The You I've Never Known

by Ellen Hopkins

Then he turns to talk to Dad,

  who struggles to maintain

  his cool, especially when

  the newspaper photographer

  snaps a shot of Gabe and me.

  Listen. Of course I’m proud

  of Ariel. I’ve tried to raise

  her right. Looks like I succeeded.

  That’s really all I have to say.

  Utter Garbage

  But I suppose

  he’s just spouting

  what’s expected,

  and the first thing

  to come to mind

  when thrust into

  a situation like this.

  I sure wouldn’t

  know. It’s the first

  time it’s happened

  to me, and very

  likely the last.

  Both reporters

  make sure our names

  are spelled correctly

  before returning

  to their studio/

  office, respectively.

  At this point, Monica’s

  bouncing up and down.

  Now you’re famous.

  Maybe it’ll rub off

  on me. Oh, by the way,

  I like your boyfriend.

  The label’s unsettling.

  Hope she doesn’t notice

  my furious blush.

  The News Crews Leave

  Dad yanks me off to one side

  with a sharp jerk of my left

  arm. Why didn’t you tell me

  this was going to be a circus?

  Each word is punctuated

  with rage. “I had no idea,

  Dad. Monica thought Gabe

  and I should be recognized.

  It was a complete surprise.”

  Yeah, well, I hate surprises. And

  I have a damn hard time believing

  you were clueless about all this.

  Look at your clothes and makeup.

  I don’t want to confide

  my wardrobe choices were

  meant to impress not one,

  but two people who are close

  to me. Instead I try, “I thought

  I should look nice to visit

  Hillary. It’s only respectful.”

  I don’t like being lied to either, not

  by my flesh and blood. Your need

  for the spotlight isn’t a good thing,

  and if people weren’t watching

  us right now, I’d take this further.

  He turns away. Get your own ride home.

  Suddenly I’m Very Glad

  People were watching.

  Why’d he get so pissed off?

  What made him think this was my idea?

  How can he believe I’d flat-out lie?

  I’m beginning to question Dad’s sanity.

  Is he drinking more heavily than I realized?

  Does he have a secret prescription pill stash?

  Can dementia be creeping in early?

  Or maybe I should question my own sanity.

  Might I have encouraged Monica to invite TV time?

  Did I leave my shoes where Dad could trip on them?

  What about Santa’s sleigh knowing the way?

  Was the last a total invention of my subconscious?

  What wasn’t was Dad’s overreaction.

  What wasn’t was Dad’s hideous anger.

  I hope it’s safe to go home tonight.

  Maya

  Honeymoons are supposed to be memorable. Mine totally was, but not in the way most people think of. After our frill-free wedding, Jason and I went to an early dinner with Tati and Jason’s brother at Matt’s El Rancho. Killer Mexican food, which was good because my new husband started drinking margaritas right away. I was glad he put a huge burrito in his gut to absorb some of the alcohol.

  I let Jason decide on the honeymoon, which he said was all he could afford. I thought about breaking into my cash stash to spring for a nice hotel room instead, but listened to Tati’s advice. “Keep that money for emergencies,” she said. “Don’t even mention it to Jason. As my grandma says, every woman needs a secret rainy-day fund, just in case.”

  I don’t want to think about “just in case,” but it makes sense, especially considering Jason and I are relative strangers. For instance, his brother informed me at dinner that the reason their parents didn’t attend the ceremony was because they had committed to judging a stock show.

  “None of us realized Jason had gotten serious about someone,” he said. “Shocked the hell out of me, to be honest.”

  Seems Jason’s family communicates about as well as mine.

  Once we finished our delicious pralines and tres leches desserts, Jason escorted me to a borrowed pickup, pulling a rented pop-up tent trailer, and off we went to McKinney Falls State Park for a long weekend of camping. The park isn’t very far from town, and it’s pretty enough, with a creek and two waterfalls and plenty of places to hike, if that’s your thing. Apparently it isn’t Jason’s.

  “I get plenty of ‘hiking’ at work,” he said, setting up a couple of folding chairs. “Three days off, I want to relax. But first, how about a roll in the honeymoon hay?”

  He pulled me inside the trailer, where his hands went straight to the zipper of his slacks. They were off before we hit the bed, which was roomy enough but the foam was thin and carried solid hints of the people who’d slept—not to mention rolled in the hay—in it before. That, plus the tequila-and-beans clinging to his breath, put me on the verge of nausea.

  “Can we open a window?” I asked quietly. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “What? Now I make you sick?” He rolled away and jammed open the window over the bed.

  “Not you,” I tried. “Between the baby and the wedding excitement and the spicy food. And it smells kind of . . . stale in here.”

