Impulse

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Impulse Page 10

by Ellen Hopkins


  back, suddenly glad I’m late.

  I Sit Beside Vanessa

  I can’t believe the chump

  on my right left a place

  next to her for me. I settle

  in as the brainwashed recite

  a well-worn prayer, not

  completely foreign to me:

  Our father, who art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy name …

  It’s not like I’ve never

  been to church before.

  My parents make us go

  on holidays, fighting sin

  twice every year—the day

  Mary gave birth, the day

  her son died, so the stories

  go. All to save me? Right.

  Vanessa leans over,

  sweeping my cheek with

  an auburn wisp. I’d rather

  be sleeping, she whispers.

  She smells of industrial-strength

  soap, but so do I.

  At least we’re clean. I notice

  the length of her skirt,

  which covers too much, if

  you ask me. One slender

  arm comes to rest on one

  knee, and at the wrist, a few

  drops of blood, scarlet

  clues to the mystery

  that is Vanessa. I lean

  back, watch her secret ooze.

  After the Last Amen

  We’re allowed some time

  to mingle, guys and girls

  together as if, now holy, not

  a single indecent thought

  could cross our commingled

  minds. Vanessa’s knee brushes

  mine, raising some quite improper

  thoughts. A voice reminds

  me we’re not exactly alone.

  Good morning! Hope I’m

  not interrupting. Tony’s eyes

  fall, a warning to Vanessa

  to hide her wrist. But she

  doesn’t, maybe because

  she doesn’t care, or maybe

  she just doesn’t see.

  He reaches out, touches

  her arm. What’s this, sweet

  lady? He disguises concern

  with charm. Unexpected.

  Vanessa snatches her arm

  away. Nothing. No worries.

  I poked myself with a fingernail.

  Her eyes betray the lie.

  Tony and I exchange

  a glance, brimming with disbelief.

  But we know it’s a delicate

  dance and keep our mouths

  shut.

  Tony

  Vanessa’s Cutting

  And the only thing I can

  do is point it out to someone

  in charge—betray her

  to the enemy. Not really

  an option. I wouldn’t

  want her to tell on me.

  So I shrug. “Hope it doesn’t

  get infected. You should

  clip those fingernails!”

  Yes, Mother. I’ll put it

  near the top of my list.

  Right after flossing.

  Conner asks, Are Sunday

  services really required?

  What happens if you

  say you won’t come?

  Will they lock you up,

  throw away the key?

  “They’d drop you back

  down a level,” I answer,

  as the resident expert.

  Back to being a big

  zero, Vanessa says.

  Back to isolation.

  “Only if you’re Level

  One. But hey, lucky

  me, I’ve been promoted

  to Level Two. Just

  wait. You get to play

  pool, get to watch TV.”

  No kidding? says Conner.

  And what do you get

  for making Level Three?

  Level Three Privileges

  “From what I hear,

  you get trips to the mall,

  movies, sometimes,

  always well supervised.

  You also get to go home

  for weekend visits.”

  Maybe I’ll just skip

  Level Three, Conner

  comments. Level Four?

  “That’s the wilderness

  camp—Challenge by

  Choice, they call it.”

  Vanessa chimes in, If you

  complete the Challenge,

  you get Level Five.

  “And that,” I add,

  “is when they let you

  out of here for good.”

  Sounds like it would

  be easier to wait it out

  until I turn eighteen,

  Conner observes. Not

  so long, only six months,

  two weeks, three days.

  Speak for yourself, says

  Vanessa. It’s eleven months

  until my birthday. And

  I don’t plan to celebrate

  that party in here! I’ll

  be out long before then.

  “They’ll probably kick me

  out next week,” I say. “I gave

  my dad hell yesterday,

  and he’s footing the bill.

  ’Course, I’ve got his guilt

  train steaming real good.”

  Time to Vacate

  The room, so they can

  turn it back into a place

  to eat lunch. I volunteer

  to help. Nothing better

  to do than fold down tables,

  set chairs around them.

  Conner has apparently

  digested our recent

  conversation, because

  he volunteers to help

  too. Anything extra you

  do goes in the “plus column.”

