Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse, #Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, #Dating & Sex
hundred dollars, and worth
every dime if it makes her smile.
It Is Past Ten
By the time Cara is finished
cheering. She exits the gym
with Kendra and Shantell,
all three looking pretty hot
in their short black skirts.
Comparing the three, Shantell
is on the short side, round,
big boobs. Kendra is the flip
side of that—thin as a twig
and almost as tall as I am.
And Cara? Cara is perfect—
all taut, muscular curves
wrapped in kid-leather skin,
with hair like waves of summer
wheat and golden eyes that
remind me of autumn leaves.
I want to eat her up, keep
her a part of me always.
I wave, and she peels from
the group, heads my way.
A winter-clipped breeze
blows through her sweat-
dampened hair. She shivers,
and when I open my arms,
she leans into me gratefully.
Thanks for being so patient,
she says, head against my chest.
I don’t know what’s wrong
with me.
She looks up, smiles,
and the world rights itself,
shimmers with her glow.
“Ah, you know, we all get
a little crazy sometimes.
Anyway, tonight is about
what’s right.” I find the red
velvet box in my pocket.
“I knew this was you as
soon as I saw it. Happy
Valentine’s Day. I love you,
Cara.” So much it hurts.
I Wait For Her
To tell me she loves me, too.
She doesn’t, but she does
open the box, and when she
sees the heart-shaped diamond
pendant inside, she gasps.
Oh, Sean. It’s beautiful, but
you shouldn’t have spent so
much.… I mean, I love it, but…
But? I don’t like the sound
of “but.” I take the necklace
from her hands. “Turn around.”
I wrap the chain gently around
her neck, fumbling the clasp
like a dork. “This isn’t even close
to what I’d give you if I could.”
Cara lifts onto her tiptoes,
looks deep into my eyes.
Thank you.
And now she kisses
me like I want to be kissed. So why
does my body refuse to respond?
Andre
To Be Kissed
Like they do in movies—
glossy lips parting
in bold invitation,
hungry mouths
meeting,
igniting the blistering
passion most can only
dream of. To be kissed
like they do in books,
some exotic
setting beguiling two
ordinary people, bewitching
them with its subtle
perfumes until,
stranger
inextricably linked to
stranger, their lives
are forever changed.
I am only kissed like this
in dreams.
Academically
The Zephyr Academy is a fine school.
Great, engaging
teachers. All advanced placement classes,
no more than twelve students to a classroom.
You can’t ask
for a better environment if you want to learn
the things you need to get into an Ivy League
college. (I gave up on
that idea years ago, though I kept that decision
to myself until I absolutely had to confess it.)
As far as a thriving social
scene goes, though… uh, there isn’t one.
Oh, there are a couple of campus romances
happening. But
face it, two hundred sixteen kids, grades
seven through twelve, most of them much
more focused on
academics than dating, the odds of hooking
up with someone special here are slim.
Probably why so many
Zephyr students actually get into their chosen
colleges. Easy to focus on your work.
That’s not to say
that there aren’t any cute girls here.
There are a few, and yeah, I’ve had some
casual sex with one
or two. (Okay, maybe three.) But mostly
I go looking elsewhere. Never expected
to find someone
in my mom’s office, waiting for her
sister to get out of a pre-op counseling
session. Jenna is a one-
of-a-kind piece of… art. Kind of stuck
on herself, but who isn’t? And yeah,
I’m a couple of years
older. Something to keep in mind.
Still, I Don’t Plan
To marry her. Don’t even know about
getting in deep.
Mostly, I like how we look together.
Okay, and I like the way she smells.
And the way she feels
when she rubs up against me, purring.
Hmm. I guess I like her. We’ve only gone
out a couple of times.
Tonight will be the third. I’m picking her
up at four thirty. Reno, Friday night, if you
want a decent restaurant,
you get there early or wait for hours.
Almost time to go, I notice Dad is home.
