Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

and if they drop dead tomorrow,

  I’m sure I’ll regret not seeing them

  more. But maybe not. And anyway,

  I figure they’ve got a few years left.

  That might change if they decide

  their mission on earth has been satisfied.

  Hey, I could be the key to their longevity.

  Getting Ready for Bed

  I think about Mom laughing again

  and fall into flashback, where I store

  snapshots of our past in obscure

  folders. I find images of Luke

  and me giggling like idiots over

  absurd jokes Mom told. One

  or two of those black-and-white

  photographs even record Dad

  laughing along with the rest of us.

  Why does time erode relationships?

  Is there a way to avoid its relentless

  lapping? Is any love strong enough

  to withstand the chipping away?

  After witnessing the total corrosion

  of my parents’ marriage, watching

  my private foundation crumble,

  it’s probably not so strange that

  I clutched my love for Hayden far

  longer than I should have, nor

  that it’s such a struggle to chance

  falling in love again.

  By Thursday

  News of the Cottage Grove,

  Oregon, book challenge has

  spread beyond the city limits,

  and over the state lines. The AP

  picked up the story from a local

  newspaper and ran with it.

  Variations have appeared in

  the Huffington Post, UK Guardian,

  and School Library Journal.

  Mr. DeLucca has, in fact, positioned

  himself very well, at least if name

  recognition can get you elected

  to the local school board. Here,

  no doubt it can, and will, unless

  that name spurs a negative association,

  and that has become my own mission

  on earth, at least for this week.

  Looks like I’ll be attending my first

  school board meeting tonight,

  and not only that, but address

  its members. Alexa has been

  rounding up friends, and friends

  of friends, to help stack the audience

  a little more fairly. DeLucca’s faction

  will arrive in full force, and if it

  comes down to a handful of First

  Amendment proponents versus them,

  their voices are going to be louder.

  Come to think of it, Alexa has been

  amazing—a regular little firebrand,

  stirring up the student body. I could

  do worse (and have!) than this girl.

  That’s what I’m thinking after school

  as I put on decentish clothes (khaki

  pants, a clean button-down shirt, scented

  Rainforest Chic or some such garbage).

  “Dress to impress,” the saying goes,

  and I’m giving that my best shot.

  Of course DeLucca et al. will

  probably turn up in tuxes and gowns.

  Somewhere in the House

  A telephone rings.

  So strange, hearing

  that sound. Before

  Lorelei, it hardly

  ever rang. But now,

  apparently, she needs

  it for her business.

  I can’t believe how

  easily she assimilated,

  requisitioned Luke’s

  room and the phone

  and the kitchen. I’d like

  to quit being offended,

  stop feeling like I don’t

  belong in the home I

  grew up in and lived

  in my entire life. Yeah,

  I know at eighteen I

  should be thinking

  about moving out,

  moving on. Would I

  be more willing to do

  just that if it didn’t seem

  like I’m being pushed out?

  Someone Knocks

  On my door rather urgently.

  “Hold on. Let me zip up.”

  When I open it, the Lorelei

  on the far side looks one

  notch beyond concerned.

  That was your aunt on the phone.

  “Aunt Sophie?” Why would

  she call, unless, “Did something

  happen to my mom?”

  No, not Sophie. Uh . . . Quin?

  She’s at the ER with your uncle

  and would like you and your dad

  at the hospital as soon as possible.

  “Uncle Jessie? What’s wrong?”

  Apparently he’s had a heart attack.

  He’s undergoing angioplasty now.

  “So, everything’s under control,

  then?” This can’t be that bad, with

  modern medicine and everything, right?

  It sounds pretty serious. I’d go now.

  Not Serious

  As in “could die” serious, surely.

  I just saw him a couple of days ago

  and he looked . . . not great. He hasn’t

  looked great, in fact, for weeks. Shit.

  There goes my first school board

  meeting. Oh, well. At least I’ll be dressed

  handsomely in case I run into any cute

  nurses. Oh man. I hate hospitals. I take

  the time to call Alexa, let her know

  where I’m going. “You speak for me,

  okay?” If anyone can hold her own

  against Frank DeLucca, it’s Alexa.

  Do you want me to meet you

  at the hospital? she asks.

  “You don’t have to do that. Hospitals

  suck. The meeting will be a whole lot more

  interesting than sitting around a waiting

  room, tracing cracks in the ceiling

  with your eyes. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Give Quin a hug for me, okay?

