Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  who happens to be passing by. Break it

  up, Mistah Turnah. This isn’t HBO.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. As you

  know, self-control isn’t my forte.”

  Yes, well, work on that. Some things

  are best done in private. That is all.

  Arm Still Firmly Wrapped

  Around Hayden’s waist, I steer her

  to a more private place—a table way

  in the back of the room. As we pass

  the deli cart, I grab a ham sandwich.

  “Want something?” Who says chivalry

  is dead? But Hayden shakes her head.

  I’m eliminating carbs for a while.

  Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what

  I really want to say. Instead, I go

  with a much more generic “Why?”

  Prom’s coming up. I want to fit

  in the dress I bought. We are going?

  What kind of an idiot boyfriend

  would say no, even if he quite

  reasonably thought prom was nothing

  but a money-sucking nightmare?

  “Of course. Can’t wait.” We sit

  and Hayden watches me unwrap

  my approximation of a delicious meal.

  Rather than have her stare as I scarf

  it down, I direct her attention back

  toward the Bible-thumpers’ table,

  where Jocelyn and friends seem

  to be in deep discussion. “What’s up

  with them? Have they discovered

  a lost gnostic gospel or something?”

  She smiles.

  That’s good.

  I think.

  In the last five minutes? Don’t think

  so. No, they’re planning our spring

  break retreat. We’re staying at a hostel. . . .

  Spring break.

  Retreat.

  Hostel.

  And . . .

  “Don’t tell me. Judah is going.”

  Suddenly my lunch is flavorless.

  Well, of course. It was his idea.

  A week of meditation, communion,

  and spiritual awakening. Don’t

  look at me like that, Matt.

  Don’t Look at Her

  Don’t say a damn thing. Spring break

  is still weeks away. Who knows what

  might happen by then? I bite into

  my cardboard sandwich, concentrate

  on the tabletop. “I can’t give you a ride

  home today. I have to see my therapist.”

  Mom made the appointment, insisted

  I show up, No matter what, no excuses.

  I could blow it off anyway, except

  it might do me good to talk about this

  crap with Hayden. I sure as hell

  can’t talk to her about it. She’s dug in.

  That’s okay. I can ride with Joce.

  What about the game tonight?

  I’ve only gone to a couple, and there

  are only a few weeks left until

  the play-offs. I shrug. “If you’re going

  I guess I will, too.” Better to kiss a little

  butt than reevaluate our relationship.

  “Will you wear that green sweater?”

  My Therapist’s Lair

  Is in a modern building with a big,

  sunny atrium smack in the middle,

  circled by brightly painted offices,

  all designed to fool patients into

  believing things are better than they

  seem. But let’s face it. Body-sick

  or brain-sick, we’re all here because

  it pretty much sucks being us.

  I arrive five minutes late, still have

  to wait another ten because I’m unlucky

  enough to have the only therapist

  on earth who’s willing to go fifteen

  minutes over, to be absolutely certain

  her clients will make it through

  the week without overdosing or parking

  on the tracks, waiting for a train

  to oblivion. I read about a California

  town where suicide-by-train was almost

  like a party game for a while. Four kids,

  separate occasions, jumped right in front

  of moving commuters. Ask me, that’s

  a seriously messed-up way to go out.

  Then again, so is a rope around the neck.

  At 4:16

  The door opens and out comes a girl,

  maybe thirteen, and the kind of thin

  that can rarely be accomplished without

  an eating disorder. Martha tells her

  she’ll see her next week, then invites

  me into her den with a jerk of her head.

  How are you doing? She steps back

  to let me by. It’s been a while.

  Several weeks, in fact. I canceled

  a few. “Forgot” a few more. Poor

  excuses, as Mom would say. “I think

  I’m solid, but apparently my parents

  are worried about my currrent stability

  because of an essay I wrote for school.”

  She gestures for me to sit, goes

  around to the far side of her desk

  and extracts some papers from a pile.

  You mean this. Your mom faxed it.

  “Why don’t they just put it up on

  a billboard and let the whole damn

  town see it? Anyway, it’s not so awful.

  I don’t get why it’s making people nervous.”

  Martha Reminds Me

  Of Mrs. Claus, or would, if I were

  to believe the North Pole lore.

  She clears her throat. I can understand

  their concern, Matt, although it seems

  to me there must have been a fair amount

  of catharsis in what you wrote about Luke. . . .

  I loved my brother more than anyone in the world. He was this amazing little person, dropped into my life by accident. Neither Mom nor Dad wanted another child, and I have no idea what random series of events created Luke, but I was the happiest kid ever when he came along. I’ve always had to work hard at keeping friends. I’m a smart-ass by nature and always manage to say the wrong thing. But no matter what words came out of my mouth, Luke was always there for me. Until he wasn’t.

