Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  Knelt in front of me, laid his head

  in my lap, wrapped his arms

  around my hips. I stroked his hair

  and at practically the exact same

  instant, we both said, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry.

  He looked up at me, and there

  was nothing in his topaz eyes

  but apology, and a question.

  My favorite question. I didn’t

  have to speak my answer.

  He stood, pulled me to my feet,

  led me to his bed. Wait. Let me

  lock the door. They’ll be home

  soon. When he turned back to

  me, I had taken off my sweater,

  thrown it to the rocking chair. He

  whistled. Jesus. What did I do?

  He traced the bruises, patterned

  exactly in the shape of his fingers,

  and turning the gunmetal gray

  of night, lifting over the ocean.

  “It’s okay,” I promised. And only

  a tiny disbelieving sliver of me

  kept whispering that it wasn’t.

  THERE WAS SOMETHING FRANTIC

  About the way he made love

  to me then. It had nothing to do

  with hurrying to finish before

  his mom got home. It was more

  like he thought I might change

  my mind midstroke, decide to leave

  forever. He pinned my wrists over

  my head. His mouth roamed my body

  freely, and every time his tongue

  made me squirm, he gripped harder.

  His kisses were laced with lust. Only

  later did I question the stimulus of

  his passion. I don’t know if I’ll ever

  trust him completely, but I did in that

  moment. I had to. He was taking me

  places I’d rarely been before, even

  with him. He plunged his face between

  my legs, driving into me with tongue

  and teeth and fingers until I begged

  him to stop. No. It was a growl.

  Give me your cream. I had no choice,

  he made me come, but then I pleaded

  for, “More. Fuck me.” I’d never said

  those words before. Not to Cole.

  Not to anyone. He hesitated, and I

  worried I’d made him angry or turned

  him off. Not even close. He smiled.

  Say it again. Louder. I did, and when

  I did, in a single strong move, he slid

  one arm under me, flipped me over

  onto my stomach, tugged me to

  the foot of the bed. He stood there,

  just looking at me, for what seemed

  like a very long time. Suddenly,

  he was inside of me, driving into me

  with animal ferocity. Wilderness,

  personified. There was lust there,

  yes. And more—the fear of a soldier,

  flushing an enemy he cannot see.

  The anger of a man who has watched

  his buddy blown to bits. The tension

  of a sniper, waiting endlessly for

  an uncertain outcome. The brittleness

  of a boy, trapped in a man’s uniform.

  In one gigantic shudder, it was all

  released, right there in me. We crept

  up onto the pillows, covered our nakedness

  with quilts. And, snug in each other,

  we escaped into the haven of dreams.

  HAVEN

  So much I want to say,

  wish I could confess,

  but silence swells,

  black

  as midsummer

  clouds, stacked upon hills

  between us. Black as the

  demons

  shrieking inside my head.

  My heart rumbles, heavy

  with snippets of memory

  that must not be

  conjured.

  Alone in this untamed

  empty place, I free

  a relentless volley

  of words. They

  rage

  against the pages, a torrent

  of what was, what is,

  what yet may come.

  And when at last the spirits

  recede,

  I find echoed

  in their retreat, stories

  I dare not give voice to—

  nightmares set adrift

  in my paper harbor.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  SOME THINGS YOU DO

  Whether or not you want to. Especially

  when a friend is involved. Case in point.

  Darian promised to go to Lodi with me

  over the holiday break. We’re supposed

  to check out wineries, even though she still

  insists I’m crazy to even consider getting

  married to Cole. Not only that, but she

  agreed to be my matron of honor, even

  though she said the word “matron”

  makes her sound like a prison warden.

  We discussed colors. I was thinking

  sort of pale green, maybe with lavender

  accents. Oh, no. Check out the purple

  dresses on this website. Dark is in

  this year. And purple is memorable.

  I have to admit, she was right. So, I’m

  thinking purple, with turquoise accents,

  to go with Cole’s dress blues. We’ve still

  got time to decide, though. Darian’s got

  lots of great ideas. I told her she should

  consider becoming a wedding planner.

  I’m definitely better at making plans

  for other people, she said. Every time

  I try to plan for myself, something

  always fucks up forward motion.

  SEEMS TO BE THE CASE

  For my forever friend. That makes

  me sad. Sometimes it’s all her doing.

  Sometimes it’s just the fickleness

  of the gods or whatever. And I suppose

  at times everyone feels the same way.

  But without a friend to prop you up,

  see you through the tough periods,

  it could start to feel overwhelming.

