Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  * * *

  Thank you for downloading this eBook.

  Find out about free book giveaways, exclusive content, and amazing sweepstakes! Plus get updates on your favorite books, authors, and more when you join the Simon & Schuster Teen mailing list.

  CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/teen

  * * *

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.

  This book is dedicated to the far-too-many young people who ended their lives because they couldn’t see beyond the pain of the present to the joy waiting for them in the future.

  Also to those who loved them then, and still love them now.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I must thank my family for putting up with my author quirkiness, absences, and sequestrations; my posse for supporting me in times of doubt; my editor, Emma Dryden, for her insight, talent, and friendship; my agent, Laura Rennert, for fielding questions and concerns, sometimes at odd times of the day; and my team at Simon & Schuster, who, start to finish, help me create the very best books possible and put them into my readers’ hands.

  With special thanks to those who were willing to share their thoughts about God, science, belief, nonbelief, and possibilities—most memorably, Susan Patron and Topher King, whose insights were especially valuable.

  In the Narrow Pewter Space

  Between the gray of consciousness

  and the obsidian where dreams

  ebb and flow, there is a wishbone

  window. And trapped in its glass,

  a single silver shard of enlightenment.

  It is this mystics search for. The truth

  of the Holy Grail. It is this believers

  pray for. The spark, alpha and omega.

  It is this the gilded claim to hold

  in the cups of their hands. But what

  of those who plunge into slumber,

  who snap from sleep’s embrace?

  What of those who measure their

  tomorrows with finite numbers, cross

  them off their calendars one by

  one? Some say death is a doorway,

  belief the key. Others claim you only

  have to stumble across the threshold

  to glimpse a hundred billion universes

  in the blink of single silver shard.

  Have Faith

  That’s what people keep telling me.

  Faith that things will get better. Faith

  that bad things happen for a reason.

  Implicit in that ridiculous statement

  is the hand of some extraterrestrial

  magician. Some all-powerful creator,

  which, if his faithful want to be totally

  frank about it, would also make him/her/it

  an omnipotent destroyer. Because if

  some God carefully sows each seed

  of life, he is also flint for the relentless

  sun beating down upon his crops until

  they wither into dust. Zygotes to ashes

  or some other poignant phrase. And why

  would any of that make someone feel

  better about snuffing out? The end

  result is the same. You get a few

  years on this sad, devolving planet.

  If you’re lucky, you experience love,

  someone or two or three to gentle

  your time, fill the hollow spaces.

  If you’re really fortunate, the good

  outweighs the bad. In my eighteen years

  all I’ve seen is shit tipping the scales.

  Case in Point

  I’ve been abruptly summoned to

  the front of the classroom at the urgent

  request of my English teacher, the oh-so-

  disturbed, Savannah-belle-wannabe

  Ms. Hannity, emphasis on the Mizz.

  She pretends sympathy, for what,

  I’ve no clue, and like she gives half

  a damn about anything but clinging,

  ironfisted, to her job. Mr. Turnahhhh.

  Fake “South” taints her voice and

  her eyes—no doubt she’d describe

  them as “cornflower”—are wide

  with mock concern. Would you

  please come he-ah for a minute?

  I think she thinks she’s whispering,

  but twenty-seven pairs of eyes home

  in on me. I straight-on laser every one

  until they drop like dead fly duos.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The feigned respect

  isn’t lost on her, and she doesn’t bother

  to lower her voice. Mistah Carpentah

  wishes a word with you. Please see

  him now. And the rest of y’all, get back

  to work. This doesn’t concern you.

  Why, Then

  Did she make it exactly everyone’s

  concern? The ends of my fingers tingle

  and my jaw keeps working itself

  forward. Backward. Forward. I force

  it sideways and audibly, painfully, it pops.

  For some messed-up reason she smiles

  at that. I really want to slap that stinking

  grin off her face. But then I’d get expelled,

  and that would humiliate my father,

  everyone’s favorite science teacher, not to

  mention the coach of the best basketball

  team this school has seen in a dozen years.

  Then Mom would bitch at him for not kicking

  my ass and at me for turning him into such a wuss,

  until I had no choice but to flee from our miserable

  termite-ridden shack. And I’d have to live in

  my fume-sucking truck, eating pilfered ramen,

  drinking Mosby Creek water until I got the runs

  so bad I’d wind up in the ER, hoping Dad

  hadn’t had time to dump me from his insurance.

  And, despite all that, Mizz nose-up-my-ass

  Hannity would still be a rip-roaring bitch.

