Burned

by Ellen Hopkins

Homemade

  strawberry pie.

  He did just

  that. We spent the next hour or so

  immersed in

  lighthearted conversation, strawberries,

  and whipped

  cream.

  After He Left

  Aunt J noted, I think he’s

  taken with you, girl.

  Taken with me? “No way.

  Why would he be?”

  She shrugged. He could have

  brought the reins on Sunday.

  Which proved exactly zip.

  He was driving by…

  Even if the reins were important,

  he didn’t have to stay for dessert.

  “Maybe not. But I’m not

  good enough for him.”

  Why would you say such

  a thing, Pattyn?

  “Have you looked at him,

  Aunt J? He’s beautiful.”

  Have you looked in a mirror

  lately? So are you. So are you.

  “Me? Beautiful? I’m

  plain as cardboard.”

  That may be how you see yourself,

  but the rest of the world would

  be hard put to agree. You shine

  brighter than the Milky Way.

  Now there are those who might

  try to take that from you, but

  you don’t have to give it away.

  Keep on shining, Pattyn.

  And when the right young man

  comes along, he’ll love you all

  the more for giftin’ this sad

  planet with your light.

  I Didn’t Know

  How to respond,

  but with a simple

  thank you. Then

  I excused myself

  and went in to bed.

  I sat in the rocker,

  staring out at a corner

  of the Milky Way,

  Aunt J’s words

  floating in my head.

  I’d never thought

  of myself as anything

  but banal.

  Could I see myself

  as beautiful instead?

  Smaller steps, maybe?

  “Pretty” would do, or

  even “cute.” Still,

  this was territory I

  almost feared to tread.

  I felt like a snake,

  perhaps a bit afraid

  of the brand-new

  serpent, commanding

  an old skin to shed.

  The Morning After

  Found me antsy, so I borrowed

  Aunt J’s .22 and hiked back up

  into the summer-kissed hills.

  Before I left, she insisted I clean

  the rifle, which had sat, unused, for

  more years than she could remember.

  I’d never cleaned a gun before, and

  as I thought about it, I began to wonder

  why Dad had never taught me the skill.

  A dirty gun is no kind of weapon,

  Aunt J said. You could take out

  an eye as easily as hit a target.

  Anyway, she showed me how,

  and as I walked, the scent of gun oil

  blended with evergreen. Heavenly!

  It had been several weeks since

  I’d shot a gun and for ten or fifteen

  minutes I felt as rusty as tin in salt air.

  But then it all came tumbling back

  and for quite some time I amused myself,

  shooting ever-smaller pinecones from the trees.

  As I wandered farther and farther

  into the belly of the forest, a flash

  of beige brushed the corner of my eye.

  I froze, and so did the doe, heavy with

  fawn. We gave each other a stout once-over,

  then she flinched and vanished, a whisper.

  It came to me that I never considered

  raising that gun and taking aim, not that

  a .22 was much in the way of a venison rifle.

  And in a moment of clarity, I understood

  that while killing for meat can be tolerated,

  killing for passion might very well be easier

  By Friday Afternoon

  I decided my bottom had healed

  enough to practice a bit on Old

  Poncho. I didn’t want to look like

  a complete fool in front of Ethan.

  (The best-laid plans…)

  Aunt J was taking a nap when I

  wandered down to the barn,

  clipped a rope to Poncho’s halter,

  and led him to the tack room.

  (That much I remembered.)

  I slipped a blanket over his back,

  topped it with the saddle, reached

  for the cinch. That’s when things

  got a bit hazy memory-wise.

  (I’d only seen it done once!)

  Through one ring, pull it tight,

  now some kind of a knot?

  Okay, it didn’t feel exactly right,

  but I calculated it might do.

  (Math was not my best subject.)

  Whatever I did, it managed

  to hold my weight as I stepped

  up into the stirrup and pulled

  myself into the saddle.

  (Thereby increasing my confidence.)

  I’d forgotten the bridle completely,

  but Poncho didn’t seem to care.

  He steered just fine without a bit,

  at least while circling at a walk.

  (Building my confidence even more.)

  I knew I had to trot sometime,

  master whatever technique

  stopped one from bouncing.

  I nudged him to pick up speed.

  (Things started to go wrong immediately.)

  Plop-plop-plop. Bounce, bounce,

  bounce. Maybe faster was better?