  He rolled over again, coaxed me backward into the heat of his body, and that did feel good, especially with the cool breeze now blowing over our skin, raising goose bumps and soothing my upset stomach. He trailed his hand down over the small hill of my belly. Gently. Lovingly. “What will we name him?”

  “Don’t be mad, but I think it’s a girl.”

  “Nope. Can’t be.”

  “Well, we’d better pick a name that will work for either one, just in case. And if it is a girl, will you love her as much as if she was a boy?”

  He hesitated, but then said, “Well, sure.”

  We kicked a lot of names around. Alex. Jamie. Avery. Riley. Emory. Ryan. But finally we settled on Casey. If it’s a boy, Casey David. If it’s a girl, which it is, Casey Nicole. Strong, and feminine. It makes me happy.

  What pleased me that evening was feeling like Jason and I had discussed something important, and come to a mutual decision. It struck me how few conversations of real importance I’d shared with him—or anyone, straight from struggling high school student to wife and soon-to-be mother. Does that make me an actual adult, despite being just seventeen?

  The rest of the weekend was pretty cool. I even talked Jason into hiking, and decided I liked camping okay. Except for the stinky mattress. He dropped me off Sunday evening at home and drove back to Fort Hood, where we’re waiting for an affordable house big enough to suit a family of three.

  Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to stay out of my mother’s way. If she was cold before, she’s a corpse now—frigid, hard, unmoving. She did agree to let me live here until I move or she does, and her plans are to go end of this month. April. Spring. New lives beginning.

  Yesterday, Tati and I drove to Houston for the Astros-Rockies game she bought tickets to for my birthday. I was pretty excited because the day before the Astros had routed the Rockies, 15–2. But that must’ve used up their home run allotment for the week, because they lost 5–3.

  Still, I got to spend the whole day with Tati, gorging on junk food and soda, things I never enjoy at home and am supposed to limit now. I figured one day wouldn’t make me or the baby fat. And Tat
i, of course, couldn’t care less.

  “These are the best hot dogs I’ve ever had!” she said, and she must’ve meant it, because she ate three over the course of the afternoon. I limited myself to two. Plus a soft pretzel, peanuts, and an ice cream bar.

  Apparently, something I ate made Casey happy, because bottom of the ninth, while Tati and I yelled at our team to get it together, there was a stuttering movement inside me. At first I thought it must be hot-dog gas, but then it happened again, and I knew my baby was saying hello to me, and to Tati, and to the Astros, despite their dismal performance.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed.

  “Hey, it’s just a game,” Tati said.

  “No. Put your hand right there and wait.” I guided her to a spot just beneath my belly button.

  It didn’t take long. “Holy shit,” she said. “It’s alive.”

  We laughed and laughed.

  Pretty sure Casey was giggling, too.

  Ariel

  Life Just Got Weird

  Good weird, but still . . .

  I’ve no idea how to react.

  So, the other day, post-TV

  and newspaper interviews,

  I asked Charles, aka

  Mr. Grantham, aka Hillary’s

  dad, if we could visit her,

  and despite a tepid protest

  from the nurse on duty,

  Charles’s insistence paid off.

  Gabe and I were allowed

  a couple of bedside minutes.

  Guess pulling strings isn’t hard

  when you’re an important

  politician, someone with a name

  people recognize. Or maybe

  it’s more about the clout of money.

  Either way, we got to say hi.

  Hillary Looked Awful

  Her skin was the color of chalk

  on a blackboard. Mostly gray.

  Tubes threaded into her arm

  delivered some sort of fluid

  sustenance—mostly sugar

  water would be my guess,

  but what do I know, except

  for what I’ve seen on TV shows?

  Regardless, when she opened

  her eyes, which were shut

  against the glare or maybe

  to invite unconsciousness,

  she smiled. Ariel. Thank you.

  Her eyes didn’t seem focused,

  so I wasn’t sure why she was

  thanking me. “For what, Hillary?”

  But she didn’t hesitate. For

  taking care of Niagara. That

  horse means everything to me.

  She’s, like, my best friend.

  That sounds stupid, I know,

  but if something bad would’ve

  happened to her . . .

  It didn’t sound stupid at all.

  I understand not having friends,

  and relying on the next best thing.

  Then Her Attention Turned

  Toward Gabe, and that was when

  I realized that whatever liquid

  her IV pumped was supplying her

  with more than sugar. Major painkillers

  were involved. Oh. I remember

  you. Except, I don’t know you.

  Except I think I should. You were

  there, weren’t you? Who . . .

  I’m Gabe, and I’m Ariel’s friend.

  Yes, I was there, too. Ariel sent me

  to find you while she reasoned with

  Niagara. I know nothing about horses.

  “Well, that’s not exactly true,”

  I argue. “But we can talk about it

  when you’re better. We just came

  to say we care about you.” So. Weird.

