Impulse

by Ellen Hopkins

  My face ignites and words

  steam from my mouth before

  I can stop them. “And I see

  you’re still a supreme bitch.”

  She doesn’t even blink. Even

  a female dog wants her puppies

  clean and wrinkle-free—unless,

  of course, she’s a Shar Pei.

  Touché.

  Tony

  Breakfast Is Cold

  Well, okay, the eggs

  are almost lukewarm,

  but the butterlike

  substance won’t melt

  on the toast. Everything

  gags me, trying to go down.

  The mood is cool, too.

  Too much excitement

  yesterday plus a late

  med delivery. If everyone

  else feels like me, we

  all want to go back to bed.

  And then, of course,

  we have visiting day

  to deal with. I guess

  a few of these freakazoids

  might like seeing their

  families come Saturday.

  But my hunch is most

  of them find themselves

  here because of the scene

  back home. Someone

  had to check them in—

  like who would volunteer?

  Across the room, Vanessa

  picks at her eggs, like she’s

  looking for bugs. She’s

  sitting alone, like she always

  does. Funny, ’cause most

  of the girls buddy up like hens.

  I wonder what pain she’s

  got bottled up inside, what

  secrets she refuses to tell.

  I wonder if making her

  mother “real” is the only

  thing she’s afraid of.

  I’ve Got My Own

  Fears to face in a few

  minutes, the main one

  being I’ll blow it again.

  I didn’t even realize how

  pissed I was at my dad

  until we were three feet apart.

  Anthony, boy, you got

  the Ceccarelli temper,

  Ma always used to say.

  Be careful, or it will

  burn you out early,

  just like your father.

  One of the few things

  I do remember about

  him, in fact, was his

  temper. He’d come

  home to Ma’s less-than-

  mediocre housekeeping,

  throw down his briefcase.

  Emma? Turn off the TV

  and get your ass out

  here. What exactly

  do you do all day,

  besides soap operas?

  That was when he thought

  soap operas was all she did.

  I knew about her playing

  around years before he did.

  Came home from school

  more than once to hear

  bedsprings squeaking,

  disgusting human noises.

  Once or twice I got brave

  enough to crack the door

  and peek inside to see

  what no kid ever should.

  But That’s a Different Story

  Than the one I’m going

  to tell now, with Dr. Boston

  mediating this time.

  Please come in, Tony,

  she says. Sit right over

  there, next to your father.

  He doesn’t stand this

  time, the “no hug” rule

  in effect. “Hello, Dad.”

  Hello, Anthony. First,

  I want to apologize for

  the last time I was here.

  I shrug. “No worries.

  We both have some

  things to work through.”

  That’s why we’re here,

  chirps the Widow. Let’s

  start with you, Tony.

  Can you tell us, in one

  sentence, why you’re so

  angry at your father?

  One sentence, to sum

  up years of resentment?

  I will not cry! Will not!

  “Because he chose not

  to be part of my life, not even

  when I needed him the most.”

  Fair enough. Can you

  respond to that in one

  sentence, Mr. Ceccarelli?

  Dad thinks a second.

  I stayed away because I

  couldn’t stomach the guilt.

  Communication.

  Vanessa

  Breakfast Is Lousy

  But even if it were perfect,

  I couldn’t taste a thing.

  I’m neither up nor down

  today, just cruising in shades

  of gray—a cold, colorless

  place, something like

  being dead, I guess.

  Maybe I am dead

  and just don’t know it yet.

  Some people say ghosts

  don’t know they’re dead,

  so they keep moving

  through the same old

  buildings, the same old

  streets, trying to talk

  to people there, to find

  out why they can waltz

  through plaster walls

  like they’re water.

  I think that would give

  me a pretty good clue.

  Far as I know, I can’t

  pass through a wall.

  Think I should try?

  Enough, already. I add

  my plate to the “scrape

  and rinse” stack, almost

  wishing they would give

  me kitchen duty—unlikely,

  considering my passion

  for sharp instruments.

  But it would give me something

  to concentrate on besides

  seeing Grandma in an hour

  or so. It makes her so sad

  to visit me here.