  As I Wind Up

  That extended interior monologue,

  I notice everyone is once again staring at me,

  waiting for some overt exterior reaction.

  Expecting, I’m sure, one of my infamous

  blowups. More fun to keep ’em guessing.

  “Can you tell me why he wants to see me?

  Have I done something I’m not aware of?”

  I’m pulling off As in every class. Maintaining

  the pretense that all is well, despite everything

  being completely messed up. It would be nice

  to have some idea of what I’m walking into.

  But Hannity gives nothing away. Just go.

  Don’t flip her off. Don’t flip her off. Don’t . . .

  I flip her off mentally, sharp turn on one heel,

  head toward the door. Laser. Laser. Laser.

  Pairs of dead flies drop as I pass, anger obviously

  obvious in the death beam of my eyes. What now?

  All I want is to be left alone. All I want

  is to cruise in radar-free space. Scratch that.

  What I really want is to disappear. Except,

  if this in-your-face place is all I’ll ever

  get to experience, I’m not quite finished

  here. “Live large, go out with a huge bang,”

  that’s my motto. Too bad so many minuscule

  moments make up the biggest part of every

  day. Moments like these. A familiar curtain

  of fury threatens to drop and smother me
.

  I push it away with a smile, hope no one

  takes a candid photo right now, because

  I’m as certain as I can be that I resemble

  some serial killer. Tall. Good-looking.

  The boy next door, with near-zero affect.

  Totally fine by me. Keep ’em guessing.

  I swear, I can hear the collective breath-

  holding, all those goddamn flies hovering

  silently at my back. I plaster a grin. Spin.

  “Boo!” Audible gasps. Yes! Okay, screw it.

  I flip off the lot of them, dig down deep

  for something resembling courage, and skip

  from the room, a not-close-to-good-enough

  tribute to my little brother, Luke, deceased

  now one hundred sixty-eight days. Exactly.

  A Tribute

  So why do I stop just beyond

  the door, assess the scene . . .

  what am I waiting for? A sign?

  The hallway is vacant. Silent.

  No one to bear witness to . . .

  what? Some ill-conceived

  testimony? “Fuck you, Luke.”

  Another pointless statement,

  echoing. Echoing. Echoing

  down the corridor. Luke. Luke.

  Luke. You selfish little prick.

  My eyes burn. No, damn it!

  If the vultures see me cry,

  they’ll swoop in, try to finish

  me off. And I’m just so tired

  of fighting, they might actually

  manage it this time. Screw that.

  They already got my brother.

  It will be a cold day in hell

  before I give up, give in, allow

  them to claim another victory.

  I’m Not Quite

  To Mr. Carpenter’s office when the bell

  rings. Okay, technically it’s a blare, not

  a bell. Some new-wave administrator

  decided to replace the old buuurrrriing

  with a blast of music so we don’t feel

  so much like we’re in school, despite

  the off-white cement walls and even

  offer-white linoleum, lined with

  not-quite-khaki lockers. Doors slam

  open and out spills noise. Lots of it.

  Laughter and curses and screeches

  echoing down the corridor. I scan

  the crowd, as I always do, hoping

  for even just a glimpse of her. There,

  on the far side of the counselors’ offices.

  She’s hard to miss, my amazing girl—

  a whole head taller than her pack

  of loser friends, with perfect slender curves

  and thick ropes of honey-colored hair.

  “Hayden!” I yell, though it’s impossible

  to hear in this obnoxious swell. Yet

  she turns, and when those suede chocolate

  eyes settle on me, her diamond smile lifts

  my mood. She gestures for me to come there.

  I shake my head, tip it in the direction

  of the counseling offices. Even from here,

  I can see the way concern crinkles her eyes

  at the edges. I shrug a silent, “No worries.”

  That’s one thing I love about Hayden—how

  we can communicate without words. It’s not

  the only thing I love about her, or even close

  to the most important. But it’s really special,

  sort of like Heath bar sprinkles over the vanilla

  cream cheese frosting on top of the very rich

  red velvet cupcake. Ultra extra deliciousness.

  Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s mine.

  But knowing that—trusting it—helps

  me tilt my chin upward, straighten

  my shoulders, and put one foot in front

  of the other, toward Mr. Carpenter’s lair.

  As Is Usual

  Whenever you’re called, posthaste,

  to the counselor’s office, it becomes

  a game of Hurry Up and Wait. I sit

  on a hard plastic chair, pretty much

  the color of a rotting pumpkin, just

  outside the inner sanctum. Not a whole

  lot to do but try and discern words

  in the muffled exchange behind

  the closed fiberglass door. This

  school is barely ten years old and

  the builders had some new tricks

  up their sleeves—things that might

  thwart punches, kicks, and other

  assaults that damage painted wood.