  And, just so you know, I love you.

  “I know.”

  Lorelei

  Catches me at the front door.

  Would you mind giving me

  a ride? I caught your dad

  in a meeting. He’s on his way

  to the hospital, and I’d like

  to be there to support him.

  The last thing I want to do

  is give this woman a ride,

  but in the seconds I have

  to decide, I can’t find a good

  excuse to say no. “I guess.”

  The drive is what you might

  call awkward. Especially when

  she feels the need to say,

  I know we’ve dropped a lot

  in your lap very quickly, so

  I understand how you might

  resent me—

  “You?” I interrupt. “You give

  yourself an awful lot of credit.

  I don’t resent you. It’s him.”

  Him

  My father, and there’s a litany

  of things to resent him for.

  I go ahead and list them:

  One:

  fucking off on her in

  the first place, resulting in

  Two:

  the pretense of a marriage

  and a couple of unnecessary,

  unplanned, unwanted children, who

  Three:

  he disrespected, neglected,

  ultimately rejected, and, once in

  a while, terrified, which led to

  Four:

  his wife’s alcoholism,

  and my own anxiety, especially

  after his younger child’s suicide.

  “All any of us wanted was his love.

  But he always reserved that
for you.”

  She Chews on That

  For a couple of minutes,

  but if I believe I’ve carved

  channels of doubt into

  her marble heart, I’m wrong.

  You make him sound evil.

  He’s not. Conflicted, certainly,

  and not very good at showing

  emotion, but I can tell you

  he loves you, and he loved

  Luke, despite how it might

  have seemed. After . . . After

  it happened, he changed.

  “How can you defend him?”

  A mad jolt of rage buzzes

  in my ears. “He was half to

  blame for what Luke did!

  He called him a fag, a waste.

  His own son! And he called him

  a pussy! How can you say

  he loved him? He never

  once stood up for him!”

  Did you?

  The Buzz Intensifies

  “Of course!” (Lie, lie, lie.)

  I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean

  to be so blunt. But there’s one

  thing I want you to know.

  After Luke’s suicide, your father

  would have left me, gone back

  to his family, I think for good.

  He was broken, and looking

  for you to glue him back together.

  Instead, you pushed him away.

  Blame is a venomous thing.

  Your mother was in pain,

  and withdrew. You were in

  pain, and lashed out, when

  he desperately needed comfort.

  You gave him back to me.

  I can’t make you forgive him,

  but I can help him forgive himself.

  Can someone do that for you?

  Dislike Swells

  Like a sun-baked corpse,

  into something close to hate.

  I really have no proper response,

  so I settle for silent introspection

  until we turn into the parking lot.

  Here’s another thing I resent:

  that this stranger knows—

  or intuits—so much about me.

  Or maybe she’s just an exceptional

  guesser, like one of those pretend

  clairvoyants you see on talk shows who

  can pull a person cold from the audience,

  read the shadow of a missing

  wedding ring, and wow the crowd

  by postulating that person is recently

  divorced. Then again, some of those

  pseudopsychics are privy to inside

  information gleaned from pretaping

  interviews. Lorelei has access to plenty

  of inside dope about me, too.

  Dad Meets Us

  In the lobby.

  Hope Lorelei’s glue

  is in good supply

  because the chinks

  in Dad’s shellac are obvious.

  “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  It’s touch-and-go, I hear.

  Way too much forced bravado,

  Dad. “But what happened?”

  He had a massive arterial

  blockage. He came through

  the angioplasty okay, but

  he’s not rallying as quickly

  as they’d like. They just moved

  him to ICU. We can wait there.

  Lorelei gets directions

  to the intensive care unit

  from a volunteer manning

  the information desk and when

  she returns, Dad slides his arm

  around her shoulders, tilts against

  them, slight support to lean on.

  I Follow Them

  Two steps behind, watching

  the way he’s relying on her.

  Screw it. Maybe that’s not

  totally bad. Suddenly, I wish

  I would’ve encouraged Alexa

  to meet me here after all. I want

  a strong woman to lean on. Instead,

  I throw my shoulders back, tilt

  my chin toward the ugly ceiling,

  with cracks I’ll be counting soon.

  No use getting a backache from

  poor posture. Ache. That word

  punctures my own forced bravado.

  Why didn’t I make Uncle Jessie

  go see a doctor? I knew those aches

  of his signaled something more

  important. Damn. I seriously let

  every single person in my life down,

  and once again, my failure might

  cost someone I care about—no, wait,

  someone I love—his life. Hell

  has a place reserved for me.