  And that makes me sad.

  Sad, and cruising gray.

  I Go Back to My Room

  Think about trying

  to walk through the wall,

  opt for the door instead;

  dig through my drawers

  for my favorite denim

  skirt and a light blue cotton

  blouse, long-sleeved;

  lay them out on the bed,

  as if I were in them.

  Before I change, there’s

  something I have to do.

  The bandage is long gone

  from my left hand, and my fingers

  almost work right again.

  There’s a pretty scar,

  like little knots, joining

  hand to arm. If I cut there,

  I’ll ruin the artwork.

  I look at my right wrist,

  wearing a bracelet

  of little scabs. Can’t cut

  there. Someone will see.

  Through the gray haze,

  a cloud of frustration rises.

  But I’ve got a new secret

  weapon. Yesterday, when

  all was in chaos, I noticed

  an empty Coke can in a wastepaper

  basket. No one

  observed as I reached

  down, extracted the pull top.

  I remove it from its hiding

  place beneath my dresser.

  Run one finger lightly

  over its lovely saw-toothed

  edge. Place

  it on the fold line inside

  my left elbow. Close my

  eyes and let it bite. Easy

  now, a shallow cut is all

  I need to slice through the gray.

  Five After Eleven

  I walk into Dr. Stair’s office,

  dressed in the clean denim skirt

  and blue cotton blouse,

  smiling at the deception,

  wrapped
in toilet paper,

  hidden beneath long sleeves.

  Grandma comes over,

  gives me a hug, and I

  hope she doesn’t wonder

  why I don’t hug back

  with much enthusiasm.

  You look so pretty today,

  Vanessa. Blue suits you.

  Dr. Starr interrupts the syrupy

  stuff. Your grandmother

  and I have been talking,

  Vanessa. Please have a seat.

  Now, why haven’t you

  told me about your mother?

  I feel the smile slip from

  my face but don’t know

  exactly how to respond.

  “Wh-what about her,

  exactly?” I bend my left

  arm, squeeze tightly, wince

  at the beautiful pain.

  You never mentioned

  her BPD. Bipolar disorder

  happens to be genetic.

  Did you know that?

  She waits for me to nod.

  It’s also very treatable.

  So why haven’t you

  said anything?

  I smile at the throb

  in the crook of my

  left arm. “You never

  asked.”

  Conner

  Postcards from Home

  That’s what my parents’ visit

  reminded me of. Dad talked

  about my straight-A status,

  my goal of a law degree.

  He must maintain his GPA,

  agreed Mom. I expect you’ll

  see to it, Dr. Starr. I feel

  the need to underline that.

  That was funny—Mom

  made the bulldog blink.

  That will be up to Conner,

  I’m afraid, Mrs. Sykes.

  Dad talked about sports.

  He’s a star running back.

  I hope this experience

  won’t bar him from playing.

  Conner will have to remain

  on medication for some

  time. His coach will drug-test—

  that’s a foregone conclusion.

  And that made Mom blink.

  Medication? What do you

  mean? Surely you have no

  expectation we’ll allow

  him to use drugs? That

  goes against everything

  we stand for as parents.

  Who knows how he’d end up?

  Dr. Starr cleared her throat.

  Conner is suffering from

  severe depression. Prescription

  medication is his best hope.

  Did They Even Know

  I was in the room? Did

  they care? “Hello, everyone.

  Conner to Earth. Are any

  of you even aware

  that I’m sitting right here?

  Quit talking about me like

  I don’t belong in this

  conversation. Don’t you get

  that in the space of just

  a few months I’ll be all

  by myself, out on my own,

  and none of you will matter?”

  Well spoken, if maybe

  a bit blunt. But it wasn’t

  a touchdown. More like

  an ineffectual punt.

  Mom picked up the ball at

  a hard sprint. I just don’t

  understand how you could

  treat us with so little regard.

  We have standing in this

  community, a reputation

  to protect. Did you expect

  to act with impunity?

  “I’m sure you can’t understand

  this, Mom, but everything

  isn’t about you.” I looked her

  in the eye, willed myself calm.