  Vanessa doesn’t dare.

  Someone might notice

  the seep on her wrist.

  Someone less discreet

  than Conner or me.

  We watch her hustle off.

  “That girl is something

  special,” I say. “Wonder

  what her story is.”

  Other than cutting

  herself, you mean?

  The why behind the blade?

  “Exactly. She seems so

  grounded, compared

  to other losers in here.”

  I might say the same about

  you. But you tried to off

  yourself too. Didn’t you?

  “Yep. Failed miserably,

  too. Some things take

  practice. Suicide, for one.”

  Conner laughs. You’re

  right. And who knew?

  Next time I’ll be more

  careful.

  Vanessa

  All This Talk

  About reaching levels

  and getting out of this place

  makes me want to put myself

  on a fast track to freedom.

  I guess that means opening

  up in group, succeeding

  in school, which I started

  again last week, hopeful

  I might catch up after missing

  so much.

  I hadn’t even cracked

  a book in over a month.

  Magazines, yes. Plenty

  of those in the hospital,

  and I’ve borrowed a Cosmo

  or two from my pal Dahlia.

  Pretty tame stuff, for her.

  Hustler is more her style.

  I’ve seen a couple of those,

  thanks to darling Trevor,

  who five-finger-discounted

  them from the local liquor store.

  I can’t believe women

  would let themselves be photographed

  like that! Nothing “artsy”

  about fake rape scenes or lying naked

  with a dog. It’s pure nasty. And all for money.

  I’m not sure what I want
>
  to do for money when

  it’s up to me to make it.

  Not sure what I can do,

  bouncing white to blue.

  But I don’t plan to use my body

  to make it. I plan to use

  my bipolar brain.

  Monday Morning

  Up early, shower, breakfast

  at seven thirty. Not so different

  from living at home, except

  none of it is by choice,

  everything choreographed,

  right down to the soap

  we use, the toothpaste

  we’re allowed, the exact

  amount of eggs on our plates.

  It’s easy, really. Easy

  and frustrating.

  Classes, remedial for many here,

  start at nine. Lucky me.

  The month off didn’t put me

  too far behind, which means

  I get to be with the advanced

  group, and that includes Tony.

  He’s book smart. Street smart.

  I never knew for sure the two

  could go together, but they’re

  intertwined, inside of him.

  The more I get to know him,

  the more I like him.

  My first gay friend.

  I’ve never really had much

  in the way of friends before.

  A few little girlfriends,

  army brats all, and tough

  to keep when you change

  bases like clothes.

  But I’m pretty much stuck

  here for a while. A friend

  seems like a good thing

  to have, and I think I have two.

  Tony. And Conner.

  Cute. And devastating.

  A daunting duo.

  They’re Both in Class

  Of course Conner would

  be in the advanced class.

  He’s college prep all the way.

  Maybe he can tutor me

  in the fine art of finesse.

  Girls sit on one side

  of the classroom,

  guys on the other,

  in alphabetical order.

  Easier to keep track of.

  Guess Mr. Hidalgo

  isn’t as smart as his students.

  Good morning, all, he says.

  Today, we’re writing essays.

  Topic: The Patriot Act,

  right, wrong, or indifferent.

  A half-dozen groans

  answer his request, but

  I like putting my opinion

  on paper for the world to read.

  Conner raises his hand.

  Excuse me, sir, but can

  you tell us, please, how

  the Patriot Act affects

  the rights of minors?

  I mean, we were basically

  locked up here without

  a hint of “due process.”

  How is that any different

  than treading all over

  the due process of

  a so-called adult?

  Mr. Hidalgo clears his throat,

  considers how to answer

  a student as impertinent—yet

  polite and somehow

  correct, in context—as

  Conner.

  Conner

  Okay, I Should Have

  Kept my mouth shut, gone

  with the flow, especially

  the first day in Mr. Hidalgo’s

  class. But I need to know

  what makes every teacher

  tick. Some really care about

  their students’ reasoning

  processes. Others just stick

  to the three Rs—rote

  learning, recitation,

  rhetoric. In here, I didn’t

  expect to find a discerning

  teacher. But Mr. Hidalgo

  does seem pretty reasonable.

