Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  than a little jealous of the chemistry

  between Darian and Spence, even

  though helping her find Mr. Wonderful

  was supposedly my plan from the start.

  I’d never experienced that kind

  of instant attraction, however. Not even

  with Cole, who I found cute enough,

  but rather aloof. In retrospect, I was (am)

  much the same way. It took a while

  to warm up. Not like we had much in

  common, at least not on the surface.

  But with Spence and Darian crawling all

  over each other, Cole and I could either

  stare off into space or attempt conversation.

  Despite all the pretty vampires eyeing

  him, he chose to take a chance on me.

  SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT THAT

  For me, never the first girl

  in any room who men zoomed in on.

  I’m slender, and pretty enough

  in a serious way. Just not what

  you’d call eye candy. I didn’t dress—

  certainly didn’t undress—to impress.

  I’d had boyfriends, even semisteady

  ones, but none worth giving up

  dreams for. I wasn’t exactly a virgin.

  But neither was I looking for sex,

  and I suppose that showed.

  I had been called an ice queen

  before, but though I didn’t realize

  it right away, something inside me

  thawed that night. It was a slow melt,

  like Arctic ice beneath high polar sun.

  Maybe it was how Cole kept his eyes

  locked on mine, instead of scanning

  the room for easier prey. Maybe it

  was the way he talked about home—

  the stark beauty of Wyoming.

  I swear, you can see straight into

  forever. No damn buildings to get

  in the way. And the sky is the bluest

  blue you ever saw. You will never

  look up and see gray, like here above

  the ocean. Not even if a storm’s blowing

  in, because then the prairie sky turns

  black and purple, like God balled up

  his fist and bruised it. He paused. What?

  Mesmerized, that’s what I was, but

  I didn’t realize my face showed it.

  “Uh, nothing. It’s just . . .” I couldn’t

  not say it. “I hope this doesn’t insult

  you, but you’re a poet.” I half-expected

  him to get pissed. Laugh, at least.

  Instead, he smiled. Why would that

  insult me? I write a little poetry every

  now and then. Hell, the first time I got

  laid was because I wrote her a love

  sonnet. We broke up over the limerick

  I wrote about her, though. He laughed

  then, and so did I. I have no idea

  if any of that was true, but in the years

  since, he has written poems for me.

  Hopefully, he hasn’t squirreled away

  an Ashley limerick to break out one

  day. But the revelation that this

  country-bred soldier could find poetry

  in his heart and inspiration in the Wyoming

  sky touched me in a way no boy had ever

  come close to. Not even the ones who

  had straight-out lied and told me they’d

  love me forever. Poetry doesn’t lie.

  Turned out, Cole was feeling a little

  homesick. His mom had just come

  for a post–boot camp visit. She drove

  my pickup cross country, winter

  weather and all, he said. She wanted

  to surprise me. But the surprise was on

  her. They don’t let recruits have private

  vehicles on base. Lucky thing, my

  Uncle Jack lives close by. He said

  I can keep the truck there and use

  it when I’m able. Mom didn’t want

  to drive the interstate again. Said

  God didn’t give those Wright Brothers

  brains for nothing. Goddamn, it was

  good seeing her. Like she brought

  a piece of home along with her

  and left it here for me. California

  is better with a little Wyoming in it.

  I HAD TO ENVY

  Such love for home. The concept

  was foreign to me. And I rather enjoyed

  how this stranger opened himself up

  so completely to someone he didn’t

  know. After that, we talked a little bit

  about me. How growing up in Lodi

  wasn’t all that different from growing

  up outside of Cheyenne, except for

  the urban sprawl creeping ever closer

  toward the oak-crusted California

  foothills. We talked about wanting

  to leave home. About school, and how

  my dreams didn’t exactly jive with

  my parents’ goals for me. About caving

  in. We talked about best friends since

  fourth grade, meaning mine. About

  new buddies and boot camp, the rewards

  and pitfalls of service to one’s country.

  He said something about Don’t Ask,

  Don’t Tell, and though I verge on

  radical liberalism, and cringe at male

  posturing, when he said he had

  enough things to worry about without

  having to wonder why some guy

  was looking at him in the shower,

  I thought about it for a few. Understood.

  Some things that make perfect sense

  philosophically might be confusing

  in a real-world scenario. “What about

  gay marriage?” I asked, expecting

  a pat Bible Belt answer. Instead,

  he said, I’m all for it, as long as they

  don’t honeymoon in the barracks.

  After a drink or two, we made each

  other laugh. The walls, which had

  already started to crumble, collapsed.

