Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

doing the screaming, but if anyone

  else defamed me in such a fashion,

  they’d be hearing from my lawyer.

  The faux snooty tone of her voice

  makes me smile. At least the drama

  has become intentional. But now

  I remember my original purpose,

  and since the tear tap has emptied,

  “So, where should I drop you off?”

  I can almost hear her eyes filling

  up again. Drop me off? Can’t I

  just hang out with you for a while?

  No! No! No!

  That’s what I want to say.

  That’s what I need to say.

  But what I actually do say

  is, “I don’t know if that’s

  such a good idea, Lex.”

  Why not? No strings. I know

  you’re still attached to Hayden,

  but right now she’s busy chanting

  liturgy and sipping God’s blood.

  She’s got me there. Still,

  “I was planning on going out

  to my uncle’s shooting range

  for a little target practice.”

  Really? Cool! Will you teach me?

  I’ve always wanted to learn.

  I can’t believe she wants to go

  with me. Hayden thinks firing

  at bull’s-eyes is paper abuse.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Please? At my silence,

  she amends, Pretty please?

  Oh, Why Not?

  Truth be told, I’m sick

  of spending weekends

  mostly alone.

  Anyway, it will give me

  the chance to make

  my intentions—

  or lack thereof—

  perfectly clear.

  “Okay. I guess

  you can come. But if

  Uncle Jessie is around,

  don’t be shocked

  by his missing eye.

  And if he hits the deck

  at the sound of gunfire,

  it’s the PTSD talking.

  Iraq is responsible for both.”

  Why does he own

  a shooting range

  if the noise freaks him out?

  “You don’t know

  much about soldiers,

  do you? They’re all

  about choking down fear.

  That doesn’t stop

  just because shrapnel

  forces them home.

  Uncle Jessie loves guns,

  believe me, and even with one

  eye gone, he’s a better shot

  than most. But his brain

  has been traumatized,

  and what’s A-OK

  one minute might

  set him off the next.”

  She thinks that over

  silently and finally asks,

  Have you ever seen him go off?

  I could tell her

  about the time some

  guy fired a .50 BMG,

  BLAM! at the exact

  same moment a helicopter

  whoop-whooped overhead.

  Jessie nose-dived

  into the dirt and I thought

  he just might dig himself

  underground, shoveling

  with his forehead.

  Or I could mention

  a certain incident

  involving an asshole

  who refused to quit picking

  on his son. Every time

  the kid missed his shot,

  the jerk-off dad bear-hugged

  the boy into submission,

  kicked his feet into a stance,

  clamped his big old hands

  around the smaller pair

  and fired for him.

  When the kid collapsed

  in tears, his loving father

  slapped the boy’s face

  his nose and mouth ran red.

  Until Jessie stormed across

  the field and beat that guy

  into a gooey pulp.

  Later, after a night in jail,

  he told how he’d seen

  an Iraqi kid left faceless

  by a hailstorm

  of American bullets.

  Some things drill right through

  your skull, he said, and into your brain.

  I Could Share Those Things

  But I’d rather hold them inside

  and skip explicit explanations

  that might make her afraid of him.

  “I’ve seen some things, but for

  whatever reason, I happen to be

  a calming influence, at least that’s

  what my therapist calls me.

  We’ve had late night calls from Quin—

  that’s his girlfriend—telling us

  he’s wigging out. If he’ll take

  the phone, I can usually talk him

  down.” Why couldn’t I do the same

  for Luke? The sudden shadow darkens

  my mood. Perhaps a change of subject

  is in order. “I think we need to talk

  about what happened the other night.

  It was great and everything. . . .”

  Was it ever. “But I feel like

  I took advantage of you and—”

  The volume of her sigh halts

  my words midsentence. “What?”

  Don’t you think I have a mind

  of my own? You did not take

  advantage of me. I wanted to be

  with you. Look. Like I said, I know

  you’re still with Hayden, and

  I never asked for any sort of

  commitment. It’s enough to spend

  time with you, at least it’s enough

  for now. The sex was amazing.

  If you decided to pull over for

  a quickie, I’d happily comply, but

  it isn’t necessary, or why I’m here.

  I love you, Matt, I do. She pauses,

  then laughs, staccato. Pretty sure

  there’s a Bible verse that says, “Love

  is patient.” Dude, I’m the patient

  love poster child. I figure if I wait

  long enough, eventually you’ll get smart.

  Her Forthrightness

  Is bone-chilling,

  yet also refreshing.

  Communication?

  This girl is not afraid

  of the word, which makes

  me wonder out loud,

  “What are you afraid of?”