  Strange enough she barely knew

  how to respond, especially with

  that feel-good drip. I . . . uh . . . really?

  She about choked on the last word.

  For whatever reason, “Of course”

  fell out of my mouth, and I still

  don’t really understand why.

  Is it because she looked so fragile?

  Fragile

  I’m Feeling That Way

  Now, in fact, and it has everything

  to do with my growing confusion.

  I’m being yanked in two directions,

  and either way I go offers conflict.

  To my left, Gabe.

  Soft-spoken.

  Smart.

  Funny.

  To my right, Monica.

  Opinionated.

  Smart-ass.

  Hilarious.

  Left.

  Ambition.

  Loyalty.

  Patience.

  Right.

  Talent.

  Honesty.

  Comfort.

  Left.

  Boy.

  Right.

  Girl.

  The Last Comparison

  Means the least, honestly,

  and I’m more and more sure

  about that, though I still haven’t

  given in to the growing desire

  to go all the way either way.

  I want to.

  I’m scared to.

  Because it would

  feel like commitment.

  Maybe I don’t want to choose,

  and I’m not talking about left

  or right. I’m talking about Gabe

  or Monica. I don’t think I’m allowed

  to have both.

  I hear people talk.

  I know how they feel

  about “someone like me.”

  There’s no such thing as “bi.”

  That means they’ll fuck anything.

  They’re . . . (depending on who’s

  talking) straight or gay, and going

  through a phase

  or in total denial.

  They’re full of shit.

  They’re mentally ill.

  These Sentiments

  Bother me

  not because I think

  they’re wrong,

  but because I worry

  they might be

  right, in whatever ways.

  What if

  • my brain is in serious

  need of rewiring?

  • I’m totally topped off

  with manure?

  • I’m straight—or gay—

  and keep denying that

  obvious fact?

  • all I really want to do

  is screw indiscriminately?

  • there’s no such thing as bi?

  All I Know

  For sure is I’m totally distracted

  from the things I should be thinking

  about—schoolwork, teamwork—

  while trying to figure this stuff out,

  not to mention keeping Dad in total

  darkness about this major change in me.

  Paying attention in my classes today

  was a losing battle. Mr. Santos called

  me on it, too, in third-period Spanish.

  Señorita Pearson. ¿Dónde estás?

  Por favor, únete a nosotros aquí

  en el planeta tierra. Or, roughly

  translated, Miss Pearson. Where

  are you? Please join us here

  on planet earth. Which, of course,

  tore everyone else out of their

  personal stupors, busting them

  up like they weren’t just as guilty,

  though I doubt their thoughts had

  strayed anywhere close to mine.

  Then again, I can’t be certain. Maybe

  every single person in that class

  is an oversexed full-of-shit lunatic.

  One of the Hardest Things

  About my left/right dilemma

  is balancing spending time with

  Monica and Gabe. I love being

  with both, but not in the same

  space. The right/left day I tried
/>
  was one of the strangest ever.

  I mean, they attempted to be nice

  to each other, but the narrow

  stream of jealousy that flowed

  between them burgeoned into a

  regular river before the afternoon

  was through, and I’m afraid

  the fault was mostly mine.

  I tried not to flirt, which probably

  made it even more obvious that

  I really wanted to. After we left

  the hospital, first we went for

  burgers, and it wasn’t so bad

  while all of us were stuffing

  our faces. Then we decided

  to play tourist and walk around

  downtown Sonora. It’s mostly

  just shops and places to eat,

  but the fun was supposed to be

  the company, and it was for a while.

  Then stupid me, walking between

  them, I slipped one of my hands

  into Monica’s, the other into

  Gabe’s, and all I could do as

  we strolled along the sidewalk

  was compare the two. Size.

  Softness. Texture. The weight

  of the pressure each applied.

  Monica’s fingers felt like eels—

  smooth and cool and slender.

  Gabe’s were more like sausages—

  plump and warm and dimpled,

  and they gripped mine tightly.

  Securely. That’s it. He made

  me feel safe. Monica kept

  slipping hers up and down,

  in and out of mine, the way

  a little child might. Playful.

  That’s right. She’s my one

  true source of fun. I love her.

  I do. And the screwed-up thing

  is I think I’m falling hard

  for Gabe, too. Is there such

  a thing as promiscuous love,

  or does it only apply to sex?

  My Brain’s Relentless

  It really needs to stop processing

  anything other than basketball drills

  at the moment, and all it does is argue

  with me. Earth to Pearson! yells

  Coach Booker, echoing Mr. Santos,

  only in English. You’ve made that shot

  a hundred times. Yank your head out

  of your butt, would you, please?

  It takes force of will, but I do as