The Memory Stirs Sadness

  It scatters around me like dust.

  My heart beats against

  the dent in my chest and I

  feel far apart from the things

  in my life that brought me

  to this place. My evening

  meds have yet to kick in.

  I get out of the chair, pace.

  One, two, three, four, half

  way to the piss green wall.

  Five, six, seven, eight. Pivot,

  hit replay. One, two, three …

  It occurs to me that just

  hours ago, all I wanted

  was to get out of here,

  to crawl back to Emily.

  I planned on trumping her

  with the guilt card, showing

  her how a .22 bullet had

  scarred both body and psyche.

  But now I don’t think she’ll

  see me. Won’t open the door

  or answer the phone, which

  leaves only my family

  to go home to. I know

  I’m not ready for that.

  Suddenly I find myself

  caught by a wave of nausea.

  Was it the chicken? I fall

  on the bed, close my eyes,

  hope the churning wake

  will vacate my head, let me

  sl
eep.

  Tony

  Sunday Morning

  I slide into a clean

  pair of black jeans,

  a button-up blue

  work shirt. Comb

  my hair, brush my

  teeth, ready for God.

  But is He ready

  for me? Funny, but

  the person who gave

  me my first real taste

  of the Good Lord

  was dear, gay Phillip.

  “Do you really believe

  in an all-powerful Creator?”

  I asked him, one Sunday

  morning, a year or so

  ago. “And in some place

  we go after we die?”

  I do, indeed. I can’t

  say exactly what

  He is, or where

  Heaven might be.

  But I believe there’s

  a place there for me.

  It made no sense at all

  to me, but I followed

  Phillip to church that

  morning, and something

  (Someone?) there

  spoke to my heart.

  You’re safe here, it

  (He?) said. No judgments,

  no worries, you’re

  one of My children,

  and a special part

  of the Grand Plan.

  Okay, It Sounds

  Like some weird

  soap opera. But that’s

  what I heard, or maybe

  I felt it. I don’t know.

  Don’t care. And hey,

  if I’m wrong, nothing lost.

  It does comfort me

  to think there might

  be something after

  we close our eyes

  for the final time—

  a light to walk toward.

  I hope Phillip took

  that walk. According

  to the Book, all that’s

  required is faith. He

  believed, so he should

  be There, waiting for me.

  “But what about being

  gay?” I asked Phillip once.

  “Some say that dooms you.”

  I think God cares more

  about how you treat others

  than who you sleep with.

  Which worries me some.

  I did once mistreat

  a man about as bad

  as you could do someone.

  Though I asked Him

  for forgiveness, maybe

  I don’t deserve it,

  because I don’t feel

  even a little bit bad

  about what I did.

  I know He knows why.

  I only hope it matters.

  I Also Hope

  He understands why I

  tried to kill myself

  and that He doesn’t

  turn His back if I one

  day succeed. Surely

  that’s better than taking

  up room on this dying

  planet, when so little

  room is left. The hardest

  part about this religion

  thing is that every “believer”

  believes something different.

  Anyway, I don’t really

  believe like this visiting

  chaplain does. He’s pure

  hellfire and brimstone—

  too Baptist for my taste.

  Oh yeah, I know Baptists,

  Catholics, too. I sampled

  both along the way, in

  deference to the two

  sides of my family.

  Ma wasn’t a churchgoer,

  obviously, but her ma

  was a Texas Southern

  Baptist who took me to

  a revival or two when

  we went to visit once.

  Holy rollers! Who could

  qualify for their Heaven?

  Pa’s people were Pope

  lovers, and the Vatican

  view of right or wrong

  leaves me reeling too.

  I bet Pa’s at mass right

  now, spouting Hail Marys

  for me.

  Vanessa

  I’m Told Level One

  Means Sunday services,

  an hour or more being scared

  silly by some volunteer preacher.

  They even make the little kids go.

  Church didn’t used to scare me.

  But that was before

  Mama introduced

  me to her angel. He was so real

  to her, I used to wonder

  why I couldn’t see or hear him,

  when Mama could.

  Plain as day.

  And if you can’t hear

  him, little girl, it means

  you haven’t qualified

  to enter the pearly gates.

  You’d better ask for forgiveness.

  She never said what for,

  but she sat me at the table

  with a dog-eared King James,

  made me read for hours. Out loud.

  There’s that other thing, too.

  Most women in that situation

  move on with their lives.

  No second thoughts. No guilt.

  Most other women aren’t me.

  I did ask for forgiveness then.

  don’t know His answer.

  My bad wrist throbs,

  and my good one pulses

  pleasant memories of a paper clip.

  One more little poke couldn’t hurt.

  I tiptoe to the door, listen

  for movement in the hall.

  No footsteps.

  Out comes my little friend.

  This time I insert it just behind

  my knee, where a long skirt

  will cover it so no one

  but God can see.

  A Long Flowing Skirt

  And a long-sleeved blouse

  disguise all signs of SI—no,

  not Sports Illustrated.

  SI stands for self-injury,

  another term I learned

  surfing the Web. The best

  thing about those boards

  and blogs is knowing

  I’m not alone.

  I cut to focus when my

  brain is racing.

  I cut to make physical

  what I feel inside.

  I cut to see blood

  because I like it.

  I don’t like to cut,

  but I can’t give it up.

  I have felt all those things,

  cut for all those reasons.

  But now I cut for another,

  much more substantial reason.

  I cut when I think I hear

  a baby crying. When I think

  I hear Mama calling.

  Knowing those things

  are impossible but hearing

  them just the same.

  And that’s something

  I’ll never break down

  and admit to anyone

  but myself.

  Bipolar crazy is one thing.

  Schizophrenic is another.

  Could I have inherited both?

  I Sit at the Back

  Of the dining-room-turned-

  chapel. It’s the only room

  big enough to accommodate

  all of us. And attendance

  is mandatory. Do they really

  think they’re saving souls?

  If so, my suggestion

  would be not to bother.

  In my admittedly

  limited knowledge of religion,

  desire to change is a requirement.

  Glancing around the room,

  I can find only a few

  who might qualify.

  Justin, of course.

  A couple of girls whose

  names I don’t know,

  with beatific grins

  lighting their plain faces.

  And—this is weird—Tony,<
br />
  who’s sitting two rows up.

  It seems to me that “gay”

  and “God” make strange

  bedfellows, in the most

  figurative sense, of course.

  But Tony seems caught up

  in the drama

  of the morning—

  singing hymns, praying

  the Our Father, listening

  raptly to the sermon, a ramble

  straight out of Revelations.

  There’s a lot more to Tony

  than what’s on the surface,

  that’s for sure.

  Wonder how deep I’d

  have to dig to find

  it all.

  Conner

  Mandrtandatory Church Services

  What other surprises does

  Level One have in store?

  I don’t believe in God,

  don’t believe in the devil.

  Unless you want to count

  my mother. She might be

  Satan’s sister, I suppose.

  What other explanation

  could there be for someone

  sizzling hot on the outside,

  yet frozen solid beneath

  the skin. Not quite human.

  Anyway, I get to wear

  my wrinkled Ralph Lauren.

  It’s worse than I thought,

  having stayed crinkled against

  the back of the drawer

  going on a dozen days now.

  At least my Dockers aren’t

  showing signs of mistreatment.

  Whatever. It’s good to be

  out of sweats, feeling half

  human again. I arrive just

  as the minister says, Let’s

  get started. Turn your eyes

  to the Lord, fill your hearts

  with gladness, reach out for

  your heavenly reward.

  He’s a poster board preacher

  and I hate him already.

  I spy an empty chair in