Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  No, mass destruction has nothing to do with God. It’s all about human lust for sex, for wealth, for power. Easier to lay culpability at the feet of some conjured being than admit such gluttony. Much easier to allow your priest or rabbi or imam to direct your inner murderer toward an agenda. Easiest of all to hide behind your cassock or thobe and order your flock to the killing fields where you can oversee the slaughter.

  To blame such zealous hatred for your fellow man on an invention of the imagination is a display of cowardice. Were I to take someone out because of his religious posturing, I would assume full responsibility. Hell, I’d take ownership of the deed. . . .

  My Eyes Stop There

  Okay, I guess maybe that might

  cause a little concern, especially

  in this day and age of mass-shooting

  scares. And I do own a gun. A lovely,

  if totally deadly, Glock. But I only

  use it for target practice, and despite

  anything I wrote in that essay, or

  the odd whim (they always pass by),

  I’d never draw a bead on a human

  target. Anyway, can’t these people

  (who really should know me better)

  tell I was just taking a firm stand?

  “Really, you guys. I have absolutely

  no plans to go off on anyone, not

  even the assholes who might deserve

  it.” Mom hmphs, but doesn’t comment.

  Dad looks so relieved I can almost

  believe he was actually worried

  about me. But I know he’s just

  in a hurry to get back to school

  and his warm-ups. That’s good to hear.

  You know I don’t care about the God

  stuff. But the rest . . . He waits for me

  to agree, and I do with a nod. But before

  I can say anything, Mom flips out.

  Well, I care about the God stuff.

  Can’t you act like a man for once,

  Wyatt, and tell your son to stop acting

  all crazy and such? If you won’t, I will.

  No one feels sorry for you, Matthew.

  So quit, would you? Stop looking

  for sympathy. This time a big, sharp

  stick of anger spears me right in

  the eye, drawing water. “I never

  asked you to feel sorry for me,

  nor would I expect the tiniest

  particle of sympathy from you,

  Mother. Let alone affection. I mean,

  why look for any now? Not like

  you’ve ever been generous with love.”

  I Turn Away

  Before she can have the satisfaction

  of seeing me cry. Damn, damn, damn!

  I am a pussy. I start toward my room, call

  over my shoulder, “Good luck tonight, Dad.”

  I think he replies, but whatever he says

  gets swallowed up in Mom’s meaningless

  tirade. She just goes on and on and on,

  and what is she so upset about anyway?

  There’s so much I wish I had the strength to say.

  Like: Hey, Mom, be sure to take a Prozac

  before calling your preacher to bitch about me.

  Like: Hey, Mom, I miss my little brother, too.

  But what he did wasn’t my fault. And neither

  was your screwing Dad latex-free and getting

  pregnant with moi, so why the fuck do you

  keep blaming me for ruining your life?

  I Kick Off My Shoes

  Consider leaving them there, in the middle

  of the floor, one upside down, the other

  sideways. But disorder irritates my mother

  and downright pisses off Dad, especially after

  a couple of drinks. I’ve been raised better,

  that’s what he’d say. Which explains why

  my bed is made, my tidy desk is dust-free,

  my clothes folded and in the proper drawers.

  I put my shoes in the closet, toes against

  the wall, beside three other pairs of pricey

  athletic shoes and one pair of heavy boots.

  When I have my own place, will I be able

  to leave them askew in the middle of the room,

  or will my upbringing forever deny that?

  Could I ever plop down on an underwear-

  and sock-strewn sofa, settle into a nap?

  The thing is, all this external order can’t quite

  make up for the internal turmoil that is central

  to my parents’ lives, and so to mine. It’s one

  reason I need Hayden, who is my daily small

  dose of tranquillity. I need her more than ever

  with Luke gone. I send her a text, tell her

  I love her. Ask her to forgive me for being

  such a hothead. I don’t expect a quick answer.

  Beyond the Door

  The house has fallen silent.

  Dad has returned to school

  and the one thing he cares

  about. Mom is gone, too.

  Showing property this time

  of day? She didn’t bother

  to say, but the static energy

  tells me she isn’t here.

  For some reason, I’m drawn

  to Luke’s room. Everything

  is the same as it always was—

  pin-clean, like mine, only

  painted mauve (his favorite

  color) instead of slate gray.

  His absence presses down,

  tangible weight on my chest.

  I lie on his bed, sink

  into a bath of eiderdown, turn

  my face toward the window,

  curtained gray with drips of

  rain. “How could you, Luke?”

  I whisper. “How could you

  leave me alone with them?”

  There’s a clock on the wall

  shaped like a train. It ticks

  audibly, and now it tells me

  it’s the top of the hour with

  a low whistle. Four o’clock.