  Like most guys my age, I never really thought about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something shameful, something I sure as hell wouldn’t ever want to be. So when Luke first started talking about his sexuality, I thought he was putting me on. Luke was one hell of an athlete, and a primo basketball player. No way could he be gay; that’s what I believed. His wrists were anything but limp; they could throw three-pointers and layups all day.

  All I knew was the usual stereotypical misinformation. And I was the only person Luke felt safe confessing to. So how did I react? “Don’t joke about shit like that,” I told him enough times so he went silent. But eventually, it became clear he wasn’t joking. Once I knew it was true, it vexed me at first. Then I got scared. For him, and for me. But the thing was, nothing had changed. Luke was the same brother he’d always been. It took a little time to understand that, a little longer to accept it.

  It was a lot harder for my parents. One of the things I’ve always hated about jocks is the way they pick on kids who are weaker, and that is the general perception of homosexuals. My dad is a jock through and through. The idea of his son being gay totally messed with his head. What a waste, is what Dad thought, and, How could you do this to me? You could see it in his eyes when he looked at Luke. That pissed me off.

  But what made me even angrier was how some supposed love-thy-neighbor Christians mocked my brother. A couple of them organized a regular hate campaign, and they were ruthless, relentless pricks. Eighth grade was a nightmare for Luke, who was afraid to go to his locker, where he would be p
ushed, poked, pantsed, and otherwise provoked. They’d follow him down the hall, calling him “fag” or “dick licker.” They’d offer their own dicks for him to lick. Hetero-freaks.

  Almost worse was the online harrassment, which was not only cruel, but also deviously creative. You’d think churchy people would be embarrassed to download porn, then Photoshop someone’s face into the pics—that someone being Luke. You’d think they’d have better things to do than to post said pics not only to Luke’s personal social networking pages, but also to the high school basketball team’s Facebook page, which is how Dad first found out. No wonder he took it so personally, huh? Luke was outed to his father and to the entire community at the same time, and in a most humiliating way.

  And those troglodytes who orchestrated that claim to serve the architect of love? Where would a true God stand on their actions? Would he actually forgive them on nothing but the strength of a Sunday prayer? No, those dudes are tumbling straight toward a brimstone bubble bath, and if it meant they’d fall in a little sooner, I’d happily give them a push.

  God is an invention of mankind, an excuse to exist, and to thrive, in a subhuman state. Government must become and remain a servant of humanity. It cannot, and will not, with a religious figurehead at its helm.

  Cathartic?

  Up to a point. “Yes, it felt good

  to put it down on paper, I guess.”

  It would feel better wrapping

  the paper around those guys’ heads

  and duct taping it really tightly

  around their necks so they’d have

  reading material on that trip to hell.

  But I probably shouldn’t say so.

  You don’t see anything in what

  you wrote that could make some

  people a little nervous about

  what you might have planned?

  “Planned? Martha, the only thing

  I have planned is graduation.

  I can’t see a thing beyond June.

  Wait. That didn’t come out right.

  What I mean is, I’m not sure

  about college or a career. But that

  has nothing to do with planning

  an act of mayhem. I have no desire

  to go to prison, or to join Luke,

  whever he is or isn’t.” That is sincere,

  and I guess that’s how I sound

  because she visibly relaxes.

  Well, that’s very good to hear.

  To be frank, I’m not too concerned

  about you planning some vicious

  act of revenge. But let me ask you

  this. How honest were you? And not

  just with your readers. How honest

  were you with yourself? In my opinion,

  your essay lacks critical truths.

  See, This Is Why I Hate Therapy

  Everyone else is all worried about

  assessing possible outcomes—

  seeking the meaning of selected

  words as if they’re hieroglyphics.

  Martha wants to deconstruct

  the storytelling, take it apart until

  she exposes the infrastructure

  of my psyche. “Like what?”

  It’s a challenge, and she’s equal

  to it, of course she is. That’s why

  my parents pay her the big bucks,

  relatively speaking. My parents

  are actually pretty damn cheap.

  She tilts her silver-tipped head.

  First, despite your tendency

  toward sarcasm and acerbic

  wit, you’ve never exactly been

  a loner, have you? From what

  I’ve been able to discern,

  you’re kind of an A-list kid.

  What List?

  That was so not the question I expected.

  “A-list? On my best year, I doubt

  I even approached the B-minus roster.”

  She smiles, but I know she’ll keep on

  me unless I dig down and unearth

  a reasonably honest answer. “Well, sure,

  yeah. I have friends. But, you know,

  since I got together with Hayden,

  I prefer spending time with her.”