  “What I did had nothing to do

  with you. It was about letting

  myself feel—desire, pain, fear.

  Emotions you don’t permit.”

  Totally Straightforward

  In fact, maybe as honest

  as I’ve ever been, but did

  they get it? No frigging way.

  They’ll never understand.

  At least the bulldog was cool.

  Let’s all relax, shall we?

  Assigning blame and laying

  guilt won’t change the facts.

  Conner seems to be doing

  well. He has opened up

  in therapy and I believe

  he will excel in the classroom.

  What we need to work on

  now is the family dynamic.

  But without your cooperation,

  I don’t see how that’s possible.

  Mom reacted about as

  expected. We’re here, aren’t

  we? Don’t you dare say that we have

  neglected to cooperate.

  What I mean, Mrs. Sykes,

  is that we must tone down

  the rhetoric. It’s the only

  way to mitigate confrontation.

  No more, no less, time was up.

  Dad reached for my hand, shook

  it good-bye, just like a client.

  I’m glad you’re making progress.

  Mom refused to look at me,

  so I took the high road. “Bye,

  Mom.” And as I turned to

  go, Dr. Starr said, “Conner? Level

  Three.”

  Tony

  Guess My Level Three Status

  Is safe for now. It

  was good to hear

  from Dad’s lips that he

  took some blame

  for the things that have

  happened in my life.

  God knows there’s

  enough blame to go

  around, Anthony,

  he said. But it breaks

  my heart to know

  that maybe I could

  have made things

  easier, saved you

  pain. I had it all

  wrong last time,

  Anthony, when I said

  I could forgive you.

  See, I asked the Man

  Upstairs for forgiveness.

  He told me I had to

  ask you first. Forgive

  me, son, for not

  being a father to you.

  It was like he dropped

  a half ton of bricks,

  straight into my belly.

  If God really had something

  to do with this, how

  could I say no? On the other

  hand, how could I be

  sure, 1. God did have

  something to do with

  it and, 2. Dad really

  meant what he said?

  “I need to think it over.”

  We Left It at That

  Better than how we

  left things last time,

  for sure. I even let

  him give me a hug

  good-bye. It felt really

  weird, uncomfortable

  for both of us. I think

  I even held my breath,

  and when he let go, I

  felt numb, like he’d squeezed

  me too hard. Three

  hours later I’m still numb.

  I don’t know if I can

  step forward, let go

  of a decade of hard

  feelings, even if God

  does want me to.

  It’s a damn hard test.

  Part of me says, What

  the hell, give him a chance.

  It’s not so much to ask.

  Another part screams,

  Another chance to what?

  Screw you over again?

  This totally sucks. I mean

  I’ve been given something

  I dreamed about for too

  many years—the chance

  to know my father again.

  So why can’t I embrace him?

  Things were so much

>   easier when I was just

  Tony, who nobody

  cared about. Maybe

  not better, but for real—

  a whole lot simpler.

  Think I’ll Wander

  Down to the rec room.

  See who else has been

  shredded today.

  Carmella waves as I

  walk through the door.

  Hey, Tony. What’s shaking?

  “Nothing can shake

  quite like you, dear.

  Love your blouse.”

  She glances down at

  the flawless turquoise

  silk. This ol’ thing? Thanks!

  Carmella is great—a

  part-time house mother

  at age twenty-three.

  My hunch is she won’t

  last long. She cares

  much too much about us.

  In fact, from what

  I’ve heard, the burnout

  rate for staff at places

  like this is exactly

  three years. Seems

  optimistic to me.

  I can’t even imagine

  dealing with a bunch

  of emotional cripples,

  not to mention a few

  total wackos, day in,

  day out, for three years.

  And so, Tony, calls sweet

  Carmella, come here,

  tell me about your day.

  Why not? Who knows?

  Maybe she’s got a

  personal line to the Man

  Upstairs.

  Vanessa

  The Cat’s Out of the Bag

  Grandma told Dr. Starr

  all about Mama’s gear

  shifting, and how she

  ended up—minus my

  relatively major part

  in the soap opera, of course.

  Glad Grandma doesn’t

  know all my secrets.

  Vanessa is very protective