  He even allowed me

  to expand on the theme

  “due process and minors.”

  Why do I care, anyway?

  “Life” has lately not meant

  much. I haven’t a clue why

  “liberty” should concern me.

  Like I’ve ever really been

  free? (Or ever could be.)

  Whatever. At least I’ve got

  something to do besides

  pace my room. I start to

  write, in a perfect hand

  so I won’t have to erase.

  One thing I won’t stand for

  is a sloppy paper, and I

  refuse to write a first draft,

  then have to copy over.

  Duplicating Effort

  Is a true waste of time,

  one I watch others take

  unusual pride in—spilling

  mistakes, which must be undone

  before turning in their papers.

  Why not just do it right

  the first time? Working around

  the knot in my neck, I write:

  Our forefathers envisioned

  the Bill of Rights as a safety

  net—necessary corrections

  of the Constitution’s oversights.

  But where did they write that one

  must be at least eighteen for

  those rules to apply? Would they have

  found such a provision just,

  when many patriots of the day,

  who died in the name of freedom,

  were themselves only boys?

  I’ve made the same argument

  before, in a different

  school, with another teacher.

  Like her, Mr. Hidalgo

  is cool with my opinion.

  You’ve made some excellent

  observations, and conveyed

  your thoughts clearly.

  I have high expectations of you.

  High expectations—great,

  I burned myself again.

  You’d think by now I would

  have learned to underachieve.

  Especially in Here

  Where underachievement

  is an art. Not that success

  isn’t possible for these

  people, that they’re not smart.

  If Justin could just get past

  his Jesus fetish, he’d

  likely be an algebra

  whiz, but such linear

  thinking conflicts with his

  four-dimensional ideals.

  Then there’s Nathan, whose

  unconventional theories

  about extraterrestrial

  visitation defy known

  laws of science: E.T.,

  the brains behind creation.

  Tony, at least, is rooted

  in reality, tinted as his

  view might be, intertwined

  with his iffy sexuality.

  He puts his words on paper

  well; writes with clarity

  and passion; is not afraid

  to tell us how he feels:

  Freedom is a double-edged

  ideal, because true freedom

  comes without the protection

  of laws that also enslave us

  by defining us—female,

  male; Christian, Islamic;

  good, evil. All at the whim

  of a frail minority.

  Right on.

  Tony

  An Odd Thing Happened

  When I started school

  here, at Aspen Springs.

  I found out I’m good

  at it. I never was before.

  Of course, I never had

  much chance to excel

  in the juvenile detention

  center. Anything I learned

  was because I wanted to,

  not because someone

  expected me to. I’d be

  a total ignoramus

  if not for Phillip.

  Now he expected

  great
things from me.

  And being an ex-college

  professor, he was just

  the gentleman to teach me.

  He taught me the basics—

  algebra, biology, U.S. history.

  He taught me the extras—

  trig, chemistry, world affairs.

  He taught me the necessities—

  philosophy, religion, psychology.

  I could have learned from

  him forever. But we didn’t

  have forever, only two

  almost-perfect years,

  years that might have

  been perfectly perfect

  except he got so sick. I’m

  not sure how I’ve managed

  to avoid that whole vicious

  viral thing. Then again,

  maybe I haven’t. I can

  only wait and see.

  Anyway, I Don’t Worry

  About it, not on a daily

  basis. The weird thing

  is, I don’t really worry

  about much anymore,

  not with Phillip gone.

  That was my biggest worry

  for the last couple of years.

  I had no idea what I’d do

  when he died. He had put

  me in his will, but his son

  contested and won, claiming

  his house and every possession.

  Yes, Phillip was married

  once, back when most gay

  men remained in the closet,

  at least to family and friends,

  taking their need to be with

  other men to the darker parts

  of town—bath houses,

  bars, back alleys, and cars.

  No wonder AIDS spread

  like it did. Everyone was

  afraid to talk about it.

 

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