Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  a word. She should have, right? What if . . . ?

  Alexa’s eyes quiver open, find

  me, and she smiles. Morning.

  But then they must really focus

  because she adds, What’s wrong?

  You look kind of freaked out. Did

  you forget I was here or something?

  “Nothing. It’s just, I started

  thinking we . . . didn’t . . . uh, use

  protection.” I bolt upright into

  a sitting position, heart racing,

  all panicky. Alexa reaches out,

  strokes my chest. Hey. No worries.

  I told you I come prepared. I’ve been

  on the pill for two years, mostly to

  regulate my periods. I wouldn’t have

  made love to you otherwise. I mean,

  you’re really attractive and everything,

  but I don’t want you to father my babies.

  I smile. “Believe me, no one wants

  me to father their babies. Insanity

  runs in my family.” I kiss her forehead.

  “Dad’s probably sleeping. Let’s sneak

  into the bathroom for a shower. I’ll

  wash your back if you wash mine.”

  It’s the Best Shower

  I’ve ever participated in,

  and it’s definitely all about

  the participation. We wash

  each other’s everything,

  which leads to the need

  for even more washing.

  We towel off, bodies steaming

  into the cool morning air.

  “Just so you know, this is by

  far the most sex I’ve ever had

  in any one twelve-hour period.”

  She laughs. Ditto. A short pause

  for effect. Well, there was that

  one time . . . Another pause to

  assess my reaction. Hey, I was joking.

  “I knew that. Come here.”

  I dry long drips on her back,

  lift her damp hair to kiss her neck.

  For a few seconds, I didn’t know

  she was joking. And what’s really

  disturbing about that is how much

  I cared.

  Dad’s Still Asleep

  When I take Alexa home, but by the time

  I get back, he’s up, drinking coffee, and

  it’s weird, but I think he’s waiting for me.

  Had company last night, did you?

  Oh man. Did he, like, hear us? My face

  flares. “Uh, yeah. How did you know?”

  She left her jacket on the couch.

  It wasn’t Hayden, I take it. Can’t see

  that girl wearing black leather.

  Not to mention spending the night

  in my bed, doing unmentionable

  things to me. I’m so busted. “No.”

  Have some coffee. He watches me pour

  a cup. I wouldn’t recommend overnight

  guests with your mother present.

  No kidding. “I didn’t plan for her

  to stay over. It just kind of happened.

  We were only supposed to talk.”

  He out-and-out guffaws, and I realize

  how lame that sounded. How cliché.

  Absolutely, and yet his easy dismissal

  pisses me off. “I don’t guess that’s what

  you thought when Mom came knocking?”

  He looks surprised that I’d mention it

  but decides to cowboy up. We both

  knew exactly why she was there, son.

  “But you let her in anyway, despite

  being in love with someone else.”

  I don’t shade the statement with opinion.

  Now he assesses me, as he might

  a complete stranger. That’s right, I did,

  and it’s something I’ve long regretted.

  Regret. This house is a sponge,

  absorbing regret until it can hold

  no more and disillusionment drips

  through the bloated pores. If Dad

  could do it all over, he wouldn’t cheat

  on his girlfriend with Mom. Wouldn’t

  get her pregnant, no need for a quickie

  wedding. And of course there would

  be no me. I think maybe I resent that.

  Dad and I Rarely Talk

  Let alone openly communicate,

  but what the hell? Is one time

  in eighteen years too much?

  “Were you and Lorelei

  having problems? I mean,

  if you don’t mind telling me.”

  He thinks it over. I guess

  maybe we were—the pressure

  of maintaining grades while

  excelling at sports is never

  easy. Figure in nurturing

  a relationship when what

  you really want to do on your

  off hours is party, well . . . But

  it was nothing we couldn’t have

  worked through, and she might

  have forgiven me, except for . . .

  “Except for me.”

  Unbelievably, he agrees,

  Except for you.

  We Both Sip Our Coffee

  Slurping into the silent gauze

  between us. Someone has to rip

  through it. “But you stayed with

  Mom all this time. Did you ever

  love her? Just a little, even?”

  Love is a funny thing. Sometimes

  it barrels into you like an angry

  bull. Other times it infiltrates you

  like an alien vine, and no matter

  how hard you resist, it grabs hold

  and squeezes. That’s kind of what

  happened with your mom and me.

  Believe it or not, we’ve shared many

  happy days, and that includes having

  you and Luke. Eventually, it becomes

  a matter of scale. When the good

  outweighs the bad, you stay. When

  the bad is the only thing you notice

  anymore, you think about your future,

  or what’s left of it, consider options.

