Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  I’m in the middle of brushing

  my teeth when her text finally

  comes. GOING BOWLING WITH

  WITH MY YOUTH GROUP. PIZZA

  AFTER. FINISHED AROUND FOUR.

  I’LL CALL YOU WHEN WE’RE DONE.

  This Time

  It’s an emotional one-two punch

  striking my solar plexus.

  One: anger.

  Two: jealousy.

  One.

  Two.

  One.

  Two.

  Straight to the gut.

  Powerful blows

  in repetitive action.

  How

  could

  she

  do

  this

  to

  me?

  My resident little voice

  of reason—the one who

  always talks me down

  from the reactive cliff—

  seems to have

  vacated my cranium.

  Can’t Sit Around Here

  Waiting for the figurative knockout

  blow. The interior turbulence

  is building, and if I don’t want

  it to shake me apart, I’d better

  find a way to release it.

  Only one thing I know

  can accomplish that.

  It resides in a lockbox

  beneath the seat of my truck.

  Technically, I need

  a concealed carry permit

  to keep my Glock 34 there,

  and I can’t get that until

  I’m twenty-one, despite

  having taken the course.

  Pistol and instruction were gifts

  from Dad, which led to a memorable

  eighteenth birthday, both because

  of the most unexpected presents

  and the fight that instigated

  between him and Mom.

  It Started

  The moment I opened the box.

  Unloaded, unpolished, unpacked

  from its wrappings, still the Glock

  looked remarkably deadly.

  Mom: A gun? Are you insane?

  He’s not mature enough for a gun.

  Dad: Plenty of kids his age have guns,

  and he needs to excel at something.

  Mom: What are you talking about?

  He’s at the very top of his class.

  Dad: Academically, yes, but he sucks

  at sports. Team sports, anyway.

  Mom: What do sports have to do

  with this? Shooting isn’t a sport.

  Dad: Don’t be an idiot. Haven’t

  you ever heard of hunting?

  The volume of their argument

  increased as the tension escalated.

  Mom: You hunt with a rifle. This is

  a handgun. Only serial killers

  go hunting with handguns.

  Dad: Target shooting is a sport,

  too. You can do that with a handgun.

  Don’t you know anything?

  Mom: Why are you attacking me?

  Do you really think this is a good

  idea, all things considered?

  Dad: You mean because he’s seeing

  a ther-a-pist? (Disdain evident.)

  Maybe this is all the therapy he needs.

  Mom: He has no idea how to shoot

  that thing. What if he accidentally

  puts a bullet through someone’s head?

  Dad: You don’t have to worry

  about that. I signed him up for

  a course at Jessie’s range.

  That wasn’t quite the end

  of the “discussion.” But I tuned

  the rest out about there.

  Dad’s Motive

  For buying the gun remains

  murky. But I was fascinated

  immediately, and he proved

  right about a couple of things.

  Shooting is therapy.

  And I’m really, really good at it.

  I practice a lot at Uncle Jessie’s

  range. He says I should enter

  competitions, and maybe I will.

  But not till I’m unbeatable.

  Not that I worry a lot about

  what Dad thinks of my talents—

  or lack thereof. But for once

  it would be nice to prove to him

  that his disappointment of a son

  is not only good at something

  besides academics, but he is,

  in fact, the absolute best.

  Sunday on a Holiday Weekend

  Uncle Jessie isn’t here at the range,

  playing NRA-butt-kissing owner,

  and I’m pleased about that. I love

  my gun, but I despise gun politics.

  I don’t want to massacre little kids,

  I just want to hit bull’s-eyes on targets.

  If they happen to resemble some Al

  Qaeda goon, well, that’s a fortunate

  bonus. The Glock 34 is a competition

  gun. Quick to load and reload. Smooth

  slide action. Not too much recoil, at

  least if you grip it correctly.

  Dad showed me the basics—how

  to load and check for chambered

  bullets. Where not to put my thumb

  to avoid the backward kick of the slide.

  The Weaver stance, which is his choice,

  one leg slightly behind the other.

  But Uncle Jessie taught me finesse

  and nuance. How to bring the gun up

  from the holster, right hand positioned

  correctly to shoot without the aid

  of the left if need be. Where to place

  the left and how to utilize it for maximum

  control and cushion. How to focus

  most on the far sight, rather than

  the near, which actually blurs just

  a bit because of concentrating so hard

  on the other. The Isosceles stance—

  feet parallel, upper body forward

  and triangular to the plant, allowing

  free side-to-side swing at the waist.

  The last is more important for taking

  out moving targets. Uncle Jessie knows.