  What?

  “Are you afraid of anything?”

  Well, sure. Everyone’s afraid

  of something, aren’t they?

  “Okay, so, like, what? Spiders?

  Snakes? Chain-saw killers?”

  She laughs again. Dad killed

  a chain saw once. Not pretty.

  “Young woman, I do believe

  you’re evading my question.”

  She Sucks in a Serious Breath

  Exhales slowly, as if expelling

  the air compressed inside her secrets.

  I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes.

  I’m afraid of things I can’t see.

  “You mean, like, gasses? Or all

  the way down to the molecular level?”

  Smart-ass. I mean like . . .

  Have you ever felt something

  brush by, but when you look

  to see what, there’s nothing there?

  “Uh, not really. Hey, are you going

  all woo-woo on me or what?”

  Never mind. Her voice is heavy

  with “pout.” Sorry you asked.

  “Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve never

  experienced anything like that,

  or if I did, my conscious self chose

  to ignore it. I don’t like creepy shit.”

  Me either, and that’s exactly

  what I mean. I have experienced

&
nbsp; it, on more than one occasion, and

  my conscious self couldn’t ignore

  the way it made me break out

  in goose bumps and lifted the hair

  on my arms. And the weirdest thing

  was, I know exactly who it was.

  Who? Damn, man, woo-woo squared.

  “Really?” This is either obnoxiously

  interesting or something I want

  to know nothing about. Really.

  So, do I bite, or leave it there,

  hoping it will go away? “Who?”

  My father. He was killed when

  I was a baby. I never knew him.

  Killed?

  That’s what I ask,

  increduously, and, “Why

  have I never heard this story?”

  I’ve known Alexa

  since fifth grade.

  She shrugs. It’s not

  something that comes up

  in conversation. Like I said,

  I never knew him at all.

  My mom remarried

  when I was two, so Paul

  has always been “Dad” to me.

  “Hope this doesn’t sound

  morbid, but what

  happened to your father?”

  Nothing too glamorous.

  Wrong place, wrong time

  to be buying liquor.

  The store got robbed,

  and he was caught

  in the crossfire when

  the guy behind the counter

  pulled his own gun.

  I turn off the highway,

  onto the gravel road to Uncle

  Jessie’s. The tires crunch

  beneath us, the noise obvious

  above our silent reflection.

  Finally I ask, “So why

  do you think your father

  would come back to terrify you?”

  I doubt that’s his goal, but I

  can’t help being weirded out.

  How often do dead people come

  around to visit? Why would

  he drop by? Great question.

  Maybe it’s lonely wherever

  your spirit goes when you die.

  Maybe he wants company.

  Or maybe he just wants me

  to know he’s looking out for me.

  “Would it make you feel better

  to believe a dead someone

  is looking out for you?”

  Better than thinking he’s inviting

  me to join him in the Great Beyond.

  The Sun Showers

  Have encouraged a number

  of people to the outdoor range.

  Small-caliber weapons crack

  the air, while larger ones

  thud and boom. I assess

  Lex’s expression—fascination

  and outright delight. This

  could be a whole lot of fun.

  We find an open target and

  I demonstrate all the basics.

  Safety first, of course—what

  not to do if you want to remain

  unscathed. Then grip. Stance.

  Aim. The kick surprises her at

  first, the barrel’s awkward lift

  making her miss the paper

  completely the first shot or ten.

  I show her how to compensate,

  and we start again. Before long,

  she’s hitting the target reliably,

  if not square center. Finally,

  I take control of the Glock.

  “My turn.” I spend a few minutes

  showing off and am reloading

  when someone taps my shoulder.

  I turn. “Hey, Uncle Jessie.”

  His long salt-and-pepper hair

  is tied back away from his face,

  accentuating the sharp angles

  that run in the Turner family.

  He is younger than Dad, but could

  easily pass for his older brother.

  He gives me a giant bear hug,

  steps back and grins, then notices

  Alexa, who is likewise grinning.

  This your girlfriend?

  I glance at Lex. “Not exactly.”

  His single eye does the work

  of two, gives her a total once-over.

  Hmm. Well, she should be.

  “Uncle Jessie!” Lex doesn’t blush,

  but I do. “Um, this is my friend,

  Alexa. I’m showing her the ropes.”

  I know. I’ve been observing.

  You could do worse for a teacher,

  miss. This boy is a world-class shot.

  A Sudden Outburst

  Of world-class cussing draws

  all attention toward the far end

  of the long row of targets,

  where an immense, scruffy

  guy seems to be wrestling

  with a very large long gun.