  Luke did love trains. When

  we were kids, we’d often ride

  our bikes along the tracks,

  talking about where we’d go

  once we got big enough.

  We rode bikes everywhere,

  especially in the summer

  when the treetops nodded

  at the urging of tepid breezes.

  I close my eyes and find one

  of our favorite spots on Mosby

  Creek, in the shade of an old

  covered bridge. We’d jump

  into a still, cool pocket of river,

  always wearing old sneakers

  because of the goobers who

  thought it was funny to trash

  beer bottles against the rocks.

  Then out we’d climb, teeth

  chattering and goose bumps

  raising into regular little hills.

  And we’d laugh and laugh.

  But Always

  After the laughter came deep conversation,

  at least as deep as it got for preadolescent

  boys, meaning sometimes suprisingly so.

  One Sunday we had escaped the house after

  a visit from our Creswell grandparents. Dad

  had gotten into it with them, hot and heavy,

  over not making us go to church. He’d told

  them in no uncertain terms that he would not

  be coerced into indoctrinating his kids with

  mythology designed to steal their pitiable

  allowance pennies. I remember those words

  specifically because I determined to ask him

  for a raise in the near future. The only people

  in the world Mom won’t confront are her parents,

  and that was the case that day. The argument

  was well ou
t of hand when Luke and I exchanged

  a “let’s get the hey out of here” look and sneaked

  out the back door. We pedaled hard, just in case

  someone had noticed, and when we finally skidded

  to a stop in our usual place, were completely winded

  and dripping sweat. “Let’s dive!” I said, and we did.

  That Day

  After the laughter subsided, we lay,

  side by side, on a soft stretch of sand,

  caring not at all that our backs

  would be plastered with it.

  Do you think there’s such a thing

  as God? Luke was probably eight,

  which would have made me eleven.

  “Nope. Why? Do you?”

  I don’t know, he admitted. But lots

  of the kids at school do. They get

  mad when I say I don’t think so.

  “People get mad over all kinds

  of stupid things, Lukester. Don’t

  pay any attention to them. They

  don’t know one way or another.”

  Yeah, but sometimes I wonder.

  Dad says creation all comes down

  to science, but he’s a science teacher,

  so what else would he say? When I

  think on it, I’m not so sure how it

  can all be completely random.

  Luke always was a little too smart

  for his own good. “How what can

  be completely random, dude?”

  You know. Everything. The universe.

  This planet. Life on this planet. How

  did it begin? What made it evolve?

  Why are people the smartest animals?

  “Who says they are?” I tried to joke,

  but he seemed totally perplexed.

  I thought it over for a few.

  “Know what I think? It all

  comes down to aliens.”

  I was, at the time,

  into reading

  Isaac Asimov

  and Ray Bradbury.

  Aliens? Luke read a lot,

  but sci-fi for eight-year-old

  readers tends to lack

  sophistication. You think

  God is an alien?

  My First Reaction

  Was a giant cough of laughter.

  But then he looked so hurt, I figured

  why not just make up a bunch of crap.

  God was fiction, aliens, too. Why

  couldn’t they be fiction together?

  “What if aliens from the planet

  Alphatrypton scanned the universe

  for the perfect place to settle down

  and create a new generation

  of Alphatryptonites? And what if

  their gigantic telescopes homed in on

  the Blue Planet, which had excellent

  water and decent weather, at least

  compared to the encroaching ice

  age on Alphatrypton?” His eyes lit up,

  and he started nodding his head, and

  then he added to the tale. Yeah. And

  what if they were magic? And when

  they got here, they mated with monkeys

  and then that made human beings?

  Aliens Mated with Monkeys?

  He had a better imagination than I, that

  was for sure. But what the hell? I went

  right along with it. “So maybe we’re not

  earthlings at all. Maybe we’re ten

  thousandth generation Alphatryptonites.

  And maybe we have magic powers,

  too, only our genes have forgotten them.”

  He was quiet for a few. Then he said,

  But you know what, though? What if

  aliens came from more than one planet?

  And some of those guys sucked. Like, they

  were mean and stupid. And when they mated

  with monkeys, the people who came from

  them ended up being mean and stupid, too.

  “That would explain a lot. Like, Mina

  Boxer’s probably a ten thousandth generation

  mean and stupid alien.” Mina’s our neighbor.

  She wasn’t Luke’s worst bully, but she was

  his first, almost like she recognized things

  before the rest of us did. “But here’s the thing.

  You and me? We’re Alphatryptonites. And we

  have to try really hard to find our magic. Deal?”

