Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  reverberate inside my head.

  Dad: Goddamn pussy,

  that’s what he was.

  Goddamn coward, and

  a waste of talent. I can’t

  stand crap like that.

  Doug: He’s a dick licker,

  dude. He’s gonna burn

  in a fiery pit. Don’t that

  bother you just a little?

  Hayden: Maybe it’s because

  you’re like your brother.

  Judah says it’s possible.

  Alexa: I’d never do

  that to a friend.

  Jocelyn: She. Still. Does.

  I Turn on My Right Side

  Flip to my left, jam my pillow

  over my face. But nothing I do

  can quell the stream of memories.

  Finally, I give up trying to sleep

  without pharmaceutical aid and

  wander down the hall to the bathroom,

  where Martha’s sweet little helpers

  await. I swallow two, head back

  to bed. Passing my parents’ bedroom,

  I hear voices beyond the door. Dad’s.

  And one that’s unfamiliar. Female.

  Most definitely not Mom’s. Damn!

  Can’t he wait until a day or three after

  he and Mom are, in fact, divorced?

  A woman in his room, in the gray

  soup of early morning, can only mean

  one thing. What if Mom came home

  suddenly? That he isn’t worried

  about that can only mean one thing,

  too. Why won’t they just talk to me?

  I’ve handled a lot worse things.

  As the Meds Kick In

  The conversations inside

  my thickening head begin

  to mute. Only one person

  remains, more obstinate

  in death than he ever was,

  maneuvering this world.

  Luke, musing:

  What if aliens came from

  more than one planet? And

  some of those guys sucked.

  Like, they were mean and

  stupid. And when they mated

  with monkeys, the people who

  came from them ended up

  being mean and stupid, too.

  I think you had something

  there, Lukester.

  Luke, freaking:

  Oh shit! Matt! Come here.

  Look what someone posted

  on my page. And check out

  the comments. Who? Who’d

  do this? Who knew? Who told?

  Not me, Luke. I never said

  a word to anyone. Promise.

  Luke, coping:

  They’ll get tired of picking

  on me sooner or later, right?

  They’ll get bored, or something.

  Or find somebody new, someone

  weaker to prey on. Right?

  I thought so, too, or I would have

  gone after them. I didn’t want

  to make things worse for you.

  Luke, withdrawing:

  Why do they hate me?

  I never tried to touch them.

  Never even looked at them

  creepily in the locker room.

  He flashed his dick at me,

  asked if I’d suck it good.

  Who’s the queer? Right?

  Compelling question.

  One I never asked that prick.

  But I should have.

  Plunging Toward Sleep

  Unable to stop the fall

  now, even if I wanted to,

  still I remember one last,

  the last, exchange, in fact,

  I’d ever have with my

  totally lost little brother.

  Luke, vacillating:

  Hey, Matt? I love you.

  Not in a gay way, in case

  you think I’m also a perv.

  I wish we’d have more time.

  But I can’t take it anymore.

  This is the only way out.

  Me, distracted:

  “Hey. Don’t mess around.

  I’ll be home in a while and

  we can talk this through.”

  Luke, deciding:

  Tired of talking. At some

  point, you just have to find

  the balls to step off the chair.

  Hope saying “balls” didn’t

  make you uncomfortable.

  Me, Dismissing

  I thought

  he was being

  melodramatic.

  Not like he’d never

  been that before.

  I told him

  to wait. Expected

  he’d listen. He’d always

  listened to me before.

  I should

  have gone.

  Should

  have hurried.

  Should

  have pleaded.

  I

  should

  have

  promised

  to make

  it all

  right.

  I Ascend

  From the depths of dreamless

  sleep, surface the lake of late-

  morning light. Lie motionless

  for a minute or two, trying to

  make sense of the hangover

  rocking. Part pharm. Part guilt.

  I crawl from the covers, limp

  to the bathroom, in giant need

  of a piss. On the return trip,

  I remember the noises emanating

  from the master bedroom and

  pause in the hallway to listen.

  Not sure what for, exactly, because

  were I to catch wind of my dad

  boinking his girlfriend in my mom’s

  bed, I’d probably blow it. Speaking

  of girlfriends, I need to call mine,

  and the importance of that thuds

  in my head. I go to my room, locate

  my phone, check for messages.

  I find one. It’s simple, and from

  Alexa, not Hayden. HAPPY V. DAY.

  I Think It Over

  Decide to respond with

  a simple, RIGHT BACK AT YA.

  No use hurting her feelings.