  Makes Sense

  But it seems to me

  it’s better to consider

  options before you shrivel

  into a bitter, old slice of regret.

  “You don’t know it would

  have been better if you’d stayed

  with Lorelei, though.”

  True. I don’t.

  Honesty. How refreshing.

  “Mom thinks you’re going

  to leave her. Are you?”

  I’m not sure.

  Honesty. How unnerving.

  “You know Lorelei and

  her husband are divorced.”

  It isn’t a secret.

  Kind of evasive. “Are you

  thinking about getting

  back together with her?”

  He Doesn’t Respond Immediately

  Just sits, staring out the window,

  and after so much unusual

  forthrightness, I have to wonder.

  “Are you already back together?”

  I guess he figures he has nothing

  to lose when he finally confesses,

  We’ve been seeing each other

  for a long time, Matt. See, the thing

  about the barreling-into-you kind

  of love is, it leaves deep, wide scars.

  I tried, but I never stopped loving her.

  My turn to focus on the world

  beyond the kitchen glass, where

  the sun has decided to appear,

  its thin rays of winter light magnified

  by water droplets on every branch,

  every blade, every needle. Stunning.

  A lump balloons in my throat.

  “Why did you stay? All you did was

  make Mom
miserable, make me feel

  like a failure, give Luke another reason to—”

  No! Don’t you dare blame me for that!

  Blame

  It’s not a game, not at all, but

  suddenly I know, “You’re the reason

  Lorelei divorced her husband.

  He found out about you?”

  Actually, he always suspected,

  but chose to look the other way.

  She was the one who finally

  grew tired of the deception.

  Do people really do that—

  pretend not to see something

  so hurtful? “And Mom? Has she

  been looking the other way?”

  He nods. I figured she’d stop excusing

  it and either boot me to the curb

  or hook up with someone else. But

  as far as I can tell, she’s stayed faithful.

  So, basically, crap relationships

  run in my family. Genetically,

  I’m predisposed to lying, cheating,

  and having sex for all the wrong reasons.

  One Last Thing

  I wouldn’t bother to repeat

  it, but since I’m stressing

  over how much holding on

  is too much, I go ahead.

  “You still haven’t told me

  why you’ve stayed with

  Mom, despite everything.”

  He draws a long, slow breath.

  First, it was because of you.

  A boy needs his father, that’s

  what I thought, someone to

  teach him to play basketball.

  Then your mother miscarried

  and had a breakdown. Not sure

  you knew that. I figured it had

  to be mostly my fault because

  I was glad she lost the baby.

  Then she got pregnant with Luke,

  a speck of redemption, and now

  I had two sons to worry about.

  After that, I found satisfaction

  in my professional life. Personal

  fulfillment became less important,

  and maintaining my marriage

  seemed easier than shredding it.

  Easier

  Having sex with a person

  you don’t care about.

  Easier.

  Staying in a toxic relationship

  because people might talk.

  Easier.

  Not having sex with someone

  you do care about.

  Easier.

  Because if you have sex,

  that might change everything.

  Easier.

  Easier.

  Easier.

  But who ever said the easiest path

  is the one you should choose?

  I Can’t Remember

  The last time I’ve gone fifteen

  hours without checking my cell.

  I expect a half-dozen texts from

  Hayden, wondering where I am.

  What I’m up to. Why haven’t

  I called? Surprise! Not even a “hey.”

  There is one from Alexa, though.

  THANKS FOR AN AMAZING NIGHT.

  I LEFT MY JACKET THERE. ANY CHANCE

  YOU COULD DROP IT OFF? My first

  reaction is, no way. My second

  is, what the hell is my problem?

  It’s not like she asked me to move

  in, she just prefers not to freeze

  to death. She didn’t even sign off

  with “I love you.” But she does love

  me. She said so, and there was more

  emotion in her single declaration

  than in all of Hayden’s halfhearted

  reciprocations combined, and that

  makes me angry. Why hasn’t she

  texted me? What’s happened to her?

  To us? Thinking back over the past

  few weeks, retracing every step,

  I can find only one answer. Judah.

  My Personal Corner of the World

  Has never been rich

  with happiness. Overall, joy

  has been in short supply.

  It’s funny, because when

  you’re a little kid, it doesn’t

  take much to spark satisfaction—

  you master fractions or land

  a ridiculous jump on your bike.