  So, because we’re best friends, and

  since turnabout is fair play, I’ll support

  Dar’s decision to stay with Spencer,

  at least until he’s able to care for himself,

  or agrees to move home. When his mom

  brought it up, he was as resistant as Darian

  to the idea. Oh, hell, no. Go back home

  so Mommy can feed me and change

  my diapers? Not on a dead damn bet.

  I’ll do this all on my own if I have to.

  It was about then we all figured Spence

  will recover. It’s been a slow, painful process.

  But he is progressing. He’s scheduled

  for an artificial skin graft right after

  the first of the year. Artificial, because

  he doesn’t have enough undamaged

  skin to serve as his own donor. And as

  organs go, I’ve learned, skin is among

  the pickiest, almost always rejecting

  donations from other people or animals.

  Spence’s face, neck, shoulders, and arms

  were burned the worst. Somehow,

  his hands mostly escaped. The doctors

  believe he tucked them under himself,

  protecting them instinctively. Beyond

  the burns, there is some impact nerve

  damage to his spine. They’re not sure if

  he’ll walk again. But, supine or straight

  up and down, the part of Spencer that

  makes him uniquely Spence is alive

  and kicking inside him. That gives

  everyone h
ope that he’ll find his way

  back onto his feet. Yes, no, or maybe,

  he’s going to need all the help he can

  get, both medically and emotionally.

  I really hope Darian is up to the task.

  EITHER WAY

  She and I are going out tonight

  for a belated birthday celebration.

  I’m officially twenty-five. (Is that all?)

  Dinner. Drinks. And slam poetry.

  She was a little resistant to the last,

  but hey, it’s my party and I’ll do what

  I want to. Argh! More sixties-era

  lyrics. I pull into Dar’s driveway

  a little before six. When I ring the bell,

  she yells for me to come inside, make

  myself at home while she finishes

  her makeup. The TV is on, so I sit

  and wait for a commercial to finish

  and the local news to fire up,

  They flash a picture for the lead story,

  and my stomach drops. I know this

  woman. I haven’t seen her in well

  over a year. She’s thinner. Rougher

  around the edges. But it’s definitely

  Soleil’s mother. New developments

  in the drive-by shooting that claimed

  two victims in Santee on Tuesday,

  says the announcer. 10News has learned

  that twenty-two-year-old Chandra Baird,

  who resides in the bullet-strafed house,

  allegedly has ties to a Mexican drug cartel.

  A large quantity of methamphetamine

  was recovered. Baird’s boyfriend, Max Lemoore,

  was killed in the incident. Her four-year-old

  daughter remains in guarded condition . . . .

  NO!

  The blood drains from my face. I feel it

  turn white and cold. “No-o-o-o.” It escapes

  my mouth in a single protracted whimper.

  The next is a shout. “Why, goddamn it?

  How could they let her go back?” Didn’t

  anyone notice? Did they even bother

  to look? Isn’t that what Child Protective

  Services is supposed to do? What the hell?

  Darian materializes suddenly. Ash?

  What’s wrong? Hey, are you all right?

  You look like you just saw a spook.

  “Can I have a drink?” I don’t wait

  for an answer. Tequila. And a lot of it.

  I pour a fat glass for me. “Want one?’

  Not until you tell me what in God’s

  name the matter is. She watches

  me down a long, slow swallow.

  “Did you hear about a drive-by in

  Santee? The little girl who was shot

  went to the preschool for a while. I

  noticed some problems and called CPS.

  What good did it do, Dar? What good

  did I do? What’s the point of a so-called

  safety net if it can’t catch kids who are

  are obviously falling?” I think about

  how long it took to convince Soleil

  to let me push her on the swings.

  The trust she finally gifted me with.

  The trust her own mother shattered.

  “I knew, goddamn it. I knew she was using.

  Now they’re saying it was drug related.”

  Darian puts her hand on my arm,

  which is shaking enough to make

  the drink look dangerous. It’s not

  your fault. You did all you could.

  I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. So much

  of the system is broken. They want

  to keep families together. Sometimes

  it works. But when it doesn’t, you can’t

  always fix the outcome. It sucks,

  but you’d better get used to it. You’re

  going to see it a lot as a social worker.

  I set my drink on the counter.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’m not sure

  I could handle stuff like this all the time.”

  So, do something else. It’s not too

  late to change your mind. Look.

  I’m going to finish getting ready.

  Then we’re having some fun, okay?

  Don’t forget you’re driving, though.

  She eyes my drink and goes to put on

  her shoes. I reach for something

  close to belief, toss a prayer toward

  heaven. I couldn’t save her. Will He?