  Ah, hell, exhales Jessie. Gus.

  Better go help him out. He starts

  away, turns back long enough

  to invite, Quin’s whipping up

  enchiladas. Why don’t you two

  come to the house for dinner?

  Alexa’s all for it, I can tell,

  and I’m having frozen whatever

  otherwise. “Sure thing,” I call after

  Uncle Jessie, who, in a half-dozen

  superstrides, has reached Gus.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying,

  but I can see him coax the rifle

  away from the hulk. He checks for

  a chambered round, examines

  the barrel, points out something

  to Gus, who remains agitated. People

  start packing it in, but whether it’s due

  to the commotion or simply because

  the day is tipping toward evening,

  who knows? Alexa shifts uneasily

  from foot to foot. “Don’t worry.

  Whatever the problem is, Jessie can

  handle it. You up for another round?”

  Lex pulls her attention back toward

  the Glock and me, but when she takes

  the pistol, I notice the tension traveling

  from her shoulders all the way down

  through her arms, into her hands.

  “You’ll have to relax or forget it.”

  I’m trying, she says. But that man

  looks just this side of going bad. Reminds

  me of Paul after an all-night bender.

  “If he’s been drinking, my uncle

  will escort him out of here. Guns

  and liquor are a toxic combination.”

  As If to Prove My Point

  Jessie and Gus come ambling

  toward us, Jessie carrying the rifle

  belonging to the bigger man,

  who has one arm slung around

  Jessie’s shoulder. After they pass

  by, headed in the direction

  of the main building, Lex finally

  expels enough stress to hit the target

  again. Her last shot is a dead-on

  bull’s-eye. “Way to go!” I offer

  a high high-five, one she has to

  jump a little for. Anything worth

  having is worth working for,

  as my Grandpa Turner says.

  I take one last turn, annihilating

  the target’s center with eight

  straight perfect shots. Awesome!

  exclaims Lex. I want to shoot like that.

  “You can, with practice. You’ve

  got a good eye.” I drop the clip,

  pull the trigger one last time,

  making sure no chambered

  surprises await me, then wipe

  the Glock free of residue.

  I pack the pistol in its case and

  as Lex and I swing toward the truck,

  Uncle Jessie and Gus emerge

  from the office. This time,

 
; Jessie does walk Gus to his car,

  the offending rifle nowhere in sight.

  I tuck the Glock in its usual

  under-the-seat hiding place, wait

  for Uncle Jessie’s return trip. As

  he nears, I call out, “Hey, soldier.

  Want a ride? Good time, guaranteed.”

  Jessie laughs; Alexa does, too,

  especially when Jessie responds,

  How could I not have a good time

  with you? But enchiladas first.

  Any and all good times after dinner.

  The house isn’t really so far, just

  a couple hundred yards up the hill.

  Walking distance, but I kind of

  enjoy the chauffeur role. I open

  the backseat door. “Oh, brother

  of my father, your four-wheel-drive,

  supercharged V-8 limo awaits.

  Allow me to help you in, suh.”

  He Slaps Away

  My outstretched hand, but he does

  accept the ride, climbs up inside,

  with a heartfelt, Jerkwad. I’ll give

  you “suh” right upside your head.

  We all watch Gus back his beater

  out of the parking space, head off.

  “What’s up with him, anyway?

  And what happened to his rifle?”

  Uncle Jessie clucks his tongue. I

  talked him into letting me work on

  that old piece of crap. The barrel

  is corroded, and I’m worried it’ll

  blow his ugly-ass face off.

  But he loves that goddamn thing.

  I thought he might fight you for it,

  says Alexa. He looked belligerent.

  B-b . . . Jessie detonates laughter.

  Yep, belligerent is the perfect word

  for Gus, and I figure he was born

  that way. But he wouldn’t fight me.

  We’re compadres. He’s a tad tweaked,

  but four back-to-back tours to

  the Middle East will do that to a guy.

  I let him come out here for free.

  He needs to blow off steam every now

  and again, and I’d rather it be shooting

  targets than most other things I can

  think of. Anyway, you’re safe with me.

  We pull up in front of the two-story

  frame farmhouse. The front porch sags

  a little, but seeing as how the place

  was built almost a century ago, all in all,

  it’s in decent shape. A trio of pit bull

  mix mutts come around the side of the house

  to investigate, wagging their stumps

  at the sight of Jessie and his company.

  The Dogs Grin, Exposing Fangs

  Alexa hesitates beside the truck.

  “I thought nothing scared you

  except things you can’t see,”