  Luke Agreed

  But he didn’t stick around

  long enough to find his.

  A train wails a mournful

  dirge. Train? I twitch awake.

  The clock on Luke’s wall

  whistles again. Six o’clock.

  It’s dark in the room, only

  the small night-light on

  by the door to remind me

  of the way out. Of this room.

  Of sleep-induced memory.

  Sorrow bleeds into the joy

  of reliving that day. And, as

  always, anger taints it all.

  I flip on the light switch

  so I can see to straighten

  the covers on Luke’s bed.

  “Wouldn’t want you to come

  back for a visit and think

  I’ve lost respect for you,

  little man.” Great. Talking

  to ghosts now. Out loud, even.

  As I reach for his pillow, I can’t

  help but notice an evil waft

  of stink emitted by my armpits.

  Kind of disgusting. Guess I’d

  better take a shower after all.

  Stench-Free

  Hair combed and clothes hanging

  mostly straight, I check my phone

  for messages, find what I’m hoping

  for: DON’T WORRY. YOUR HEAD’S

  PRETTY FROSTY MOST OF THE TIME.

  LOVE YOU. SEE YOU TOMORROW.

  It’s almost eight by the time I leave.

  I’ll catch a burger before I pick up

  Marshall. When I open the front door,

  the smell of lit tobacco wallops my nose.

  Canopied by the porch awning, Mom leans

  against the side of the house, drink in one

  hand, cigarette in the other, watching

  the drizzle. Dad hates when she smokes,

  which is why she does it outside. Don’t

  think he cares much about the gin, in

  or out. Mom glances sideways at me.

  Where you goin’? Not her first drink,

  or maybe she did, in fact, use it to

  chase a Xanax. “Gonna grab a bite,

  then see if I can track Hayden down.”

  She Takes a Deep Drag

  Exhales slowly. Yellow smoke

  clouds the damp evening air.

  You’re being careful, right?

  I grin. “Caution is my middle name.”

  But, wait. “What do you mean, careful?”

  She can’t be talking the condom talk.

  You know. With that girl. When you . . .

  “Now, hold on. Hayden and I aren’t

  doing that. Go—” Her eyes go wide

  and I drop the d, modify, “Gosh,

  Mom, why would you think so?”

  Don’t lie to me, Matthew. All boys

  your age are doing that. It’s nature.

  “Not lying to you. I love Hayden

  with all my heart. But, nature or no,

  condoms or no, we are not having sex.”

  The furrows between her eyes tell

  me she doesn’t believe it. Before

  this conversation can devolve, I’m out

  of here. “You should go in. It’s cold.”

  Those Six Words

  Slide out of my mouth,

  soft as meringue. I think

  we both choke on them

  a little. I keep my eyes

  straight
ahead, even after

  Mom calls, You smell good.

  But Matthew, please be careful.

  Okay, we’ll call that a draw.

  I can’t believe she’s so

  positive I’m boinking

  Hayden. Of course Mom

  doesn’t know my girl

  very well. In fact, she

  doesn’t know her at all.

  I avoid mixing downers

  (like Mom) with uppers

  (like Hayden). What’s

  the point of dropping

  low right before working

  yourself up? I suppose

  that’s what I do, dating

  Hayden. Work myself up.

  One thing abstinence

  education doesn’t teach you

  is how hard it is to maintain

  an intimate relationship

  that doesn’t include actual sex.

  Frustrating, that’s what it is.

  But I love Hayden so much

  I have no choice but to respect

  the boundaries she puts in place.

  Problem is, the lines she draws

  aren’t always real straight.

  Gut complaining, I head on

  over to Carl’s Jr. No lunch,

  so what the hell? I order

  the Memphis BBQ Six Dollar

  Burger, with Pulled Pork (two

  p words in one) and onion

  strings, add guacamole for

  vegetable matter. Plus fried

  zucchini. I’m in the mood for z.

  Eight Thousand

  Greasy calories later, I’m ready to party.

  I pull up in front of Marshall’s and he sprints

  to the truck, jumps up inside, bounces on

  the seat. “Chill, dude. What’s with you?”

  Nothing! One word and it’s obvious he’s lit.

  I borrowed a couple of my sister’s diet pills.

  Lainie’s coming tonight and I wanna

  be sure I can, you know . . . no problem.

  “Lainie Brogan? First of all, in what

  possible universe would Lainie want to

  ‘you know’ a little squeak like you? And

  second, do you have regular dick problems?”

  I’m keeping both eyes fixed on the road,

  but I’m pretty sure he just clenched his fists.

  Bet he’s about to pop a brain vein! My dick’s

  A-OK, thanks. Adipex just keeps it up longer.