I can hear his poor excuse
for music leaking out from behind his office
door. I should probably say hello. We don’t
see much of each other
lately. Two knocks. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
He pulls his eyes away from his computer.
Doing some research.
He gives me a once-over.
You going out?
Like I always dress in a button-up shirt
and leather jacket. But
I say, “Yeah. Going to dinner and a game.”
Now he looks at me as if he’s seeing
a complete stranger.
Really?
You have a girlfriend or what?
Or what. “She’s not really my girlfriend.
We’ve been out a few
times. But it’s not anything serious.”
Why must he take such an interest in
my uninteresting life?
Oh yeah. Control.
Tell me about her.
I shrug. Give a brief description, omitting
the age difference
thing. Mention she goes to Galena.
He absorbs the information. Blinks twice.
Finally comments,
Blond,
huh?
Which means, “So she’s white?”
“Yes, Dad, she’s white. But don’t worry.
Like I said, it’s not serious.
Not even close. We’re just friends.”
I know what he’s going to say, and he does.
You really should date
black girls. Are you ashamed of your race?
He goes on to talk about artificial beauty
standards, European
versus African, etc. All stuff I’ve heard
before. And more than once. But… “Look,
Dad. It’s not like there
are a whole lot of African Americans in Reno,
anyway. Running into the exact right
black girl won’t happen
that easily. And
this is just a date.
Okay?”
He Says Okay
And we leave it there, though I could
have said a whole
lot more. Like how his own wife
(my toffee-skinned mom) skews
way toward the Anglo
ideal. Like how she has made a fair
amount of money altering the features
of her African American
sisters, all to make them more “beautiful.”
Like, right, wrong, or who fucking cares,
I happen to think
Jenna is pretty and enjoy spending time
with her. Like maybe tonight I might
even kiss her, just to
try it on for size. And if that works out,
well, who knows how much further
we might go? If she
feels the same way about me, of course.
On My Way To Jenna’s
The conversation with Dad replays.
If I were to be honest
with myself, the truth is I have always
been more attracted to girls who reflect
the European standard.
Not that there aren’t gorgeous black women.
But the ones who I’d label beautiful are
models—Tyra Banks,
Naomi Campbell. Selita Ebanks. Tall.
Thin. Long, straight hair. Fairer skinned.
Am I wrong to feel
this way? Does it make me a stereotype?
Or does it in some weird way make me
racist? If it does, would
I be less racist if I were only attracted
to black women? It’s hard enough to
find someone you want
to be with. Why worry about color at all?
It’s A Little Before Five
When we reach Red Lobster. Already
the place is busy.
There’s a twenty-minute wait. We sit
in the lobby, people-watching. And
I’m pretty sure we’re
being people-watched too. Funny,
two hours ago, I wouldn’t have felt
nearly as self-conscious
as I do right now. Jenna intuits it.
Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.
Doesn’t she notice
the way people are staring? Then again,
considering how luscious she looks,
perfect little legs peeking
out from under a way-short skirt, and
dream girl breasts gloved sweetly by
a quite tight sweater,
they are probably not seeing me at all.
Jenna reaches for my hand, reminding
me that she asked
a question. Her fingers thread mine,
a checkered weave. “Sorry. Just thinking
about some stuff my dad
said earlier. It’s not important.” Not
nearly as important as how her skin
feels, sea glass smooth
in the palm of my hand. Or the way
her gardenia-scented hair reminds me
of California summer.
Nothing my dad ever says is important.
Not that he bothers to say much to me
anymore.
She goes on about
her parents’ divorce, beauty pageants,
orthodontia—oh, and did I know her stepdad
and my parents went to
college together? News to me. Weird connection.
Maybe Fate Does Exist
I’ve never much believed in it before.
But now I wonder if
some things are just meant to be.
If so, I should probably quit over-
thinking everything.
Jenna orders lobster raviolis, Caesar
salad, dares to ask the waiter for cabernet.
His dubious expression
makes her say,
Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?
God, she is ballsy. “Do you drink much