  Waiting Sucks

  Especially when relying

  On a fifteen-inch TV to disturb

  the monotony of sitting

  on varicose-veined

  faux leather

  (mind wandering to random

  places, like who sat here

  before and who was that

  person waiting for news about)

  listening to the scripted

  rants of pundits,

  right and left, the only real

  difference between them

  a yay or no-way

  about whatever

  they’re “reporting.”

  We’re not the only ones

  here simultaneously hoping

  for and dreading news.

  Every movement

  in the corridor

  elicits reaction—

  heads turn, postures stiffen.

  There are those

  who deal with stress

  by supporting Big Tobacco.

  They leave, for varying lengths

  of time determined, I’m sure,

  by the depth of their habit.

  Then they return, steeped

  in nicotene.

  I’ve never tasted tobacco.

  Some of my friends smoke,

  but Mom’s stench always

  turned me away, cold.

  So why do I semi-crave

  a cigarette now?

  Must be something to do

  with the satisfied smiles

  on the faces of those who

  embrace the habit.

  If I’m willing to immerse

  myself in stink,

  would I be able to grin

  like that, despite knowing

  whoever it is I’m waiting on

  news about might disappear

  from my life forever?

  Three Hours In

  I’m fighting the nod

  that signals the need for sleep

  (or boredom) has won.

  I jerk into awareness,

  notice Dad and Lorelei have

  given in. They’re dozing,

  attached, cheek to chest.

  A nurse happens by and notices

  the three of us, now the only

  ones in the waiting room.

  Where did everyone else go?

  Who are you here for? she asks,

  then goes to consult her charts.

  When she returns, I notice the name

  on her badge. Meri Valencia. Nice.

  Mr. Turner’s resting comfortably.

  Why don’t you all go on home

  and come back in the morning?

  “Okay. But can I talk to Quin

  first?” Nurse Meri looks totally

  confused. “You know, his . . . wife?”

  Her eyes flash understanding.

  Oh. He’s not married, you know,

  but if you’re referring to his fiancée

  she’s in the chapel. She’s been there

  for hours. She lowers her voice.

  I made sure she got some food.

  She was pretty upset when they

  came in, especially when she wasn’t

  allowed to stay with
him.

  I don’t blame her, of course, but

  they haven’t even registered as

  domestic partners, and he was in

  no shape to sign papers allowing her

  in ICU. They can fix that tomorrow,

  assuming he’s well enough to write.

  “Thanks, Meri. Has anyone ever

  mentioned how ironic your name

  is, considering your profession?”

  She rolls her eyes. Pretty much

  everyone. The irony of that is,

  I’m really a cheerful person. See you.

  I Nudge

  Dad and Lorelei awake, repeat

  what the nice, progressive

  nurse told me—“Go home,

  come back in the morning.

  He’s resting comfortably.”

  Which could be code

  for “be ready to say goodbye

  in the morning” or might

  just possibly be good news.

  I doubt she’s a bullshitter.

  As Dad reluctantly leaves,

  I check messages to find,

  of course, a short one from

  Alexa. SOME PEOPLE ARE

  ASSHATS. YOU’RE LUCKY YOU

  MISSED GETTING THIS ASSHAT

  FOR A FATHER-IN-LAW. FILL

  YOU IN LATER. KEEP ME POSTED,

  OKAY? LOVE YOU LOTS. CALL IF

  YOU WANT TO TALK. One thing,

  at least, I definitely love about

  this girl is her ability to know

  exactly how much, or little,

  to say. That is a noteworthy talent.

  Before I Go on Home

  I find my way to the chapel,

  which is dark and claustrophobic

  and scented with some exotic

  incense. Quin is easy to spot.

  She’s the only one here.

  She sits leaning forward, and

  very still, forehead against

  the chair in front of her. I’m not

  sure if she’s awake and I don’t

  want to startle her. Softly, “Quin?”

  Her head lifts immediately.

  Was she praying? Without turning,

  she says, Matt. I’m so glad you came.

  Is everything okay? Any news?

  I wander down the short aisle,

  scoot into a chair beside her.

  “Last I heard from the cheerful

  Nurse Meri, he’s resting comfortably.

  What about you? You holding up okay?”

  I’m stellar. I mean, I’m not the one

  who had the heart attack. It’s just

  such a shock, you know?

  “It definitely threw me, but looking