Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  especially when you’re not

  used to imbibing, and Luke

  definitely was not. But the post-

  nuptial spirits flowed freely, no

  one caring about which direction

  and, encouraged by his new

  “friend” to match him drink

  for drink, my brother managed

  to consume a lot. Of course, so

  did I, so I didn’t really notice

  until Dad came storming across

  the clearing where we were sitting—

  Luke next to Jeremy, and me beside

  our pretty little cousin Persephone

  (yes, I know!). I’d been paying more

  attention to her than to Luke, who,

  as I was about to find out, had been

  “making a scene,” though it

  was obvious to no one but Dad

  until the second he thundered,

  What the fuck are you doing?

  Do you want everyone to think

  you’re a fag or something?

  The Slur Factor

  Was to the nth degree, but the loud

  factor was even worse. Everyone

  homed on the unfolding melodrama.

  Especially when Jeremy responded

  before Luke could even react. What’s

  wrong with fags? Personally, I love ’em.

  Which might have been okay, except

  Jeremy was easily as drunk as Dad,

  and actually leaned toward Luke as if

  to give him a sloppy kiss. Dad reacted

  poorly to that, grabbing hold of Jeremy’s

  collar and jerking him to his feet. I thought

  he might haul off and punch him straight

  in the face, and tried to divert such action

  with a moment of levity, launching into

  the last verse of “God Save the Queen.”

  Most people wouldn’t believe I actually

  knew the lyrics to the song, but it so happened

  I’d learned them for extra credit on a history

  project I’d done the year before. Talk

  about fortuitous coincidences! To the tune

  of “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” “From every

  latent foe, from the assassin’s blow, God

  save the Queen.” That cracked up Persephone,

  Luke, and Jeremy, who spit laughter

  in Dad’s face, initiating an apoplectic

  bloom of scarlet in his booze-puffed cheeks.

  Any chance at situational lightening

  immediately dissolved. What’s so funny,

  you little shit? By then, people were

  moving in our direction, so I felt

  emboldened. “Aw, come on, Dad.

  In my humble estimation, that was

  hilarious. Hope there aren’t any Brits

  here, but if there are, I’m very sorry.

  Didn’t mean to be offensive.” I’d like

  to say Dad cooled off right away, but

  it took Uncle Shawn’s intervention

  to make him disengage from Jeremy’s ruff.

  Now who’s making a scene, Dad, that’s

  what I wanted to say, especially as Luke

  withdrew to safety behind his superjock facade.

  That Was His Fortress

  Fragile as it was. He despised

  hiding behind the pretense,

  but he hated more:

  Pissing off Dad.

  Worrying Mom.

  Embarrassing me.

  Losing his friends

  and me losing mine.

  All because of who he was.

  How he was born. Who

  he was programmed genetically

  to love. Although, tell

  that to Dad, he’d claim

  you were insane, that no

  gene of his could possibly

  be responsible for gayness.

  The funny thing is, until

  his meltdown at Aunt Sophie’s

  wedding, I’d never before

  witnessed Dad’s raging

  homophobia. Did he only

  hate “gay” when it so obviously

  manifested itself in his son?

  I Watch Him Now

  One minute to go in the game,

  Cottage Grove leading by sixteen

  points, but he’s not celebrating yet.

  In fact, he paces the sideline, yelling,

  Move it! Watch the block!

  Pressure, pressure, even more pressure.

  That’s how he coaches and, hey, who

  am I to argue with a winning strategy?

  Hayden et al scream right along with him.

  I slip my arm around her shoulder, pull

  her ear against my lips. “We already won.”

  Then, in a bold bid for attention, I run

  the tip of my tongue along the contours

  of her auricle. Great word, and interesting

  that the term for outer ear is also a part

  of the heart. Are they physically connected?

  Could the way into a girl’s inner chamber

  in fact be licking her ear?

  Apparently Not

  Hayden gives me an inelegant

  elbow to the ribs and hisses,

  Stop it. Do you want everyone to see?

  Before I can respond, tell her

  I really hope the entire world

  sees, the buzzer rings. Game over.

  The crowd is on its collective feet,

  our side cheering, theirs sighing.

  One or two look like they might define

  poor sportsmanship. I can see more

  than one raised middle finger. Lame.

  It’s just a freaking game. Hayden and I

  trail the Biblettes down from the bleachers.

  As they start toward the exit doors, I figure

  I’d better ask, “I’m driving you, right?”

  She hesitates. It’s late, and a school

  night, and I’ve got a chem quiz tomorrow. . . .

  “I swear I’ll take you straight home and only

  bum a kiss or two for my effort. Don’t worry.