  Cole isn’t much of a dancer, but when

  Spencer made it a challenge, he pulled

  me onto the floor. I love to dance, and

  totally got into it. He liked my moves.

  Still, it could have ended there. Except,

  our friends had fallen insanely in lust.

  IT WAS KIND OF FUN

  Watching Spencer try to keep up

  with Darian. He was nineteen (no ID

  check at all for the young Marine!).

  She was only a year older, but way

  more experienced when it came to

  the opposite sex. Boy, was he willing

  to tap her expertise, in any and all

  of its manifestations. Her energy,

  I have to admit, was infectious,

  her libidinousness almost enviable.

  Not that I’d ever try to imitate her.

  But maybe a small part of me wished

  a little would rub off, cling to me,

  metal filings to magnet. One thing

  that always impressed me was how,

  though the attention she sought

  was all about her, she managed

  to make men feel like every move,

  every laugh, every compliment

  was instead all about them. And

  they opened themselves wide for her.

  SO, SOMEHOW

  Midst all the flirtation and sexual

  energy, Darian coaxed Spence’s

  story from him. He had graduated

  high school just six months before,

  a year after his kindergarten classmates.

  I wasn’t dumb. Just under-qualified,

  he joked before explaining, My mom<
br />
  and pop cared more about me

  helping out on the farm than going

  to school. I didn’t get a lot of what

  you might call encouragement to

  succeed. He did discover a talent for

  “tinkering.” I took my bike apart when

  I was five. Put it back together not long

  after. I was rebuilding motors by the time

  I was twelve. Came in handy when

  the John Deere took a dump. Auto

  mechanics was my big claim to fame

  in high school. A-plus there, let me

  tell you. Did a cheerleader or two

  out in the garage, too. The smell

  of motor oil is one helluva turn-on!

  Then he reached for Darian. Want

  to find out? I think Cole’s truck needs

  rings. We could take a little drive.

  ENDED UP

  We all went for a drive to the beach.

  Cole and I left Darian and Spence

  inhaling motor oil fumes—and each

  other—in the backseat while we took

  a walk near the ocean’s edge beneath

  a silver spray of moonlight. I was wearing

  jeans and an angora sweater, not quite

  enough for a winter night, and when

  I shivered, Cole lifted his jacket, inviting

  me underneath and close against him.

  Tequila is good for eroding inhibitions

  and I didn’t think twice about accepting

  his offer. His body radiated heat, lifting

  the scent of leather and Irish Spring soap.

  Tequila also makes you say things you

  wouldn’t say sober. “You smell amazing.”

  He laughed. I do my best. Never know

  when you might have to warm up a lady.

  “Do you warm them up often?” It was

  meant as a joke, but he took it seriously.

  Not really. In fact, it’s been a while.

  Boot camp isn’t conducive to romance.

  I liked his answer, and his vocabulary.

  “What about before? Any girls back home?”

  He hesitated. In college. There was

  a girl. But when I left, she stayed.

  And when she found out I joined up,

  she totally freaked. Told me war and love

  are antonyms. So, no. No girls. What

  about you? Boyfriend? Husband?

  I snorted. “No husband. Not even

  close. And no serious relationships.”

  He stopped walking then. Good.

  Because if there was, I sure wouldn’t

  do this. He turned me toward him,

  slipped his arms around my waist,

  lifted me until I was just beyond tiptoes.

  This time when he looked at me, his eyes

  asked permission. I nodded. His mouth

  covered mine. That kiss was our beginning.

  WITH A KISS

  Something new, some swell

  of hope for what might be,

  if luck can learn to rely

  on patience.

  With a

  whisper of skin

  against skin, a spark

  of desire is fanned to flame

  by an exhale of passion,

  culminates within a

  flash

  of conflagration. Burns

  itself out. Leaves behind

  embers and the ash

  of regret

  at what is left waiting.

  It is this image he carries

  to warm frigid nights

  in a foreign land where

  a soldier

  does not remember dreams,

  except those of holding

  her in the afterglow, hearts

  slowing as the inferno

  dies.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  MY BANK ACCOUNT

  Is pitiful. I did tuck most of my preschool

  paychecks away, but that didn’t amount

  to much. My parents pay my rent, give me

  an allowance, and will until I finish school.

  My only other income is goodwill checks

  from my Alaska grandparents. Somehow,

  I make do, and only need big chunks of cash

  on weeks like this one, when the best price

  I can find for roundtrip airfare to Honolulu

  is just shy of seven hundred dollars. So much

  for “discount tickets, best prices guaranteed.”

