Scary Out There (12 page)

want to take a chance on hurting

you before I was sure this was

love. We're talking about a June

wedding. Kind of corny, I know.

Now she looks at him with this

weird adoration in her eyes.

It totally creeps me out and I try

to remember ever seeing her

look at Daddy that way. Nope.

“Well, obviously I can't stop you.

But don't ask me to be a bridesmaid

because I sure as hell won't be there.”

I Stand to Leave

Mark gets to his feet too,

puts a hand on my arm

to halt forward progress.

You go right ahead and

be angry. But don't you

dare talk disrespectfully

to your mother again

because I sure as shit

won't stand for it. You

don't have to like me.

But you do have to accept

that I'll be living here,

and that means if you want

to keep living here too,

it will be by my rules. Get it?

I jerk away, sheer hatred

foaming at the corners

of my mouth. I glance

at Mom, whose eyes stay

fixed on the muted TV.

I really want to spew a stream

of obscenities, but know

it will only make me feel better

for the shortest of moments

before the crap pile hits

the fan. So I fall back on

my usual, “Whatever,”

turn on one heel and stalk

from the room. This will be

a two Valium night.

Tumbling Early

Toward abysmal

sleep, I know morning

will still arrive too

soon to vanquish

the pills' shadow.

I stumble to my desk,

find my phone in

the depths of my purse,

struggle to set the alarm

that will send me off

toward school on time.

My sight blurs and

my head spins, but I

manage (I think)

the necessary task.

Now I wrangle myself

out of my clothes,

slip naked between

the sheets, set my cell

on the nightstand.

I turn off the lamp,

inviting night's envelope,

and just before I close

my eyes, notice the text,

highlighted in red.

No rules here.

If Sunday Was Awful

Monday is worse, starting

with the alarm dragging me

into the mist-shuttered morning.

I'm a crawling, voiceless zombie.

I skip breakfast and manage

to escape out the door without

having to talk to Mom. Screw

her. And Mark. And Pastor Smyth

and anyone else involved in

the upcoming farce. I get to school

just as the first bell rings, which

makes me tardy to first period.

And from there it's all downhill.

My chemistry test comes back marked

F, with the cheerful comment:

If this represents your cumulative

knowledge to date, be prepared

to repeat this class next year.

In the hall on the way to English,

Taryn Murphy elbows me into

a locker.
Get out of my way, freak.

Who taught you how to put makeup

on, anyway?
Considering I'm not

wearing any, what the hell?

PE brings the ultimate nightmare

cliché—starting one's period right

before changing into white shorts.

Not going to happen. I go ahead

and ditch, ducking around the gym

to hang out in smoker's alley.

I'd probably bum a cigarette,

except there's no one here but me,

so I settle, back against a building

wall, on a thin strip of cement.

Face turned into the weak sun, I close

my eyes, feel the cloud appear.

It Arrives

On wing, chill and

menacing, accompanied

by a trio of squawks.

Chloe.

Chloe.

Chloe.

Not one crow this

time, but three, as alike

as single-egg triplets.

Black feathers.

Black talons.

Black pearl eyes.

I should be scared.

So why does crazy laughter

spill from my mouth?

They circle.

They caw.

They perch on a wire overhead.

“Screw you,” I say out

loud. “What you gonna do,

peck me to death?”

Black feathers ruffle.

Black talons stretch.

Black pearl eyes stare.

“Screw this,” I echo,

getting to my feet,

hoping the crows

don't smell blood.

The Day Doesn't Improve

In Government, I sit in back, staring

out the window, watching a murder

descend, a black feathered storm

cloud, over the branches of a big oak.

The crows must've smelled blood

after all. Mr. Webb notices my inattention,

calls me out on it, initiating a chorus

of snickers. I freaking hate school.

I do manage to meet up with my pill

connection in the parking lot right

after the last bell. Two good minutes

out of four hundred eighty or so.

I've got a mountain of homework,

but I'm still not ready to go head

to head with Mom about her totally

selfish decision to marry another cop.

So, rather than turn toward home,

I detour across the city, to the cemetery

I visited just a couple of days ago.

This time I go ahead and travel the road

Cam's funerary entourage parked

along. I've only got an approximate

location for where his grave should be,

but it doesn't take long to find the spot

where the grass was recently peeled

back like skin to let the backhoe dig

a casket-sized hole, drop a Cam-filled

coffin in, then close it all back up again.

Sprays of wilting chrysanthemums

and lilies leak their dying perfumes

into air richly scented with damp earth.

“Is this what Paradise smells like?”

I lie on top of Cam Voss's fresh grave,

back against the thick peel of grass,

pretending I can't hear bones rattle,

until I'm chilled all the way through.

I'm Shivering

When my cell buzzes in my pocket.

My stomach knots dread, but I can't

not look. Will I learn how Paradise

smells? But no. It's a text from Mom.

Went out with Mark after work. Ring

shopping. There's pizza in the fridge.

Rings. Awesome. What's next?

A white freaking dress? Oh, well.

At least I won't have to go head

to head with her tonight about

the insane decision to commit

her life—and mine—to a cop again.