  Eventually, the door clicks open,

  and Alexa Clarke emerges, thin

  tracks of mascara trailing down her

  cheeks. Guess it didn’t go so well.

  Hayden and Alexa used to be best

  friends, until Alexa veered off

  the straight and narrow, or whatever.

  Personally, I have no problem with

  detours. “Hey, Lex.” I grin. “Thanks

  for warming Carpenter up for me.”

  The Defiance

  So obvious only seconds ago melts

  from her eyes, and she manages a smile.

  Warm. Yeah, right. But it’s all good.

  He’s only on you ’cause he cares.

  “I’ll remember that.” I’ve barely spit

  the words from my mouth when

  Mr. Carpenter’s hulking form appears

  in the doorway. Come on in, Mr. Turner.

  “So formal? I thought we were on

  a first-name basis.” I pretend hurt,

  and he pretends to be hard of hearing.

  Please go on back to class, Miss Clarke.

  Alexa and I do a mutual eye roll

  thing and as she leaves I call, “Always

  important to understand motives.

  Thanks for letting me know he cares.”

  Without turning around, she flips a hand

  up over her shoulder. To slaughter I will go.

  Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O

  That’s what I’m humming as I take

  the seat on the far side of Carpenter’s

  desk. He looks at me like I’ve lost

  my mind, or lost it even worse than

  he figured I’d lost it, or whatever.

  I could ask what’s up, I guess. But this

  is his party. It’s up to him to kick it off.

  I suppose you’re wondering why

  you’re here. He looks at me like

  I really should know. But I seriously

  don’t. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I hear I have

  a twin, and people see him smoking

  sometimes. Personally, cancer scares

  the crap out of me, and—”

  His head rocks side to side. Don’t mess

  with me, Mr. Turner. This isn’t funny.

  Damn. He really looks concerned.

  “Mr. Carpenter, my grades are jake,

  I’m not abusing drugs, I don’t beat

  my girlfriend. I have absolutely no

  idea why I’m here. Please enlighten me.”

  The Weight of His Sigh

  Could crush an elephant.

  I mean, really, what could

  I have done to rate that?

  He moves a folder from atop

  a stack of papers, pushes a thin

  sheaf across his desk. Oh. Duh.

  Ms. Hannity thought maybe this

  was worthy of some discussion.

  It’s my senior essay: Take

  Your God and Shove It.

  I thought the title was a nice

  play on words. “I’m sorry, but

  what, exactly, is the problem?

  Looks like she gave me an A.”

  It’s not the grade, obviously. But

  the content raises a red flag or two.

  My first reaction is a wholly
>
  inappropriate snort, courtesy

  of the picture that popped up

  in my head—paragraph two,

  page four, hit the last word and

  “Taps” plays as a scarlet banner

  lifts off the page. But as that vision

  fades, and I consider why I wrote

  what I did, every crumb of humor

  disappears, smashed into powder

  by a huge fist of anger. Adrenaline

  thumps in the veins at my temples.

  I summon every ounce of will.

  Detonating will accomplish

  exactly nothing. “I’m afraid

  you’ll have to be a little more

  specific, Mr. [Carpentah] uh,

  Carpenter. What worries you?”

  He clears his throat. Let’s start

  with your thesis statement. . . .

  Which Would Be

  There is no God, no benevolent ruler of the earth, no omnipotent Grand Poobah of countless universes. Because if there was, there would be no warring or genocide in his name; those created “in his image” would be born enlightened, no genuflecting or tithing required; and my little brother would still be fishing or playing basketball instead of fertilizing cemetery vegetation. And since there is no God, this nonentity has no place in government or education and certainly not in constitutional law. The separation of church and state must remain sacrosanct.

  No bonus points for using the word

  sacrosanct? “I’m sorry, but was I not

  clear enough? Or was it the ‘Grand Poobah’

  thing? Because if that’s offensive,

  I don’t mind changing it. Although—”

  That’s enough. You know, Matthew,

  some people might find your biting

  sarcasm humorous. But I have to

  wonder what lies beneath it. Tell me.

  Just what are you trying to hide?

  Fucking Great

  The last thing I need is more therapy

  courtesy of some armchair shrink.

  “Surely the school district isn’t paying

  you to attempt psychoanalysis?”

  I summon my best pretend smile.

  His shoulders stiffen like drying

  concrete. Ahem. See . . . uh . . .

  Ms. Hannity thinks I should

  mention our concerns to your par—