  Then I call Hayden, who

  is surprisingly cheerful.

  And why did I feel the need

  to attach “surprisingly” to

  the “cheerful”? Regardless,

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,

  my beautiful lady. I made

  a six thirty reservation at

  Stacy’s. Hope that’s okay.”

  It’s my family’s favorite

  special occasion restaurant,

  not haute cuisine, but good.

  “I was hoping we could get

  together earlier, though.

  I want to give you your present,

  and I really do want to talk.

  It’s cool, but the sun is out.

  We could take a walk or ride bikes.”

  She Chooses the Latter

  Almost too enthusiastically.

  This day will either be very,

  very good or total suckage.

  We agree to meet at Bohemia Park,

  where we can catch the paved

  bike trail that skirts the river and

  Dorena Lake. Hayden’s already

  there when I arrive, and I catch

  my breath at the way the afternoon

  sun glints off her hair, haloing

  that amazing face. I tuck her gift

  in the pocket of my flannel vest,

  unload my bike from the bed of

  the truck, all the while staring at

  my girl. I open my arms, and when

  she slides into them, everything feels

  as it should. We kiss, and my upside-

  down world turns itself right again.

  Her lips are soft puffs, flavo
red

  raspberry, and suddenly I’m hungry

  for more of her. Starving for her

  skin, bare against mine, the warm

  of her, the wet of her. Without

  pulling back, I talk into her mouth.

  “I love you. I love you. And I want

  you.” My hands underscore that desire,

  and that makes her tell me, Stop.

  You’re turning that old guy on.

  Sure enough, maybe ten feet away,

  some creepster man is ogling us.

  “We’d better go before he pulls

  it out and whacks off right here.”

  Matt! Sometimes you’re really

  disgusting, you know that?

  “Me? I’m disgusting? Disgusting

  would be if he did pull it out. Let’s go.”

  The Trail

  Is in decent shape, considering

  it’s February. It’s a little slick

  in places where overhanging trees

  have dropped leaves to rot in the rain,

  but Hayden and I are familiar

  with these, so use care. I let her

  ride ahead of me so I can observe

  her slender form, rather stunning

  in clingy jeans. The river is high

  along the mostly level terrain,

  its song loud as it rushes over

  the rocks. Too loud to talk above,

  so we keep pedaling all the way to

  the Dorena Covered Bridge.

  It’s a favored place for weddings

  in the summer and fall, but few

  want to chance the weather in winter,

  so even on Valentine’s Day it’s quiet.

  And this romantic location is where

  we stop. We sit on the railing, and

  I find myself slightly winded. “Man.

  I need to get more exercise. I think

  I’ve got enough air for a kiss, though.”

  She smiles. Only if you promise

  to be a perfect gentleman.

  “What for? There aren’t any dirty old

  men hanging around. And anyway,

  you’re the only one who’s perfect.”

  The kiss is also perfect, and it’s like

  I’ve got the old Hayden back, the one

  who fell as intensely in love with me

  as I did with her. Is she really here

  with me? Is it because we’re so all

  alone, away from her friends and father

  and nonjudgmental minister who does

  nothing but judge? The intensity builds

  and my body responds, but I keep

  my hands away from everything

  they’re begging to touch. “Just so you

  know, being a gentleman sucks.”

  Her Response

  Is an easy laugh,

  and its music is infectious.

  When was the last time

  we laughed together like this?

  It makes me bold enough

  to reach into my pocket

  for the little foil-wrapped box.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  The size of the box throws her.

  She looks at me, a mixture

  of curiosity and fear

  in her eyes. What is it?

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Still she hesitates,

  and a mad jolt of fury

  flashes. “Don’t worry.

  Even your Judah

  would approve.”

  Her entire body stiffens.

  He’s not my Judah.

  Does everything have to

  come back to him?

  Quick! Damage Control

  Don’t mess this up

  now, dimwad. The anger

  bolt fades to black.

  “No. It doesn’t, and I’m sorry.

  Really, I am . . .”

  (Aren’t you sick of asking

  for forgiveness? )

  “I’m an idiot, okay?

  A jealous jerk, and I know

  it, and I’m trying desperately

  to work on it. Just, please

  take your present. I looked

  all over to find just the right

  thing, and I knew this was

  it the minute I saw it.”

  (We do need to talk.)

  Her shoulders relax,

  but her hand quivers

  as she reaches for the box,

  opens to find an emerald

  pendant shaped like an angel.

  “To go with that sweater I like.”