  It’s too dark for your dad to play spy.”

  I can tell she’s thinking about saying

  no, so I tempt, “Please? I want to tell

  you about what my therapist said.”

  Success! She taps Jocelyn’s shoulder.

  Matt’s taking me home. See you tomorrow.

  That nets me a wicked glare from

  Big J, but then she shrugs and hurries

  ahead. Score one for me, and why not?

  It’s only fair that I win once in a while.

  The teams are finished shaking hands.

  Dad’s at the end of the line, looking . . .

  My first thought was “proud,” but I realize

  a more accurate word would be “smug.”

  Maybe he’s the one who those guys

  were flipping off. Whatever. I wave

  and he reciprocates. “What got into

  my dad? He actually acknowledged me.”

  Don’t be so melodramatic, Matt.

  Why wouldn’t he acknowledge you?

  “Me? Melodramatic?” Only if truth is melodrama.

  Outside

  The usual mist has turned to out-and-out

  downpour. I halt Hayden beneath

  the wide overhang. “Stay here and I’ll bring

  the truck around.” It doesn’t take long,

  but by the time I return, she’s standing

  alone, haloed yellow by sodium light,

  an angel. If there were any argument

  for a heaven, or even paradise on earth,

  there it is, embodied by my beautiful

  Hayden. I park on the sidewalk, close

  as I can, so she doesn’t have to take

  more than three steps in the rain. Still,

&nb
sp; when she climbs up into the truck,

  her long hair drips, and her makeup

  smears beneath her eyes. I think about

  making a joke, but she looks fragile,

  so wordlessly, I reach into the center

  console, extract a tissue, and gently wipe

  the black streaks away. “Have I ever told

  you you’re amazing?” I expect a love-

  sponged response. Instead, she pushes

  my hand away. I think we’d better go.

  Seriously Stung

  I put the truck into gear, pull

  into the stream of cars leaving

  the parking lot before I say,

  “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t know.

  “Of course you do.

  Talk to me.”

  I can’t tell you.

  “Martha says—”

  Who’s Martha?

  “My therapist, but you

  should know that. I’ve

  told you her name before.”

  Guess I should pay

  better attention. What

  does she say?

  “That relationships struggle

  without open communication.”

  I don’t mention the fact that I

  was supposed to be the one

  communicating my displeasure.

  Martha’s right, but . . .

  “But what?”

  But sometimes I worry

  if I tell you what’s on

  my mind, you’ll freak.

  “Come on, Hayd. You know

  I’m the benevolent King

  of Cool. What’s the problem?”

  She thinks it over. Finally

  decides to take Martha’s advice.

  It’s just you always say

  things like I’m amazing.

  And you kiss me like you

  really love me . . .

  “I love you with all my heart.”

  So why don’t you want me?

  Want? Wait

  Just hold on one freaking second.

  Is she saying what I think she is?

  “I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

  I mean, if I’m so amazing and

  beautiful and all, why don’t you

  ever try to have sex with me?

  Holy shit! She was saying what

  I thought she was. “I—I—I’m kind

  of speechless, Hayden. It’s called

  respect—for you, and your beliefs.

  I just never thought . . .” Not for one

  second did I consider she might be

  like my mother was at her age.

  You could have at least given

  me the chance to say no. I feel

  like you say all the right things,

  but you don’t really mean them.

  Maybe I’m not so attractive, or

  maybe there’s something else

  going on, something a whole

  lot worse, like . . .

  Oh Man

  I think I set myself up with all that

  communication business. “Like what?”

  We’re closing in on her house,

  so I pull over a couple of blocks

  away, just in case her dear old dad

  has night-vision binocs or something.

  Well, I talked to Joce about it and

  she said maybe the problem is

  you’re like your brother.

  “Wait. You talked to fucking

  Jocelyn about why I’ve never tried

  to have my way with you? And wait.

  The prevailing theory is it’s because

  I’m gay? Why, because if Luke

  was there’s a good chance I am, too?”

  Anger courses like a storm-swollen

  creek. Judah says it’s possible,

  that there does seem to be—

  “Okay, screw that! You talked to him

  about me, too? What the hell is wrong

  with you? Oh, I get it. This is the way

  good Christians gossip, right? Bathroom

  discussions, post-communion, about

  how to make their boyfriends come on

  to them, so they can feel all holy about

  turning them down—sanctimonious prick

  tease.” I grab her hand, yank it into my crotch.

  “You want to feel my boner? It won’t take

  much. Just wiggle your fingers a little.

  Jesus Christ, Hayden, I am so not gay!