  My choices: draw my savings down to zero

  cushion; or ask my mom and dad to help out.

  I hate to, because I know exactly how

  the conversation will go. But I swallow

  my pride and make the call. “Hey, Mom.

  How’s everything?” Simple enough

  greeting, but obviously code, because

  her response is, Not bad. What’s going on?

  Which is also code for, What do you want?

  We don’t exchange mundane pleasantries

  often, and almost never by telephone.

  Might as well get right to the point.

  “I heard from Cole. He’s deploying

  in less than three weeks. I need to see

  him before he leaves.” She remains

  quiet. “Uh . . . the ticket is seven hundred,

  which would just about wipe me out.

  I was hoping . . .” It isn’t the first time

  I’ve asked for airfare. I’m sure I’ll get

  the usual lecture, and I do. Ashley,

  you know how I feel about supporting

  the military. It makes my skin crawl.

  “You’re not supporting the military,

  Mom, or even supporting Cole. I guess

  I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”

  Now, wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t

  help out. I just want you to value

  my opinion. I know you love Cole

  very much . . . . There’s a big “but”

  coming. But love isn’t always pleasant.

  I worry that you’re going to get hurt.

  GAME WELL-PLAYED

  On both sides. She can tell me one more

  time why I made a mistake falling for

  a Marine. And I will receive the needed funds.

  “Thanks for worrying, Mom. If I get hurt,

  it was my choice, right? Do you have to

  ask Dad about the airfare?” She should.

  But she won’t. You know better than that.

  I’ll take it out of my mad money, and we’ll

  keep it between you and me. You know

  how Dad is when it comes to unexpected

  expenses. Dad is the master budgeter.

  Except somehow he never found out

  about Mom’s confidential cash stash. Over

  the lifetime of their marriage, she’s managed

  to squirrel away thousands. I’ve known about

  it for as long as I can remember. When I was

  younger, we used it for hardcover books, pricier

  prom dresses, and Victoria’s Secret underwear—

  extravagances, Dad would have called them,

  totally unnecessary. To him. But Mom

  always understood my hunger for them,

  the same way she gets my need to see

  Cole, despite the price tag. Good thing

  my brother doesn’t have a taste for expensive

  gadgets, or my mother’s mad money hoard

  likely would have vanished by now.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll probably leave

  Thursday and come back on Monday.

  I’ll let you know for sure. Can you deposit

  the money in my account ASAP? I need to

  buy the tickets today to get the quote-unquote

  discount.” She promises she will and when

  I
ask how Dad is doing, I can almost

  hear her shrug. Your father is fine.

  He’s always fine, isn’t he? Too mean

  for “sick” to stick to, and thank God

  for that. Who knows what vile disease

  he might have brought home otherwise.

  Poor Mom. I’d hate to live every day

  choking down a big spoonful of bitterness.

  TICKETS PURCHASED

  I send Cole an e-mail, let him know

  next weekend is ours, and for some

  complicated reason, it initiates an outbreak

  of nerves. As much as I want to see him,

  I don’t want to say good-bye again.

  As much as I want to be with him,

  I don’t want to think about no chance

  at being with him again for seven months.

  As much as I want to wrap myself up

  in his arms, I don’t want to consider

  how lonely I’ll be when I have to come

  home to this love-empty apartment.

  But I will suffer all those emotions,

  and more. Because that’s what you do

  when you are crazy about a Marine.

  I try to go about my day. It’s funny,

  but when Cole is overseas, I don’t think

  about him every minute. Maybe it’s

  a subconscious stab at self-defense.

  Because if I let myself stress over where

  he was and what he was doing, I’d

  worry myself into a state of catatonia.

  Instead, I save anxiety for the few days

  before I know I’ll spend time with him.

  What would it be like to see him every day?

  I SAVE THE QUESTION

  For Saturday night, when I know

  I’ll have the chance to ask women

  who’ve been there. That is, if they

  want to talk about their husbands

  at all. So far, an hour into our girls’

  night out, the conversation has been

  about what to drink, which appetizers

  to order, and the relative merits

  of the other women in the club.

  It’s still fairly early, but for a Saturday

  night, this place seems pretty quiet.

  As usual, Darian is the center of

  attention, even among the ladies

  at our table. There are three, plus

  Darian and me. Jeez, where are all

  the guys tonight? asks Darian.

  I give her a look. She ignores it.

  Like you need more men in your

  life, jokes Celine, who is maybe thirty-

  five. Her husband is career military,