  He was infantry in Iraq. Lost an eye

  to shrapnel on his second tour. After

  his discharge, he had a choice: go

  to Portland, live with his parents,

  and design video games; or move

  to his grandparents’ property and farm.

  Didn’t want to do either, he told me.

  Fake shooting on-screen is for pussies.

  Farming is for fools, but I’ve always

  loved this piece of land. The shooting

  range was his compromise. And damned

  if he can’t hit bull’s-eyes square despite

  his handicap. It only takes one eye to

  sight, son. But you go ahead and use two.

  I Use Two

  For a couple of hours. I’m off

  my game a little today,

  and I’m pretty sure my lack

  of concentration has to do

  with still being pissed.

  The initial earthquake

  of anger has receded.

  But the aftershocks keep

  coming in rhythmic succession.

  Finally, I give up, pack it in,

  and go home, where it’s very

  quiet. Dad’s sleeping off

  his tough morning. Mom’s

  gone. I wash off the gunshot

  residue, put on a clean shirt.

  It’s probably not enough.

  Hayden does not share

  my passion for shooting,

  and she can always smell

  gun on me after I spend time

  at the range. One time I told

  her it was better than smelling

  something else on me.

&nbs
p; She didn’t appreciate the joke.

  Four O’Clock

  Arrives. Goes. Four ten.

  Four fifteen. Four twenty.

  By the time her call finally

  comes at four twenty-five,

  I’m pacing. A big ol’

  simmering pot of pissed.

  I consciously lower

  my boiling point

  before I detonate.

  Deep breaths. Liquid Metal,

  turned way up loud,

  the blazing beat absorbing

  what’s left of my anger.

  By the time I reach Pizza

  Hut, I’m mostly in control.

  Until I turn the corner, see

  them standing beneath the eaves,

  backs to the building, bundled

  against the cold. Hayden. Jocelyn.

  And some guy who’s in his early

  twenties. Though he’s a head

  taller than me, he’s slender.

  I could kick his ass if I wanted

  to, and maybe I do. As I pull

  to the curb across the street,

  two things are apparent.

  Jocelyn is flirting unmercifully

  with him—hardly “Christian,”

  and I hate how familiar that sounds.

  But what I despise

  is how his eyes completely

  overlook Jocelyn, despite her best

  efforts, because they are locked

  on Hayden. She says something,

  and he smiles, and there is way

  too much obvious affection there.

  I tap the horn to ruin the moment.

  Hayden turns, waves, and

  her smile is all for me. I think.

  She gives Jocelyn a quick hug

  and as she starts away the guy

  touches her arm, redirecting

  her attention toward his goodbye.

  I definitely want

  to kick his spindly ass.

  She Crosses the Street

  And I get out of the truck, wait

  for her. I want him to see me greet

  her with a kiss, and more, I want

  him to see her kiss me back.

  I hope she can’t hear the anger

  hissing in my ears, or see the way

  it’s crawling, crimson, up my neck.

  I pull her into me for said kiss, gaze

  fixed over her head on the guy,

  who is most assuredly assessing

  every move she makes. The hiss swells

  into a growl so I close my eyes, reach

  for her mouth with my own, silently

  pleading with her to prove how very

  much she loves me. She rewards

  me with a swift, dry osculation,

  then slips out of my arms and walks

  around to the passenger side. I follow

  closely, open the door to let her in.

  “Do I smell like onions or something?”

  I don’t give her a chance to answer

  before shutting the door. Sometimes

  jerkish behavior is sort of called for.

  We Are a Half Block Away

  Headed toward where, I have no clue,

  when I snap, “Who was that guy?”

  She acts all innocent. What guy?

  Oh, do you mean Judah?

  “Judah? What kind of a name

  is that?” Lame, that’s what kind.

  Judah. As in Judah Ben-Hur?

  He’s our youth minister.

  “Oh, really? Are you you sure?

  He’s kind of young for a minister,

  don’t you think? Has anyone

  checked his credentials?” Snarky,

  and she does not appreciate the snark.

  He’s still in the seminary, Matt.

  He has a one-year internship at our

  church, working with Pastor Bohart.

  Judah believes he’s been called

  to youth ministry. He’s so inspirational!

  If She Gushed Any More

  She’d drown in her own gushiness.

  I want to yell. Instead, I grumble.

  “Inspirational? Looked more

  like robbing the cradle to me.”

  Robbing . . . You’re kidding, right?

  She plasters on a ridiculous grin, but it

  vanishes when she analyzes my expression.

  Wait. Don’t tell me you’re jealous?