A dark form appears suddenly

in the sky, circling. Circling.

Closer. Closer. It's black, but

too big for a crow. A buzzard,

that's what it is, circling to take

a peek at the quiet form lying

here like a headstone. I jump

to my feet. “I'm not dead yet!”

I yell. Still the ugly bird makes

long, slow loops above my head.

I hurry to my car, drive surface

streets home to avoid evening

traffic. Mom is still gone

when I walk through the door,

and that's just fine with me. I go

into my room, toss my backpack

on the floor, remove the textbooks

I'm supposed to read. Thirty pages

in one, twenty in another. Not to

mention the essay due tomorrow

that I haven't even started. Nope.

Not going to happen. I reach

into my pocket for my phone.

Not sure why. No one ever calls

and, other than the odd one from

my mom, the only texts I get anymore

come from my demented psyche.

Hey. Where is it? Not in either

pocket. I check my bag, dump it,

in fact. All that falls out is my wallet,

two pens, a half pack of gum,

and enough pills to put me in

the proper place for several days.

Anxiety nibbles, a caterpillar

chewing into my brain. I go ahead

and down a Valium, pray the worm

turns into a butterfly. Just in case,

I search my backpack. Nothing

but homework. I must've dropped

my phone somewhere between

grave and VW. I could drive back,

but it's a long way, I'm starting

to get buzzed, and I don't really

want to wander around a cemetery

at night. I'll go tomorrow and hope

no grave robber finds it first.

I Head to the Kitchen

For a drink and a cold slice.

I'm reaching into the fridge

when I hear a familiar ringtone.

My phone is on the counter.

No. Impossible. I didn't take my phone

into the kitchen earlier. My heart

flails, but I push back total

panic, will myself to move closer.

And, of course, there's a message.

I brought your cell. Didn't

want grave robbers to have

it. You owe me. Big time.

I feel sick. I grab my phone and

a glass of water, hurry back

to my room and gulp another pill.

I close my eyes, wait for the kick.

When I open them again, I find words

floating on my computer's black screen.

Come to me, Chloe. I've waited

too long. You're overdue here

and have nothing to live for there.

This isn't happening. So why

do I talk to an empty room?

“You're wrong. I have Mom.”

Not true. She belongs to him

now. Do you really want

to belong to him too?

Good point. What do I have

to live for, really? But . . .

“What's it like in Paradise?”

Remember when I came to you

in bed the other morning?

It's like that whenever you want.

The memory makes me tremble.

“Sounds nice.” My voice is Valium

thick. “But I'm afraid to die.”

Death is an open door—easy

to walk through. What's hard

is living. Take another pill.

Another pill. Yes. I down two,

for good measure. He's right.

Living is hard. I'm tired of it.

I should tell Mom goodbye,

but first I swallow a couple

more tickets to Paradise.

That's it. Hurry, Chloe.

I'm standing right on the far

side of the threshold. Come to me.

One Valium. Two. Three. Toss in

a couple of Percocets. How many

is that now? Can't remember.

Enough? Maybe not. I finish

my stash, one by one. Anticipation

shimmers. “I'm on my way, Cam.”

Sleepy. Getting sleepy. I crash

on my bed, reach for my cell

to call in my final farewell.

There's a text.
No, Chloe!

Turn back. It's horrible here.

Paradise smells like brimstone.

Turn Back?

Too late.

Much too late.

Brimstone?

Paradise.

Lost.

No. “But . . . but . . .

I can't come to you.

I'm good.

Mom says.

Good girls go

to Heaven.”

Across the room,

the computer screen

lights, bloodred.

White letters

lift and throb.

Throb

like

my slowing

heart.

Don't be absurd.

You're a liar, Chloe.

You made a pact

and broke it.

Don't you understand?

Haven't you heard?

You're only as good

as your word.

Ellen Hopkins
is the award-winning author of thirteen
New York Times
bestselling young adult novels in verse, plus four novels for adult readers. She lives near Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra Youth Housing & Resource Initiative, a nonprofit helping youth at risk into safe housing and working toward career goals through higher education. She is both blessed and cursed to care for three generations of children (including her husband), all living under one roof, with two dogs, a rescue cat, and two ponds of koi.

Website:
ellenhopkins.com

Twitter:
@EllenHopkinsLit

Facebook:
facebook.com/ellenhopkinsauthor

RACHEL TAFOYA

I
t started with my toes.

When I woke up on Thursday, I didn't have any toes. I felt my stomach drop out of my body, and I tasted my heart, all bloody and beating. My feet came to an end at a rounded stump. My toes had been surgically removed in the night. That was the only explanation.

I reached out to touch them. Why wasn't there blood everywhere? My fingers met skin, but I saw nothing. My toes were still there, just . . .

Invisible.

I heaved but nothing came up. I put on two pairs of socks. My toes still filled up the ends, and I traced their outline. One two three four five, one two three four five. Toes. I just painted them black. They matched my fingernails. My toes themselves were pretty long, and I never liked looking at them, but it's not like I wanted them to disappear.