  But in your essay you said you had to

  work to keep friends. Did you perhaps

  lose a few when Luke came out?

  Oh shit. I see what’s she’s doing.

  She’s good. She’s very good. “Come

  on, Martha. Why ask questions you

  already know the answer to? Besides

  our resident Bohemian woods dwellers,

  Cottage Grove is a relatively conservative

  community. All those factory workers

  may love their weed and claim to be all

  about equal rights, but let’s face it.

  We’re eighty percent white-bread here,

  and don’t much talk about which way we

  lean, and if you figure high school jocks

  into that mix, this wasn’t a great place

  for Luke to come into the world gay,

  you know? Man, I begged him to play

  straight, and he acted the part pretty

  well. Whatever his attraction, it’s not like

  he was out cruising for boy dates anyway.

  He was too young to have the first idea how

  to go about such a thing. But then the wrong

  person overheard the wrong conversation,

  and that person, well, as I’m sure you’ve

  already intuited, he was supposed to be

  my friend, but that’s how the whole thing

  got started and . . .” Vince and I were

  pretty great friends growing up, in fact.

  We ran in a pack—Marshall, Vince, Doug,

  and me. Luke always wanted to tag along,

  which would have been okay had I been

  in charge. But the other guys didn’t think

  he could keep up and were mortified

  to have a little kid attached like a tail

  whenever there were girls around,

  especially since most females found

  Luke just “so darn adorable.” Then, as

  we got older, my buddies and I were doing

  things no younger brother should witness.

  “Yeah, I was defriended because of Luke.

  Obviously they weren’t very good friends.”

  Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye,

  mostly because, big confession, his favorite

  uncle is gay: Big effing deal. Why should

  I care if Uncle Ken is in love with a dude?

  It’s not like he gives me all the filthy

  details. And man, can that Taylor cook!

  Tell Luke to be sure and find someone

  who knows how to make homemade

  pizza. See, that is why I love Marshall.

  But I leave that off the table. “Anyway,”

  I tell Martha, “I still have decent friends,

  not to mention a girlfriend to die for.”

  Tongue Slips

  Are making this conversation

  so tiresome. Martha stares at me

  quizzically. “Not literally expire

  for. Man, can’t I use a colloquialism

  without inspiring paranoia?”

  No comment. Instead, she asks,

  What about your nightmares?

  I could lie, but what’s the point

  of therapy if I don’t admit, “I still

  have them from time to time. But

  not nearly as often as I used to.”

  She looks unconvinced. When

  was the last time you had one?

  Confession, I’ve heard, is good

  for the soul. And that’s why I’m here,

  isn’t it? “A couple of days ago.”

  Her gray head nods expectation.

  Did something specific trigger it?<
br />
  Just hours ago I was dying—er,

  I mean, anxious—to discuss Hayden

  with an impartial third party. Yet, now

  reluctance forms like a big glob

  of phlegm in my throat. “I—uh—I’m

  not sure. Maybe it’s because . . .”

  Oh, what the hell? “I think it had

  something to do with Hayden. We got

  into a couple of arguments and I started

  thinking about losing her. I don’t know

  if I could handle losing someone else.”

  I hate to point this out, but loss

  is inevitable. You’re young and . . .

  Even as my mouth spills the words

  “I know,” my head swivels side to

  side in the negative. “Okay, I know

  we’re young. But why does that have

  to mean we can’t last? Some people

  who fall in love in high school stay

  together for the rest of their lives.

  Why couldn’t that be Hayden and me?

  I hate how people make promises,

  then turn around and break them.

  I hate how everything good turns

  to shit eventually. I hate when . . .”

  I’m Panting Anxiety

  Wheezing air like I just completed

  a dozen wind sprints, Dad yelling

  at me to hurry. Move it. Why can’t you

  run like your brother? Yeah, Dad.

  Luke outran me all the way to hell,

  which is about the time I started getting

  mild anxiety attacks. Guess I’ll have to

  catch up to him there. Martha sighs.

  Deep breaths, Matt. In. Pause. Out.

  Pause. Remember what I showed

  you last time. She lifts her hands,

  rotates her palms upward for in. Pause.

  Turns them toward the floor for down.

  Directing my breathing like a symphony.

  It’s fascinating to watch, and without

  really thinking about it, I collect myself—

  oxygen intake and blood pressure start

  to normalize, and I can breathe comfortably

  again. “Man. You are really good.

  Do you come in a portable model?”

  She grins. The whole point of therapy

  is giving you the necessary tools to use

  on your own, so a portable me is

  unnecessary. You should be practicing

  this exercise at home. Proper oxygen