  I TRY TO PUT AWAY

  All thoughts of Soleil,

  but I keep picturing

  her spindly legs

  pumping air beneath

  the swing. Kicking.

  I sip my tequila, relish

  the slow warm trickle

  down my throat. See

  her thin lips, coaxed

  into a small gap-toothed

  smile. Fleeting.

  One more small taste,

  wishing the slender

  buzz could make me

  forget about

  her purpling back,

  the way she reached

  deep for courage, showed

  me the corded welts. Lifting.

  I close my eyes, but

  the darkness behind

  the lids can’t obscure

  the nightmarish pictures

  forming in my mind of

  her, beaten, bruised,

  and crying out for help

  she could never find.

  Of her, lying still and

  quiet in a rivulet of blood.

  THE DISEMBODIED VOICE

  Of another newscaster pulls me

  from my self-absorbed reverie.

  He’s . . . on the TV. Darian’s TV.

  And he’s saying something about

  A strong unexpected Taliban

  offensive in the Helmand

  Province of Afghanistan.

  Not that. Not more. Turn it off.

  Hurry. I try not to listen, but I

  can’t help but hear

  . . . numerous casualties among

  the civilian population, as well

  as coalition forces . . .

  A flick of the remote. Blessed

  silence. I can’t watch the news.

  Too much information bloats

  the omnipresent fear, floating

  like high, thin clouds on the far

  horizon. Better not to wonder

  or suspect. Better simply to know,

  even if that knowledge brings pain.

  Finally, Darian sweeps back

  into the room. Okay. Let’s go.

  You’re still good to drive, right?

  “If I’m not, you still remember

  how, right? Anyway, when did you

  become an adult?” Necessary banter.

  BANTER AS DISTRACTION

  Works well, as does an evening

  out, away from the confinement

  of home, where I know I’d do nothing

  but stress over bad things beyond

  my control. It’s good, being with

  Darian, who has somehow found

  her way back into her comfort zone.

  Since it’s my birthday dinner,

  I get to choose the restaurant, and

  settle on a favorite Mexican place

  on the beach. Glad you went cheap,

  since I’m buying, says Dar. Happy

  birthday. Oh, keep it around five

  bucks, okay? I think she’s kidding

  but I’m not sure until she laughs.

  It’s the high, pure Darian laugh

  I know and really appreciate tonight,

  because it’s been a while since

  I’ve heard it. She orders drinks—

  margaritas on the rocks, with pricey

  tequila that flashes me back to

  Jaden, but only momenta
rily.

  At least it’s a pleasant snapshot.

  We decide to share a huge platter

  of sizzling fajitas, con guacamole

  y salsa verde, and as we wait for

  the food, I consider asking for details

  about her and Kenny. Decide not to

  risk it. I don’t want to spoil the mood.

  I AM, IN FACT

  A little surprised when Dar brings

  up the subject herself. Sort of, anyway.

  We’ve been talking about the wedding,

  and maybe going shopping for a dress.

  If you want something kind of unique,

  I know a great, little boutique with

  decent prices, she says. Sabrina and I

  picked out her prom formal there.

  “Sabrina is Kenny’s daughter,

  right?” She nods, opening the door.

  “So, what’s going on with you two?

  You’re not still moving in together.”

  The last sentence was a statement.

  That decision had been made.

  No. But he did still buy the house

  at Hermosa Beach. I’m glad.

  I loved that little place. Her voice

  is sad, and now I’m sorry the subject

  came up. I keep telling myself things

  happen for a reason. I’ll always love

  Kenny. No man has ever been that

  good to me. But I still love Spence,

  too, despite the water stagnating

  under our bridge. And right now,

  he needs me. Funny, but when you

  mentioned I became an adult, you were

  right. Don’t know if that’s good or bad.

  But it had to happen sooner or later.

  GROWN-UP OR NOT

  I’m having a great time with Dar tonight,

  despite brief flashes of Soleil’s face

  intruding now and then. We finish dinner,

  take it relatively easy on the tequila,

  and I feel totally capable of driving

  the short distance to the coffee house

  that’s hosting the slam tonight.

  It’s not quite as crowded as the last

  one, and much more informal.

  A gig more for fun than a chance

  at prizes. We arrive a little before eight,

  when it’s supposed to get underway,

  and are looking for a place to sit

  when I hear my name over my shoulder.

  Ashley. It’s Jonah. I’m glad you came

  tonight. Darian and I both turn,

  and Jonah kisses me on the cheek.

  Darian shoots me a look meaning,

  how about an introduction? “Oh.

  Sorry. Darian, this is Jonah. Uh . . .