Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Chad is maybe sixteen, tall like his mom,
and amazing, with hair the color of a shiny
new penny and superdark eyes that check
me out and make me feel all hot and weird.
They Also Make Me Feel
Not good enough. Like they’re
measuring me and I’m sure to
come up short, the way I always do.
I struggle to find my best real
smile and hiss an awkward, “H-hi.”
Cassie notices my stupid stammer
and crazy embarrassing blush.
She slides her arm around my
shoulder.
Harley says she really
wants to learn how to ace World
of War. I told her you’re the best
gamer I know. You’ll teach her, right?
Now Chad smiles back at me.
Why not? That little bedroom
was getting claustrophobic.
He goes to turn on the PlayStation
and TV. Cassie winks and nudges
me toward the sofa. The gaming begins.
Chad
Master the controller,
conquer the rules and
perhaps for the very first
time in your life, you savor
power. The learning curve
teaches
the value of patience.
Practice. Self-restraint,
when external discipline
has too often forced
you
down on your knees.
Virtual killing is safe passage
to the pleasure of revenge
when you don’t know
how to
get it any other way.
And when you too often
hear people shouting,
“You’re a loser,” kicking
cyber-butt convinces you
that you can
win.
Mikayla
That’s pretty much where you find
yourself when your uncle is the cop
who busts you at a party, stoned
out of your head. Okay, in a way
you win, because he hauls your butt
home instead of taking you to juvie.
But in lieu of institutionalized
lockup, you end up jailed at home.
I should be at Tahoe with Dylan
today. But, no. Dad grounded me
with no set release date. I’m not
even allowed to use my computer
or cell phone. Cut off completely
from the outside world, exiled to
my stupid house, what am I supposed
to do for entertainment? School
would be better than this. I could
pick a fight with Trace, but all that
would do is irritate Mom, who I’m
pretty sure has a hangover. Mom
is my only ally here. She acted all
put out about the party, but I could
tell it was mostly for Dad’s benefit.
She gave me a one-question quiz
about my drug use (deny, deny, deny).
Accepted my lame answer (win, win,
win). And the only thing she said
about my crooked clothes, smeared
makeup and obvious sex perfume
was to take a shower. Okay, she said
it twice. So I’m pretty sure she knew.
We’ve never had that mother-daughter
heart-to-heart you imagine is coming.
I guess, since they start teaching sex
stuff in, like, fourth grade, she figures
she doesn’t need to worry about details.
Of course, Mom is so wrapped up in
herself lately (not to mention pretty
buzzed when she walked in on the scene),
maybe she didn’t notice anything at all.
God, I Miss Dylan
Okay, it’s only been a couple
of days, but it feels like forever.
He’s everything, and all I can think
about right now is how we made love
that night. We had messed around
lots of times before, but it had never
seemed quite like this—much more
about making each other feel good, less
about just having sex. Maybe it was
the Southern Comfort, or the weed
(green and so stony!), or the two
together. But when we took off our clothes
in the back of his Wrangler, skin
raked by cool claws of moonlight,
insane, hot need grabbed hold
of me. All I wanted was his mouth
and tongue kissing me all over
my body. I was wild for it, really.
And that was very new. I think
it kind of scared him, although
he liked the things it made me do.
Things you don’t learn. Things
you just intuit, like you’re born
to do them. Threads in the silk
of womanhood. I feel like a woman
now. It’s weird, because when you
read about sex, or see it in movies,
they work so hard to make it seem
great that it sort of feels like fiction.
But this was not playacting or words
lifted off a page. This was real,
and when we reached that ultimate
peak, it was nothing I’d ever
experienced before. We seriously
both went, “Wow,” in unison.
And then we both laughed. Together.
Afterward, I wasn’t in a hurry to
get dressed. Which explains why,
when the cops showed up, I think
Uncle Stan caught a glimpse of my boobs.
If I Keep Reliving
That night, I’m going to go apeshit.
I’d watch TV, but Brianna has got
some god-awful baseball game on.
What kind of thirteen-year-old girl
is in love with the San Francisco Giants?
When they won the World Series,
after all those dreadful years, I swear
I thought she’d totally cry. She’s
cheering now, so they must have scored.
I guess I could read, but I don’t have
a book I’m currently interested in.
Looks like it’s solitaire or . . .
My eyes settle on a magazine, lying
on the kitchen table. On the cover
is a collage of pictures—kids, adults. Families.
The caption says:
Technological Tools
for Birth Family Searches.
I flip to
the article, which is all about how social
networking is reuniting adoptees
with their birth parents. Mom is adopted,
and over the years, she has made half-
hearted attempts to connect with
the people who created her. Each
time, she has come away disappointed.
But I’m betting she never tried Facebook.
As I read, she shuffles into the kitchen.
Usually by now she’s run five miles
and showered, which is why I’m thinking
she had a little too much to drink last
night. Whatever. Everyone needs to party
once in a while. “Have you ever thought
about trying this?” I hold out the magazine.