Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  Spot on or not. So I’m happy when I turn off

  the main road into Alexa’s unassuming, well-kept

  neighborhood. I attempt a return to small talk.

  “So, what are you up to the rest of the weekend?”

  Her shrug releases the scent of her leather

  jacket, a hint of some citrusy lotion. Not much.

  Filling out college applications and FAFSA

  forms. Tedious and silly. I’m not going far.

  “Me either. UOregon, and I’m thinking about

  taking a year off before that. But when I told that

  to Mr. Wells, he acted like it was a dead-

  end alley to residence behind a Dumpster.”

  Well, I think it’s a great idea, especially

  if you explore a little of the world beyond

  the Willamette. Everyone should travel

  before they decide where to settle down.

  I pull over on the dirt shoulder in front

  of Alexa’s small tract house, which

  is shuttered by the night, no hint of light.

  at the windows. “You here all by yourself?”

  As a matter of fact, I am. My parents went

  to the movies in Eugene. They won’t be back

  for a while. She feathers my hand with her

  fingertips. Want to come in and play?

  I lift her hand from mine, bring it up

  to my lips, kiss it gently. “You tempt me,

  milady. However, I shall have to decline

  your generous offer. Perhaps another time.”

  Fine, she sniffs, but at least she smiles.

  In that case I’ll just have to go play alone.

  I watch her walk to her door, appreciate

  the arc of her hips, their metered swing.

  I could change my mind, follow her in.

  Instead, I’ll go home and play. Alone.

  Well, Not Quite Alone

  It’s a little after midnight, and Dad still

  isn’t home. Postgame on Friday nights,

  he regularly goes out with his buddies

  and gets wasted. On more than a few

  occasions, he’s arrived home courtesy

  of a designated driver, usually a wife,

  called out into the cold to save her husband’s

  butt, not to mention his friends’ butts.

  They never call Mom, who is home

  and passed out on the sofa, snoring

  like a chain saw above the soft play

  of HBO on the TV. She is on her back,

  long reddish hair a tumble of waves over

  the pillow, her face worry-freed by sleep,

  and in this one glimpse, this momentary

  standstill of time, she is the mother

  I always imagined she could be—warm

  and caring. Not pierced, heart and soul,

  by fragmented dreams and splintered

  memories. But now she rolls to one side,

  her sleeve lifting to expose a freckled arm

  and nicotene-tattooed fingers. Her forehead

  creases, the skin beneath her chin slackens.

  She looks old. I think she was born that way.

  I Trudge to My Room

  In no mood anymore to play, alone or

  otherwise. My cell is on my bed where,

  apparently, I left it. Wow. I never even

  missed it, which seems to have pissed off

  the love of my life: WHERE THE HECK R U,

  AND WHY WON’T U ANSWER UR PHONE?

  Sheesh. (Heck!) If I didn’t know better,

  I’d think she was jealous or something.

  I flash back to less than a half hour ago,

  smell the perfume of orange over leather,

  feel the dance of Alexa’s fingers against

  my hand. I did nothing. Except, maybe, lust

  a little. But lust without follow-through

  doesn’t count as infidelity, right? Too late

  to call her now, I text back: SORRY. FORGOT

  MY PHONE. BUT SEE? HOME EARLY. MISSING

  YOU. There. That should do it, and if not,

  tomorrow could be either very interesting

  or a boatload of boredom. At least I won’t

  be hungover, though the way my shirt

  smells, I could probably get that way just

  sucking the spilt beer off it. I strip, slip

  into flannel pants and a well-worn T-shirt,

  tiptoe down the hall to the laundry

  room, and throw my stuff in the washer.

  On the way back, I grab a blanket from

  the stash above the dryer, cover Mom

  to warm her dreams. Turn off the TV.

  Hopefully Dad will let her snooze

  right there until morning. Depending

  on his mood—good drunk, or evil—

  he might. If she’s really lucky, he’ll

  be blasted enough to not even notice

  she’s missing from their bed. I flop

  on my own mattress, roll up in the down

  comforter, try to shake the moist chill.

  The face of my cell tells me I’ve received

  a new message. 1 A.M. ISN’T EARLY. Guess

  that answers that question. Next door

  in Luke’s room, I hear a train whistle.

  “It’s only one now,” I whisper to no

  one. It’s not like Hayden is listening.

  It Would Be Nice

  To sleep in just one freaking Saturday

  morning. But, no. It’s barely eight o’clock

  when I startle awake, words crashing

  over me, and into me, like a landslide.

  Where were you?

  Why would you care?

  You could have called.

  You’re not my fucking mother.

  Don’t talk to me like that!

  You barely qualify as my wife!

  Remind me not to get married in my

  lifetime! What is it about marriage

  that makes people start to hate each other?