  You go looking for fun,

  create it with your friends,

  and in my case, sometimes

  with my little brother.

  Yeah, I got that my mom

  and dad were a little off.

  Compared to, say, Vince’s

  ever-present, ever-interested

  parents, mine were distant, cool.

  But what did it matter? Once

  Vince and I were out the door,

  our playing field was level.

  But my memoir was all

  a single chapter then, unmarred

  by major transitions. And now,

  the pages are shredding,

  my life disintegrating.

  Luke is gone forever.

  Hayden is a wild card.

  Mom and Dad are melting

  down completely, every vestige

  of imagined stability in flux.

  Will I even have a home

  next week? With or without

  one or both of my parents?

  Everything is upheaval.

  I need order.

  I’m used to order.

  Artificially constructed,

  yes, I understand that. And easy.

  That stinking word again.

  Familiar pressure builds

  in my chest. My breath

  flutters like sparrow wings.

  Inhale.

  Palms up.

  Exhale.

  Palms down.

  What will happen to me now?

  Hold On

  What will happen to me?

  A thought strikes suddenly.

  (Palms up. Palms down.) I’ve spent

  my time here passively. Waiting

  for some external stimuli to initiate

  action through reaction. (Breathing

  begins its return route to normal.)

  Why can’t I be my own stimulus?

  If I want order, I have to take charge,

  and there has to be more control in

  claiming the wheel, deciding where

  to steer, how hard to punch the accelerator,

  when to pass slower-moving vehicles,

  obstacles in the path of forward motion.

  And the first obstacle I need to clear

  is a certain youth minister impeding

  the progress of my relationship with

  Hayden. Yes, that’s a great place to start.

  It’s Strange

  Because I’ve always

  believed girls despised

  male aggression.

  Yet Hayden claims

  to feel unappreciated

  due to my lack of it.

  And Alexa was totally

  turned on when I tapped

  into a small reservoir of it.

  Is there something

  to that caveman’s club?

  Would Hayden love me

  more if I dragged her

  around by the hair?

  Should I set loose

  my inner Neanderthal?

  What Have I Got to Lose?

  I grab Alexa’s jacket with every

  intention of dropping it off later.

  But first I head straight for Hayden’s,

  no forewarning call to announce

  my imminent arrival. All the way

  there, I summon my inner primitive

  man, keep poking him with a sharp

  stick. Ugga! I knuckle-drag the sidewalk

  all the way to her front step, ring

  the doorbell. Unfortunately, it’s her

  fath
er who answers, and his expression

  is somewhat less than welcoming. Yes?

  Oh. It’s you. What can I do for you?

  I give him my best caveman grin.

  “What’s up, Mr. DeLucca? Is Hayden

  here? I’d like to take her out to lunch,

  if that’s okay.” No ugga. One point for me.

  Except he’s the one keeping score.

  He glances at his watch. Lunch was

  two hours ago. Anyway, she isn’t here.

  That’s a double ugga for the man.

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  My impatient toe-tapping isn’t winning

  him over. Have you tried calling

  her cell? I’m not her secretary.

  I don’t schedule her appointments.

  Wow. What a hairy Sasquatch dick.

  But rudeness won’t serve my purpose.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. D., but what is it about me

  you so dislike? I shower every day,

  sometimes twice.” Ooh. Way too civilized.

  “I’m at the top of my class, kicked tail

  on my ACTs.” Kicked tail. Better. “And

  I’m totally in love with your daughter.”

  Oops. I think I just went too far.

  His eyes narrow into slits. Don’t you dare

  toss around words like love. You are

  a teenaged boy with adolescent cravings.

  But beyond that, you are headed down the low

  road to hell and I don’t want you dragging

  my daughter in Satan’s direction with you.

  As I See It

  I’ve got two choices.

  Play defense.

  My usual position,

  and in a situation like this,

  doubtless the right way to go.

  Attempt offense.

  Survival of the fittest.

  Triple uggas, and if I opt

  for this tactic, he’ll probably

  forbid Hayden to see me.

  Good luck with that, Mr. D.

  Better straddle the line.

  “Just because I don’t go to church

  or sing praise hymns doesn’t mean

  I’ve been condemned to spend eternity

  with some mythical pork-footed,

  dual-horned demon. I’m a good

  person. I treat Hayden right. I’ve

  never even tried to have se—” Oh shit.

  Now he thinks I’m gay. “And I’m

  not queer, either. I mean, the reason

  I never tried is because I respect . . .”

  The Door Slams

  Okay, Plan A went about as well