  Hayden Melts

  Into a sticky mess,

  warm, luscious caramel.

  It’s beautiful! Thank you.

  But I—I . . . All I got

  you is a card.

  “I don’t care. I just want

  you to be happy. I just

  want you to love me.”

  Now it’s me who goes

  all soft. “I don’t want to

  lose you, Hayden, and

  I feel you slipping away.”

  She looks down at

  the necklace, as if deciding

  whether or not to keep it.

  Then she lifts her eyes

  again to meet mine.

  Both pairs glisten tears.

  She hands me the pendant,

  turns her back, lifts her hair.

  Fasten it for me, please?

  The gesture is incredibly sexy,

  the wavy wisps at the nape

  of her neck so beautiful,

  that I fumble the clasp

  twice. Finally, I manage

  to close it. Then I lower

  my lips to her neck.

  “An angel for my angel.”

  I kiss the circumference

  of skin just below her jaw,

  turn her to face me.

  She closes her eyes,

  but instead of moving

  my lips to hers, I open

  the top button of her soft

  flannel shirt and kiss down

  the V to where the necklace

  hangs. She trembles and I pause.

  “Sometimes it’s really hard

  to stop. Don’t you

  ever want to?”

  Of course. I want to right

  now. But I can’t. I won’t.

  Not until I get married.

  I Step Away

  Seems to me like being here,

  teasing me and tempting

  herself, is little more than

  a form of self-flagellation.

  But I shall remain wordless

  on the subject. I take her hand.

  Overcome by romance—not

  to mention the need to cool

  things off just a bit—I say,

  “Lots of people get married

  on this bridge. You’d want

  a church wedding, though.”

  Absolutely. I’d never consider

  any other kind. The reception

  could be outdoors. Not the ceremony.

  “Not even if your fiancé asked

  you to change your mind?”

  I’m treading rocky territory.

  I can tell because she extricates

  her hand from mine. My fiancé

  would know me better than that.

  Nothing But the Truth

  I sidestep the possible subtext,

  eager to avoid upsetting the tenor

  of this day. “Maybe we should

  start back. A predinner shower

  is probably in order.” I sniff

  my armpits dramatically. “Phew!

  Definitely in order. Don’t want

  someone confusing me with the brie.”

  She laughs that crystal-pure laugh

  and I think I may have crossed over

  that rough patch of ground. Ever hear

  of an invention called deodorant?

&nb
sp; “Sure, baby. But even the strongest

  antiperspirant can’t touch this manly

  smell.” We hit the return, and when

  we reach town, agree I’ll pick her up

  at six fifteen. She cycles to her house.

  I take my truck and when I get home,

  there’s no one there. Not Dad. Not

  Lorelei. But when I peek into the master

  bedroom, there’s plenty of evidence

  of her visit, my dad’s obsessive neatness

  totally denied by the ridiculous state

  of the bed. Unmade does not come close

  to describing the blankets, tossed

  to the floor, and the sheets, completely

  untucked by whatever action they had

  going on. And the most damning proof

  of all—a pair of lady’s lacy panties,

  tangled in a pair of Dad’s boxers at the foot

  of the bed. Half-disgusted, half-envious,

  I head to the shower, already hard from what

  I just witnessed, coupled with my earlier

  encounter with Hayden. But the scent

  of the soap and the smooth lick of lather

  remind me of only one person. Alexa.

  Traitor

  That’s what I am.

  A slimy

  (satiated),

  no good

  (definitely

  could be better),

  cheating

  (can’t argue with that),

  masculine stereotype.

  I am a soap opera.

  I dress in my best

  imitation GQ outfit—

  crisp chinos, button-down

  chamois, decent suit jacket.

  Think about a tie,

  but decide against it.

  No use going overboard.

  Just for fun, I leave

  my dirties in a small heap

  in front of the clothes hamper.

  At least there aren’t any girl’s

  pretties piled in with them.

  We Hit Our Reservation

  A few minutes early and have

  to wait. I’m admiring the angel

  hanging in the scoop of Hayden’s

  green sweater when I hear a familiar

  laugh at the back of the room.

  It’s Dad, and he’s not alone, which

  might not be so bad except pretty

  much everyone here knows their high

  school’s basketball coach. And

  they also realize his Valentine’s Day

  date is not his wife. “Excuse me

  for a minute.” I leave Hayden behind

  and make my way to the offending

  couple. Dad tears his gaze away from

  Lorelei, who is not so all that, if you ask