  Then again, sometimes I wonder if what

  initially attracted those two to each other

  wasn’t, in fact, hate. Is it love that makes

  sex good, or would any emotion, equally

  weighted, create the same kind of passion?

  That’s Assuming

  Their sex was passionate,

  and why would that thought

  even cross my mind? Beyond

  the thin drywall membranes

  enclosing my room, doors

  slam. One. Two. They’ve gone

  to their separate corners

  for now, but it’s only Saturday,

  Day One of the Martin Luther

  King Weekend standoff. I lie

  very still, listening to myself

  draw breath, trying to remember

  a holiday when this miserable

  excuse for a family actually

  had fun. Way back when Luke

  was little—maybe not quite

  three—we drove to the coast

  for Fourth of July and camped

  on the beach, just the quartet

  of us. Mom and Dad set up tents

  and a big canopy, and beneath

  it, a fold-out picnic table.

  The place wasn’t real crowded.

  Most everyone wanted to watch

  the big fireworks displays,

  so they stayed close to city

  “hullabaloo,” as my kindergarten

  teacher used to call such chaos.

  I would have been just past

  old Mrs. Mueller’s class then,

  and now twelve years dissolve,

  just like that. Funny how your mind

  works, but I can see that day

  as if peering through a reverse

  time telescope. I taste the tang

  of the salt mist, fee
l the breeze

  lift a forest of goose bumps

  off the wet skin of my stick-

  thin arms and legs, right up

  through the sand crusting them.

  But What I Remember Most

  Is the music of Luke’s little kid giggles

  and Mom’s lilting gossip while Dad

  chopped wood for the campfire.

  I’ve rarely felt as complete as I did

  that day, eating half-cooked hot dogs

  and digging for sand crabs and dodging

  surf, showing off to my brother what it meant

  to be a boy at the beach on the Fourth of July.

  Mom sneaked off a time or two to smoke;

  Dad quietly sucked down beer, pretending

  not to notice. Mom was drinking lemonade

  from a big cooler, only when I accidentally

  sipped from her cup, it tasted sharper than

  mine. I knew what that meant by then.

  As the afternoon wore on, Luke and I grew

  tired from sand-castle building, but not nearly

  as drowsy as Mom and Dad. Once or twice,

  I caught them kissing, and that was rare indeed.

  At six, I didn’t think much about them being

  in love, so it surprised my naive eyes that they

  sure looked to be that way. I will never forget

  the flush of raw happiness that brought me.

  Once It Got Dark

  Dad went to the car, returned

  with a surprise—a small footlocker

  filled with fireworks. We had to wait

  for the wind to die down, and I could

  see Dad grow antsier as time passed.

  Finally, he decided, I think it’s safe

  now, boys. Let me get the lighter.

  Mom handed him the butane stick,

  cautioned us to take the fire danger

  closer to the wet sand at the water’s edge.

  Luke and I watched Dad set up a row

  of spinners and cones and funnels

  in front of some big, gnarled driftwood,

  to block any breeze off the water.

  Here we go. Ready? Stand back.

  Crackle! Whistle! Whoosh! Okay, compared

  to giant sky explosions, it was a small

  display, but Luke grabbed my hand, took

  one step behind me, peeked out from

  around my back, not even pretending

  bravery. Then Dad handed each of us

  a sparkler, showed us how to hold them

  at the very bottom of the sticks.

  Careful. These babies are hot, hot, hot!

  Hot, hot, hot, repeated Luke, and then

  Dad lit the end, igniting the sizzle spray.

  “Wave it, like this!” I demonstrated,

  but Luke held his sparkler straight up

  and down, right up until one of those

  tiny white embers lodged itself in a pore

  on his arm. He threw the offending stick

  into the sand. Ow! Ow! Stupid hot.

  Then he held up his arm to show the blister.

  Dad blew. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!

  How can my son be such a pussy?

  His temples pulsed anger noticeably.

  “Hey, Dad. He’s just a little kid, okay?”

  Defending my brother, that was my job,

  even way back then. Dad, of course, was two

  sheets to the wind. I see clearly in hindsight

  what I was blind to then. In retrospect,

  the next part isn’t really such a shocker.

  It Sure Freaked Us Out Then

  There were more fireworks

  inside that footlocker—

  bottle rockets

  Roman candles

  firecrackers

  a couple of M-80s.

  All illegal in the state of

  Oregon, which outlaws

  personal possession of

  fireworks that—

  fly

  explode

  travel more than six feet on the ground

  or twelve inches in the air.

  And boy, they did every

  bit of all that! Dad lit them

  methodically, laughing

  like a lunatic as they—

  flew

  exploded

  shot into the air, with a great

  whoosh of fuel before blowing wide.

  Dad’s lame attempt

  at Fourth of July family fun.

