Authors: Ellen Hopkins
My Parents Aren’t Real
Parents anyway.
They’re cardboard
cutouts. I mean, aren’t
parents supposed
to care about their
kids? Care
for
their
kids? Not abuse
them or use them or
lose track of them.
And aren’t they
supposed to care for
each other? Not use
each other or lose
the love that was
once central to each
other’s existence.
Not toss each other
aside because life
threw a curveball
their way, even if it
was a major curve
ball. No wonder
I’m a little paranoid
about giving away my
love. What if I go
ahead, give it, and he
decides to re-gift it?
Of Course, Maybe Daddy
Isn’t really sleeping with Hannah.
Maybe it’s a harmless flirtation.
(Harmless? Daddy?)
Maybe they were just having
an innocent conversation.
(Innocent? Daddy?)
Maybe Daddy was just trying to
be helpful with some legal advice.
(Helpful? Daddy?)
Maybe he was just trying to offer
a selfless act of kindness.
(Selfless? Daddy?)
And just why am I offering
him such an easy out?
(Easy? You?)
Am I overly generous,
or just totally ignorant?
(Ignorant? You?)
Am I being loyal, or am
I, in fact, a little jealous?
(Enough said.)
Whatever Daddy Did
With Hannah wiped him out. Okay,
that and his usual Wild Turkey dinner,
plus OxyContin dessert. He’s snoozing
in front of the TV set, and the TV is off.
Kinda creepy, but oh so very Daddy.
Guess I’ll make myself something
to eat. Something substantial.
I’m starving. Too bad the pantry
looks like a raiding party came
through. Manuela usually handles
grocery store duty, but she had
an asthma attack and wound up
in the hospital. Wonder if Hannah
took care of her in the ER. Wonder
if Hannah will do the shopping
this week. Wonder if I can make
spaghetti with tomato soup and
ramen noodles. Sounds disgusting,
but beggars cannot be choosers. Oh,
wait. Two boxes of mac and cheese.
At least it’s the kind with the cheese
in a can, not the stuff with fluorescent
orange chem cheese powder. I make
both boxes, because two is always
better than one. That’s my motto.
Double the Pleasure
I polish off every bite of both
boxes. Enough, according to
the label, to feed a family of
four. Twice. Not a very hungry
family, if you ask me.
Double the pleasure. Now I
feel the need for liquid fun.
Tucked away in a low cabinet
is my parents’ liquor stash.
Can’t touch the Turkey.
The smell gags me and anyway,
Daddy would notice it missing.
The Chopin vodka, stashed in
the freezer, is a different
song, and I’m so ready
to drink that slushy tune.
I’ll never sleep without it.
Too many conflicts, volleying
inside my head, bouncing
off the interior of my skull.
I don’t really like the taste
of vodka, but they say you
can’t smell it on the breath.
Not sure if that’s true, or
if it matters. Even if Daddy
did wake up, he couldn’t smell
the vodka for the Turkey.
Double the Fun
I poke my head into the living
room. Daddy hasn’t so much
as twitched, at least that’s my guess.
The rest of the house is quiet
as death. Think I’m safe.
I fill a juice glass half full
of fermented potato juice, try
not to think about such ingredients
as I down the clear, hot-and-cold
liquid. Cold, as in not-quite frozen.
Hot, as in its burn down the throat.
Frozen smolder, a popular combo.
Phew! Chopin is definitely
not cabernet. Still, while I feel
it on my tongue, I don’t feel it
in my brain. Probably the mega
macaroni meal. This time
I fill the four-ounce glass
almost to the brim, think
about adding some water
to the bottle before I put it away,
decide against it. I doubt
anyone will miss it, and I might
want an encore performance.
Clutching the glass like
a baby holds a bottle,
I pad softly down the hall,
to my room. I try sipping
the vodka, but gulping
it is easier, and very quickly,
the glass is empty again.
Shouldn’t I feel inebriated?
Ha. Funny word. Inebri…
ineb…whoa. Wouldn’t
want to have to spell it!
I-n-i…er, inebre…okay,
so maybe the Chopin
is singing a little ditty
after all. I’m usually
a really good speller.