  “Let’s see. We were supposed to spend

  the afternoon together, then go out

  for Thai. Instead you go bowling and eat

  pizza with your perverted youth minister.

  First of all, when have you ever gone

  bowling? And second, his eyes were

  crawling all over you. No wonder

  you’re so hot on youth group lately.”

  As for bowling, there’s a first time

  for everything. I sucked, but so what?

  And as for the rest, don’t be ridiculous.

  Christ called me to youth group.

  “That’s amazing. Did he use a phone,

  or just shout your name down from on

  high? Nah, that can’t be it, or I would

  have heard it, too.” I’m on thin ice

  but I can’t seem to stop skating.

  “I mean, an all-powerful God would

  have a pretty loud voice and all, right?”

  Damn. I might have just fallen through

  the veneer. She’s steaming. Why

  are you being so nasty, Matthew?

  If you really think I’d cheat on you,

  and with a minister, no less, maybe

  we need to rethink our relationship.

  I can’t believe you have such a low

  opinion of me. I didn’t eat pizza,

  but I’m not hungry. Take me home.

  I’m almost there already, but now

  I want to apologize. Except, I don’t.

  She’s infuriating! How can she make

  me feel so bad about being right?

  And, Worse

  How can she make me feel

  so rotten about tomorrow

  being a holiday? Apologize?

  Don’t apologize? Pretty sure

  this isn’t salvageable, but

  I’m damn sure going to try.

  “I’m sorry, Hayden. I know

  you wouldn’t cheat on me. . . .”

  Hardly Christian, after all.

  “Yes, I was jealous, and it’s

  an obnoxious thing to be. . . .”

  Pretty much like you were

  approximately two days ago.

  She’s softening, and I really

  should stop right here. Even

  realizing that, my mouth keeps

  motoring. “But that guy has got

  a definite thing for you. By the way,

  you do realize that Judah Ben-Hur

  is a fictional character, right?”

  Emphasis on the word that means “fake.”

  Too Much

  I went too far; of course I did.

  The barrier that had just started

  to crumble reconstructs, solid.

  How can you be so condescending?

  You don’t even know Judah.

  I suck. She sucks. This sucks. So,

  suck it up. “You’re right.” Deep breath.

  “I don’t know him, and I don’t want to.

  But I don’t want you to be mad at me.

  I completely trust you, Hayden.”

  I wish that were true, but the fact is,

  I don’t completely trust anyone.

  And when I reach for her hand and

  she jerks it away, I have to wonder

  if it’s just out of anger, or if some

  ugly ulterior motive is at play.

  As I pull into her driveway, stop

  the truck to let her out, I withdraw

  into pouty juveni
le mode, “Why

  wouldn’t you kiss me back there?”

  I don’t know, Matt. Who were you

  trying to impress? Me? Or him?

  Valid Question

  One she doesn’t allow

  me time to answer.

  She storms toward

  her door without so

  much as a wave, or

  even a backward glance.

  Damn, she is something—

  anger evident in the way

  she tosses her hair and

  thrusts her hips side to side.

  She is haunting. Daunting.

  High maintenance, but

  totally worth the effort.

  Any guy with a libido and

  half a brain would want

  to possess her, and if that

  includes Fake Minister Judah,

  why should that surprise me?

  If I’m not careful, I’ll lose

  her, and that could spell

  the end of Matthew Turner.

  So why do I seem hell-bent

  on chasing her away?

  I Spend the Next Thirty-Six Hours

  Wondering if I’ve done exactly that.

  It’s a struggle not to go crawling up

  to her door on my hands and knees.

  Except, wouldn’t her father love that?

  Two major quarrels over the span

  of one holiday weekend, and that

  doesn’t even include the ones I had with

  my parents. By Tuesday, not a single

  word from her, I’m wrecked. I fake

  my way through English and calculus,

  concentration impossible. I don’t see

  her in the hallways, wonder if she’s even

  here, until the lunch bell rings. I find

  her in the cafeteria, surrounded by

  her posse of believers, who are no doubt

  discussing the relative merits of their youth

  minister. When I gesture for her to join

  me, I’m terrified she’ll shake her head.

  Instead, she says something to her friends,

  grabs her book—The Perks of Being

  a Wallflower, I can tell by the cover—

  and comes over without hesitation. She tilts

  her chin, reaching for a kiss. Relief upwells.

  I whisper in her ear, “Thank you,” encircle

  her with one arm, and acknowledge

  her gift of forgiveness. This is the kiss

  I wanted two days ago. The one that makes

  everyone in this chili-stinking room understand

  that Hayden and I are in love. Unfortunately,

  it draws the attention of Ms. Hannity,