  No One Laughed

  Except for Dad, and that was totally

  swallowed up by the chaos of noise.

  Down the beach, people

  shouted, a chorus of Hey!

  What the hell was that?

  That’s illegal, isn’t it?

  Someone call the ranger!

  (And someone did.)

  Luke screamed

  and scrambled toward

  the tent, tripping over

  his feet and crying even

  louder because of that.

  Mom came running,

  yelling at Dad to Grow a brain!

  Though it was obviously much

  too late, and the one he made

  do with was stewing in alcohol.

  I plugged my ears, but

  couldn’t block out the tornado

  of sounds, which were scarier,

  somehow, than the bottle rockets.

  So Much

  For sweet family memories.

  The rest of that one devolves

  into a cacophonous blur of arguments

  and explanations and Dad talking

  his way out of going to jail,

  I thought those were only taboo

  in residential areas. So sorry . . .

  but only because the park ranger

  happened to have witnessed Dad’s

  outstanding play for the Oregon

  Ducks once upon a time,

  Holy Pete! I’ll never forget that

  game against Purdue, when you . . .

  while Mom kept shushing Luke,

  whose sniffling began to wear on

  my nerves. I had to agree with Dad.

  Luke was a wuss, even if he was just

  a baby, and Mom kept him that way.

  Quiet now, little man. Everything’s

  okay. No more booms. I promise.

  All I wanted was for everyone to

  shut up so I could listen to the low chuff

  of surf and the chatter of wind against

  the nylon tent. I remember muttering

  into my sleeping bag, “Camping’s

  supposed to be good times. Not like

  it is at home. Why can’t we ever

  just have fun?” But no one heard,

  and no one answered. Pretty much

  the story of my life, at least where

  my parents are concerned. Too caught

  up in their personal tangles of pain,

  disappointments, and tomorrows

  made murky by yesterdays. I’m damn

  sure never going to exist that way. No

  sir, it’s all about living fearlessly today.

  And to do that, I have to get out of bed.

  All’s quiet on the western front, so I do

  the bathroom thing, then head to the kitchen

  where, I hope, the coffee is already made.

  No Such Luck

  Guess my parents decided to sleep

  off their late nights, rather than fight

  them with caffeine. At least the silence

  indicates slumber somewhere. Two doors

  slammed, though. Mom must have chosen

  Luke’s bed. Dad never goes in that room.

  Good thing I’m familiar with the Mr.

  Coffee. I measure the grounds, add extra,

  wanting the brew stiff. I fill the reservoir

  with cold water, hit the on switch, and as

&n
bsp; the machine starts a slow drip, happen

  to glance over the kitchen counter into

  the dining area, where my essay still

  decorates the table. Most of it is stacked,

  facedown. But one section remains right

  side up, spread slightly, as if someone has

  recently been reading (rereading?) it:

  And what of this “Imago Dei,” this supposed human creation “in the image of God”? Theologians and philosophers differ in their interpretations, but basically, were one to believe in the scribblings of Genesis, everything started with God. An entity of some kind. (Who knows his precise nature, or exactly what his origin was? The Bible isn’t real specific about infinity, pre-Genesis.) But God was powerful. No, invincible. The flawless source of all love and reason. Intellect defined.

  I suppose it makes a certain sense, if you were all that, you’d want to play around with creation, if it was your preferred pastime, and to believe the scriptures, it was his. Not to mention, a talent. If I were to buy into the whole theory, I’d like to know if the Earth was his first try or if he’d had some practice. I mean, seven days from oblivion to Eden, fully functioning. Now that’s some serious handiwork!

  And his crowning achievement—Adam and Eve. Created in his image, so flawless, like him. Except for that little thing called free will, something he owned in spades; therefore, they got it, too. And all that free will led to disobedience, the fall away from enlightenment. Still, God, the wellspring of love, offered them salvation through forgiveness. Not through an offering plate, or because they fell on their knees, repeating Hail Marys. Mary—that Mary, anyway—didn’t come along for quite a few years!

  I Almost Quit Reading There

  I have read it before, more than

  once. But the next few sentences

  are underlined. By whose hand,

  I haven’t the slightest clue.

  Even if you can swallow the idea of God, the concept of Imago Dei defies comprehension. Humans aren’t inherently good—a ludicrous proposition. Instinctively, people are barbarians. Cannibals, even. They eat each other alive, get off on torture, inflicting pain. This is not the image of the Gospel God. If God is love, and God is infinite, love would by definition be infinite. But love, for most, is a means to an end, and even in its purest form, it is fleeting. Not infinite. Therefore, there is no God. Simple logic.

  The Mr. Coffee beeps, and I’m

  drawn away from the table to

  the steaming pot of lush-smelling

  hot liquid. As I pour a cup, add

  a heaped teaspoon of sugar,