  Do you have any idea how many times

  I’ve left you and had to go home and jerk

  off?” As if to prove it, my dick jumps

  to attention. “There. See? Let’s have sex

  right now! Unzip me. This will be fun.”

  Stop it! She jerks her hand away,

  and now somehow it’s her who’s

  pissed. Her eyes spill pain-spiked

  tears. Why are you being so mean?

  “I’m not the one talking shit about

  you behind your back! Might as well

  give you something to bitch about

  tomorrow. Anyway, I thought this is what

  you wanted. Make up your mind, okay?”

  I’m out of breath, and she’s out the door,

  stomping up the sidewalk in the rain. Fuck.

  I Drive Home

  Way too fast on the storm-slicked streets, but recklessness

  feels good, feels right. This late on a weeknight, traffic

  is light, but should I come across someone minding

  the speed limit, I punch the accelerator, pass without

  much thought. The abandon initiates a major head rush,

  no foreign substance required. I’m buzzed. Buzzing.

  It feels so good, I drive right by the turnoff to our house,

  head out a deserted back road, almost daring some lazing

  cop to fire up his engine and come after me. But I see

  no cruisers. No other cars. Nothing but a fucking deer,

  smack on the center line! “Oh, shit!” I hit the horn,

  stomp the brakes, steer into the inevitable fishtail,

  and somehow manage to correct without losing

  the asphalt or catching the doe with my bumper.

  Now I feel better than buzzed. I feel invincible.

  At least, until I remember what brought this on

  in the first place. One close call tonight is more

  than enough. I drive home ten above the limit.

  I Walk Through the Door

  A little past eleven. The house is already

  fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

  No need to expose the ruse. I’m still wound

  up, and in fact the recent exhilaration, coupled

  with the earlier conversation with Hayden,

  has made me want a shower. And not a cold one.

  I go to my room for clean post-soaping clothes,

  and when I extricate my cell from my jeans,

  notice I’ve got a text. Unbelievably, Hayden

  has already apologized. VERY SORRY. I WAS

  TOTALLY WRONG. FORGIVE ME? Bitch. I toss

  the phone on my bed, grab fresh underwear,

  a folded T-shirt, some flannel pants, try

  to remember not to slam my way down the hall,

  into the bathroom. By the time the water

  steams, I’m hard as hell—from frustration

  and anger and that incredibly close call

  on the highway. I am a warrior, and suddenly

  I understand the base desire of the conquerer.

  Having no one to rape and nothing to pillage

  but myself, I step into the hot water stream,

  lather up with Mom’s fancy rosemary bath gel,

  and when I close my eyes, it is Hayden I imagine

  ramming into, take extreme pleasure in her pain.

  Marginally Satisfied


  Skin and hair scented with rosemary,

  I return to my room, check my cell.

  Sure enough, there’s another text:

  YOU’RE NOT STILL MAD AT ME, RIGHT?

  Had it really been her in the shower,

  I might have found a small measure

  of forgiveness, but as it is, hell yeah,

  I’m still pissed. Thankfully, Martha

  has prescribed medication for nights

  like this, when I just won’t sleep any

  other way. The dosage on the label

  reads, Take one or two for anxiety.

  Since I already brushed my teeth

  and won’t be chasing the pills with beer,

  I pop three with water, turn off the lights,

  burrow in beneath my thick, heavy quilt,

  wait for the plunge into paradise. My brain

  begins to thicken, a not altogether unpleasant

  sensation except for the way it coalesces

  around a single word: forgiveness.

  Forgive

  Forgive.

  Forgive.

  Forgive.

  Over and over,

  smaller and smaller,

  a receding echo.

  Forgive Hayden.

  Forgive Mom and Dad.

  Forgive yourself.

  And where did that come from?

  Forgive myself for what, exactly,

  you bastard internal voice?

  I wait for the answer,

  but before it comes, I’m falling,

  somersaulting down into Shangri-la,

  courtesy of Miss Martha’s little helpers,

  followed by a random echo:

  Luke.

  Luke.

  Luke.

  By Friday

  I still haven’t forgiven a single person.

  Least of all myself.

  On the surface, Hayden and I are fine.

  Except, not really.

  Dig a millimeter beneath my epidermis.

  Blood trickles, chilled.

  I told her I’m okay. With her. With us.

  But I’m not so sure.

  I don’t know how to act with her.

  What to do. What to say.

  Should I tell her she’s totally stunning?

  Or insist she’s hot as hell?

  Should I coax her hand into mine?

  Or maul her boobs?

  What freaking role should I play?

  Respectful boyfriend? Stud?

  And maybe the biggest question of all:

  Would the true Hayden please step forward?

  Zero Communication