I Start to Feel
A little fuzzy at the edges,
and warm behind my eyes.
Fuzzy and warm. That makes
me think of Ian. I glance
at the clock. Not quite nine.
I think I can get away with
a quick phone call. One ring,
two ringies…three ringy
dingies…C’mon, Ian. Pick up.
Finally,
Hello? Kaeleigh?
What’s wrong?
He waits
patiently for me to explain
just why I’m actually calling
him. This is something rare.
“Nu…nothing. I just wanted
t-to say…uh…” What
did
I want to say again? Oh, yeah.
I remember. “Uh…um…”
I can’t finish it, and his
patience comes unraveled.
Have you been drinking?
I could lie, but he’d know
I was lying. “Uh, maybe
a little…” Ball’s in his court.
He rallies.
I don’t get it,
Kaeleigh. Why tonight?
Wasn’t today good for you?
I think back. Good. Good.
Sorta good. Not so good.
Better now. Or is it really?
Don’t say any of that! “It
was wonderful. That’s
why I called. To tell you…”
Grow a pair, Kaeleigh. Tell
him. He needs to hear it
right now. “I lu…love you.”
Pregnant pause. About nine
months pregnant.
I love you, too.
But love doesn’t make me drink.
What Does Make Him Drink?
I wonder, trying my damnedest
not to giggle. My entire core
knows laughing will make
him turn his back forever.
So why do I really need to laugh?
(Oh girl, too many reasons to
mention!) “S-so-sorry, Prince
P-p-p-perfect. I guess th-that means…”
Brother! Why won’t my mouth
work? Straighten up and say it.
“Guess that means you never
found out your dad is s-scr…”
I swallow any sort of apology.
“Screwing your neighbor.”
There. Said it. React, okay?
Pregnant pause becomes three
weeks overdue. Four weeks.
Time for a C-section.
What?
Oh, Kaeleigh, I’m so sorry.
Are you sure…?
Spoken like a true guy. Even
if I’m not sure, I say, “Of course
I’m damn well sure. Do you think
I drink for the fun of it?”
I Regret Everything Immediately
The confession. The out-and-out
meanness. That I called at all,
considering the state I’m in.
“I’m s-sh-sorry, Ian. I just didn’t
know who I could t-t-talk to,
except for you. I’ll go now, ’kay?”
Wait. Are you sure you’re okay?
Do you want me to pick you
up in the morning?
I’m not okay at all, but I never
will be. The thought pierces
me. How can he ever love me?
I struggle to talk without slurring.
“I…I’m okay. No, don’t pick me
up. I’ll sh-see you at school.”
Love is about helping each other
through dark times, Kaeleigh.
Try to remember that, okay?
Getting drunk tonight won’t make
tomorrow better. But letting me
love you will. It’s all up to you.
I So Do Not Deserve Him
He
is
Mr. Perfect
and I’m a perfect
ass to have ever, for
even a moment, believed
we could even resemble a
real couple, in real love,
like such a thing exists
beyond media-fed
fantasies.
He says
he loves me
and he’d never lie
to me, not on purpose.
But would he love me if
he knew my secrets? I go
from Chopin giggles to
a Chopin breakdown,
steeped in Chopin
teardrops.
Time For a Chopin Pee
I force Ian out of my mind,
do the best I can to do that,
anyway. Head spinning, gut
churning, I go into the bathroom,
try not to look at the
girl in the mirror as I pass by.
Every time I think I’ve gained
a little control, actually played
an active role in determining
my future, reality punches me
in the face. I have no control
at all. All I can do is hang on
for the ride, and it’s starting to
make me completely insane.
The toilet beckons and my
body responds, evacuating
Chopin and undigested mac
and cheese every which way
imaginable. Finally I lay my
sweaty forehead against the
cool porcelain. No! I don’t
deserve such comfort. In fact,
right this moment, all I really
deserve, really desire, is pain.
Not Mental Pain
Not emotional pain,
things beyond my
ability to control. But
physical pain is most
definitely within my
limited realm of power.