Authors: Angela Morrison

Tags: #Social Issues, #Dating & Sex, #Christian, #Friendship, #Juvenile Fiction, #Sports & Recreation, #General, #Religious, #Water Sports, #Death & Dying

Taken by Storm (4 page)

POEM #26, BIOLOGY

Nuclear equations fall
prey to my calculations,
speed of light fairy-tale power:
E
equals
MC
squared absorbs
whispers of peptides joining in the dark.
I reign over forces that always react equally.
don’t face me with biology:
the pulse, the hum, the empty
nameless yearning for a shoulder, a hand,
a whisper that knows my name alone,
the mystery of being someone to someone,
feeling whole instead of half,
loved—not harassed—far away
from wheat-covered hills
on an endless, rhythmic roll,
our cathedral barn mom’s
grandfather built, the squeal
of hogs, the sizzle
of bacon, white flowers
that scent the night air
swirling through my window,
ruffling the faded pink curtains
that frame my white chamber,
my princess bed,
my pillowed head
that prays for recess from
biology.

chapter 4

NEW KID

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8

The football alarm rings. i’m still awake. Out of pills. Way wired without those little friends. i know every twist and turn of the crack in Dad’s wall. i should fix it. Mom hated cracks. i always helped patch our textured walls down in Phoenix. i’m a master at Spackle—even smooth flat walls like Gram has. Some fresh paint and you’d never know. It’s just a stupid crack.

i reach out and run my finger along the jagged line. Press my hand to the wall and remind myself to breathe.

“School today.” Gram tries to sound cheerful, but she doesn’t quite carry it off.

i actually remember how to shower, get dressed. Shaving is beyond me. i don’t seem to have a razor anyway. Did Gram pitch it? Does she think i’ll cut myself? i study the grim face looking back from the mirror. The scruff look goes great with the dark circles under my eyes. My hair is gross. Didn’t i see my baseball cap in the duffel bag?

“Your foot all right?” Gram calls through the bathroom door.

“No big deal.” The arch is still tender, but i’m down to two crisscrossed regular Band-Aids. i open the door. “i need some more pills, though. Can you call the doctor?”

“I’ll get right on it.” Gram holds out an old pair of sneakers i left at her house when i was fourteen. They almost fit.

“I can drive you.” She reaches for her keys that dangle on a key chain hosted by a crocheted pink bunny.

The school’s three blocks away. i shake my head. “i can manage.”

i do, too. i manage to walk up the hill without limping, push through the double front doors into an open space with a stage on one wall and cafeteria-style serving windows along the other. i manage to ignore the kids sprawled on the stage wearing jeans and T-shirts, even the chick making out with her boyfriend. She’s got Carolina’s eyes and forehead, the same thick, black hair.

i manage not to see the picture of my dad bulked up with football pads, his helmet under one arm and a cheerleader under the other, hanging in the office. i manage to send the principal-by-day-football-coach-by-night a blank stare when he asks me if i want to practice with the team after school. i manage to slump in a desk with my head down on my arms like a grade school kid in trouble when the English teacher hands me a stack of books on grieving. i manage it all until physics.

Somebody who reeks of smoke sits next to me, bumps my arm. “Hey.”

i’d grabbed a seat in the back and assumed my position. i lift my head. Smoke Chick is leaning over so i get the full effect of her skimpy black tank and push-up bra. Cs at least. Quite a show.

“I’m DeeDee. You must be Mike.”

“It’s Michael.” Dad was Mike. i bury my head in my arms again. Not even a twinge from that firm flesh waving in my face.

“Hello-oh.” She slides a physics text under my arms. “Anybody home?”

i look up, and she’s squatting down beside my desk, her cleavage in perfect position again. She has the sleazy look down. Tan from a bottle. Shagged-out hair dyed too blond. Heavy eye makeup. Red lips and nails. Not pretty enough to be popular but packed sexy tight in clothes that barely cover her assets. i can’t eat. Fine. i don’t sleep. So what. But a flesh parade like DeeDee is putting on should trigger animal instinct firing on automatic. She’s easily good enough for that.

i sit there, numb, wondering what she’d look like lying on a dock with a white sheet pulled over her face. Am i inventing new stages of grief or did the shrink in Belize leave this one out?

The seven other students in the room stare.

“We’re on page fifty-two.”

i sit straight, push my chair back, fold my arms across my chest, and pull my cap down over my face.

DeeDee perches on the edge of my desk, smack in front of me. “I heard about your parents. If you need someone to, um”—she leans over and drops her voice to a stage whisper everyone can still hear—“talk or—something—I’m always around.”

“Get away from me,” i snarl at her. Rude, sure. But she is scaring me way more than she knows. i mean, am i broken? i don’t want to toss the football around with these hicks or write a research paper on grieving, but you’d think a good night with an easy girl would be just what i do need to start plugging the crater my guts have become. The thought of letting DeeDee comfort me makes me nauseous. i should call Carolina. Her voice always used to do it. Crap. What if it doesn’t? i bet the pills would help.

i look away from DeeDee pouting and catch the only other chick in the class staring at me. She looks down fast. Embarrassed red stains her farm girl cream cheeks. At least she has the decency to hide behind her physics book. DeeDee retreats into the desk beside mine. i can still smell her gaudy perfume.

i make it through the class without hurling, then bolt down to Gram’s for lunch. “What did the doctor say?” i hope he’s called in a prescription. i want a gleaming bottle sitting on Gram’s melamine kitchen table.

“I’ll make the call after my nap.”

Crap.

i hide out in the guys’ john while DeeDee hunts for me before afternoon classes start. The john is a real treat. Designer haven. Two urinals. One stall. The place smells like decades of guys missed the mark. Layers of obscene graffiti cover the walls. DeeDee’s name takes up some major space. While i’m in there, a blond guy comes in, scribbles something on the wall over the urinal next to me, and leaves. i examine it. Somebody actually painted out a fresh “page” on the wall.
Best Butt
heads the white space. Five girls’ names follow. DeeDee tops the list, but the chick who has the most tally marks by far is named Leesie. Guys signed their names all around hers. i’m pretty sure what that must mean.

Looks like DeeDee has some competition for Queen of the Skanks.

chapter 5

DROOL

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 09/21 10:39 P.M.