  I kicked once. Poncho upped his pace.

  Still bouncing, I kicked again.

  (In retrospect, it was a bad move.)

  Poncho had had quite enough.

  He feinted right. I leaned right,

  just as he shifted left. Completely

  baffled, my body kept right.

  (About then, I suspected something was amiss.)

  The saddle moved along with

  my weight, cocking sideways.

  I grabbed the horn and planted

  my feet in the stirrups.

  (Not exactly the right thing to do.)

  Poncho put on the brakes,

  resulting in the saddle and me

  coming to a sudden halt, at a

  ninety-degree angle to the horizon.

  (Hilarious, if it had been someone else.)

  About then, I happened to glance

  toward the driveway, where a shiny

  blue Dodge Dakota had parked.

  Ethan stood beside it, grinning.

  (Like I said, the best-laid plans…)

  No Way Off That Horse

  But to look like a total idiot

  and fall butt-first in the dirt,

  so that’s exactly what I did.

  I thought your problem was

  sitting a trot, not gettin’ off

  the horse. Ethan stood over me.

  Aunt J told him? My face

  bubbled heat. “Apparently,

  I’ve got multiple problems.”

  Ethan’s grin broadened.

  He offered a hand, pulled

  me to my feet. Don’t we all?

  Poncho snorted and moved

  to one side, and the saddle

  slid completely under his belly.

  Hard to sit a horse sideways,

  Pattyn, least that’s what

  I’ve always believed.

  “Really? Well, I didn’t have much

  of a problem with the sideways

  thing. Now, straight up and down…”

  He laughed out loud. We’ll


  have to work on that, okay?

  Ready to put the old boy away?

  We’ll have to work on that? Why

  did I so like the sound of that?

  God, he was good-looking!

  Ethan undid what was left of my

  cinch knot, hoisted the saddle

  up over one shoulder.

  I led Poncho back to his pasture,

  Ethan so close his scent—

  sunbaked skin—engulfed me.

  I’m glad you could spend the summer

  with your aunt. She doesn’t get

  much company out here.

  At least she hadn’t told him

  everything. “I’m glad I came.”

  Getting gladder by the minute.

  Ethan Helped Me

  Feed and water the livestock,

  all the time making small talk.

  He was working

  at the feed store

  to help pay for his

  next semester at

  UC Davis. He

  was going to be

  a veterinarian.

  I told him I had no clue

  what I wanted to be.

  His mom had

  recently died and

  his dad lived,

  single, on eighty

  acres, just a couple

  of miles from

  where we stood.

  I told him my dad should

  have stayed single.

  He had no brothers

  or sisters and was,

  in fact, lucky to

  have made it into

  this world. His

  mom had had problems

  carrying babies.

  I told him my mom was

  the goddess of fertility.

  He’d had a girl at

  Davis, but when he

  brought her home

  for a visit, she took

  a good look around

  and decided Caliente

  was beneath her—

  meaning he was too.

  I told him not even Death

  Valley was beneath my ex.

  He wasn’t Mormon.

  I told him I wasn’t sure

  I was either.

  If He Thought I Was Nuts

  He didn’t say so, or even give me a look

  that did. The more we talked, the more

  I liked him, and that didn’t scare me a bit.

  Finally, it struck me that he must have

  come over for some particular reason.

  Turned out, Aunt J had invited him

  to dinner. As we wandered back toward

  the house, she came out onto the porch.

  You two about ready for supper? Hope so,

  ’cause supper’s about ready for you.

  We went inside, washed up, and by the time

  we got to the table, dinner had already arrived.

  Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans

  canned personally by Aunt J, homemade

  apple crisp. Oh yes, and a bottle of good Merlot.

  Not that I knew good wine from bad, and of course,

  the guilt train got rolling as soon as the cork popped.

  But somehow I managed to hop off that locomotive.

  Stan was the wine collector, said Aunt J. I don’t tap

  into the cellar often. Just for special company.

  Delicious food, mellow wine, and Ethan’s very

  warm leg, real close to mine. From time to time,

  our thighs touched and neither of us hurried

  to pull them apart. Did he realize what he was

  doing to me? Was I doing the same to him?

  Half of Me Said Yes

  I hadn’t imagined it.

  He had kept his leg there.

  I hadn’t started it.

  He had initiated contact.

  I hadn’t insisted.

  He had enjoyed it.

  The other half insisted

  I was crazy.

  He was perfect.

  I was plain.

  He was worthy of a rock star.

  I deserved a zero.

  He was all a man should be.

  I wasn’t yet a woman.

  I mean, physically I was,

  yes. Mother Nature came

  to call regularly.

  But emotionally?

  I was about six years old,

  still Daddy’s little girl,

  even though Daddy

  couldn’t care less

  about me. How could

  I expect any man

  ever would?

  Journal Entry, June 16

  What is the matter with me?

  Three months ago, I barely

  knew boys existed.

  First I couldn’t get Justin

  out of my mind, even though

  I had no chance at him, ever.

  Then it was Derek I thought I had

  to be with, even though he was

  a total jerk. (Should have known.)

  Now it’s Ethan—too old for me,

  too good-looking for me, too

  everything, except LDS.

  So why this amazing attraction?

  Why do I even think he might

  be a little bit interested in me?

  Even if he is interested, do

  I want a summer fling? That

  was great, see ya later?

  And what if we actually fell in love?

  How could it ever work out?

  Just think if Dad found out!

  Why can’t I just forget about

  guys? Do I want to end up like

  Aunt J? Or worse, like Mom?

  I Tend to Overanalyze

  So the next day I tried not to think about him at all.

  Let things happen as they’re meant to, I told myself.

  Aunt J was planting the garden, turning long, even rows

  of dirt so rich you could breathe in the compost smell.

  I helped her rake the soil smooth, enjoying the sun’s

  gentle pulse on my back and the mindless labor.

  For an hour or more we worked quietly. Not a single

  question popped into my head. Work is good for that.

  But when we stopped for lunch and lemonade, bam,

  bam, bam, there came the questions in rapid succession.

  “How long were you and Uncle Stan married?” “How

  did he die?” “Why didn’t you ever have children?”

  Lord, girl, you do ask personal questions, don’t you?

  Ah well, a week after our thirteenth anniversary,

  Stan found out he had stomach cancer. He fought

  it for almost a year, but it finally got the best of him.

  I wanted children and we tried to have them, but I couldn’t

  carry a baby to full term. After five miscarriages, I said enough.

  That made me think of something Ethan said. “Ethan’s

  mom had trouble carrying babies too. Isn’t that weird?”

  No, Pattyn, it’s not. Now I’m going to tell you a little story,

  and it isn’t very pretty. But it’s honest-to-God true.

  Another Ugly Story

  I sat, fascinated,

  as Aunt J remembered:

  In the 1950s the U.S. government

  detonated nuclear weapons aboveground,

  down at the test site near Vegas.

  They didn’t have a clear idea

  what radiation might do, so they

  tracked where the wind blew it,

  and what happened to those who

  came in contact with the fallout.

  I saw anger flash in her

  steel gray eyes.

  Your father and I were kids then,

  living near Ely. These men in suits,

  driving official-looking cars, would

  come around with these little badges

  to wear on the days they set off their bombs.<
br />
  They asked our family—and others—

  to sit outside and watch the blasts,

  which were visible hundreds of miles away.

  We learned a little

  about them in school.

  The mushroom clouds were spectacular.

  Some people even had “blast parties,”

  drinking and carrying on as those venomous

  puffs lifted into the air and spread across the sky.

  The wind carried them, and those of us in its path

  became known as “downwinders.” The closer

  you were to the test site, the more immediate

  the results—dead cattle, contaminated milk.

  I remembered photos

  of soldiers at ground zero.

  Afterward, the government men collected

  the badges, which turned black by degrees—

  the more radiation, the blacker they became.

  We were guinea pigs, Pattyn. Government

  guinea pigs. As the years wore on, the effects

  showed up in elevated cancer levels. And

  thousands of women suffered

  miscarriage after miscarriage.

  That was something they

  sure didn’t teach in school.

  It wasn’t just in Nevada, either. That radiation

  went high into the atmosphere, moving across

  the country at will. There are downwinders in

  neighboring states, and even farther east.

  Today the government pays those of us still

  alive $50,000, if we can prove we were affected.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I survived breast

  cancer. Ethan’s mother was not so fortunate.

  Neither was Stan, nor your Grandma Jane.

  “What about Dad and Grandpa

  Paul? They’re healthy.”

  Maybe their immune systems are stronger.

  Maybe their cancers are sleeping somewhere.