Authors: Ellen Hopkins
I don’t know Heather
at all, but I despise her
already. It’s not just that
she’s freaking beautiful
or that she obviously
despises me, too.
[You’re jealous.] Yeah,
yeah, that’s part of it. But
what I hate most about her
is the way she seems to be
in control of my no-longer-
totally-independent sister.
Oh, Heather, do you mind
if I tiptoe in to see the baby?
My curiosity is killing me!
You don’t have to come
unless you want to. Kristina
will show him off later.
Puke. Puke. Puke.
Smile that pretty girl-
on-girl smile for your
cheerleader. But don’t
ask her permission to
leave the frigging room!
I mean, I guess in a same
sex relationship, someone
needs to play the guy,
and if I had to choose roles
for Leigh and Heather,
Heather would be the guy.
But hey, in any relationship,
does the guy really need
to be in charge?
Tells me to fall
deep into a well
of silence.
Keep your meth
-
fired mouth shut,
it commands.
[Oh, just try that
with the monster
screaming,
Let’s party!]
So I dare, “Must
you
really
ask
for permission?
“Didn’t you give
that up when
you left home?
“Is Heather your girlfriend,
or your
friggin’ mommy?”
Yeah, the verbal slap
is mean. Really mean.
So why does it feel
so damn good?
Okay, I’m guessing
you know exactly
why. But the look
on the room’s collective
face slaps me back.
Kristina! You
apologize this instant,
screeches Mom.
Kristina! How
can you be so
rude?
cries Leigh.
Heather doesn’t say a word.
All she does is smile
a leprechaun smile.
In case you don’t know,
are cute little
demons
with cherubic faces
and devil-born
souls,
and when they smile,
you’d better
run quick.
Well, Bree and I
decide no way will
the conniver make us
run.
“Sorry,” I say, but
when everyone except
Heather turns
toward
Hunter’s sudden
outburst in the living
room, I slip
the bitch
the finger. Guess
what. She slips it back.
So now we both know
exactly where we
stand.
I make a mental
note to keep her
the frick out of my
bedroom, hold
my ground,
don’t worry about
taking the high road.
Leigh’s future
happiness is at stake.
If high school cheerleaders
indulge in “instant pep,” college
squads probably start the party
earlier and keep it going well
after the game ends. Maybe
Heather and I have something
in common, after all.
But Leigh wouldn’t go near
the stuff, would she? Secrets
between lesbians?
Hunter’s still fussing
for attention. I go over
and take Leigh’s hand,
making sure to turn my back
to Heather. I look into
my sister’s eyes—bright
aqua, no sign of the monster
there. “Sorry. I must be
premenstrual. Come on.
I’ll introduce you to Hunter.”
I pull Leigh’s hand, then turn
back to Heather. Close
assessment of her violet-blue
eyes yields no definitive answers,
though her pupils do look dilated.
I force a wide smile.
“Guess you can come too.”
Heather takes her own
measurements, which apparently
must tally.
Why not?
I lead the way to the living
room, where the setting sun
paints spectacular colors
on the west-facing window.
Hunter’s awake, waving
his chubby fists at whatever
real or imagined air fairies
have caught his eye.
When he sees me, he smiles
his great, toothless smile.
“Hey, Sweetie,” I croon.
“Meet your Auntie Leigh
and your…” [Uncle Heather].
The rest of my sentence sticks
around that idea. It takes all
my willpower (and you know
how much of that there is)
not to laugh out loud.
Heather shoots me a look
laced with understanding
as Leigh picks up Hunter.
She gives him a big kiss,
folds him into her arms
like she used to caress Jake
when he was a baby.
Oh, Heather.
Isn’t he adorable?
she asks.
Heather gives Hunter a top
to bottom assessment, something
like how a scientist checks out
his pet lab animal. Then she pokes
my eyes with hers.
Uh-huh,
she says.
He must resemble his father.
In more ways than one. I have to admit Hunter
does look an awful lot like Brendan. I hate to
think just how much. But only two people know
the truth about Hunter’s paternity—Chase and
me. When Mom asked, I told her I wasn’t sure.
The “Father” line
on Hunter’s birth
certificate claims:
Unknown.
One
day, I know, he’ll
ask about his dad. I’ll lie to him, too.
Better I look like a sleep-around
slut than he should ever find out
he is the by-product of rape.
Anyway, Leigh
doesn’t know, so
Heather doesn’t
either. She did
mean to wound
me with her jab,
but not mortally.
I decide to let
it drop. At least
for a little while.
Heather and I pretend
cordiality, amidst watching
Mom cook; Jake show off
his soccer trophies; and
watching Leigh play with Hunter, who
is happy to have company.
Which most definitely
stimulates not a small
amount of guilt in me.
Since my Stockton trip,
I must admit, I’ve spent
minimal time with him.
When my buzz starts
to wear off, I find an
excuse to sneak off
to my car, grab a toke,
maintain the very sharp
edge I’d honed earlier.
When I return, sucking
a mint, Heather smiles
the kind of smile that
says she might be just
the tiniest bit envious.
File that away for later use.
I actually
almost think
about offering her a whiff.
But what if I’m wrong?
What if all she wants
is to double dunk me
in a reservoir of shit?
And anyway, on this
trip outside I made
a striking observation—
there is a most definite
dent in my stash, in
not quite two weeks.
Is interesting, to say
the least. Mom made
a huge ham, scalloped
potatoes, broccoli, rolls,
with apple pie and ice
cream for dessert.
Jake keeps the small talk
rolling:
Freshman English
is just plain boring…think
I’m too short to play basketball…
Maryann Slocum is such a
hot babe…
I’ve heard it all.
But Leigh hasn’t. She
keeps prodding him for
details, and when he
turns red and quits giving
them, Mom is happy to
fill in the details she knows.
Heather and I pick at
our plates, hoping no
one will notice. But
Scott does.
Something
wrong with the ham?
he asks, drawing much
too much attention away
from Jake and toward us.
“Nope. It’s great,” I say.
“I just ate too much while
we were cooking.” The
explanation seems to work.
Heather chooses to flirt.
It’s delicious,
she cons,
batting her thick lashes,
but I’m trying to lose
a few pounds.
Sure, off
an already flawless figure.
Will someone please tell
her she’s crazy?
pleads
Leigh. Then things get
really creepy, when she
turns to Heather.
You’re
perfect, exactly as you are.
Mom and Scott roll
with it. And it sails
completely over Jake’s
head. Mouth stuffed
with cheesy potatoes,
he mumbles something
that sounds vaguely like
Perfect doesn’t cover it.
He’s in high school
already. How can he be
so dense? And has no one
told him about Leigh before?
[You tell him.] Luckily
Hunter starts fussing,
before I can volunteer
the information. Wrong
time, wrong place, much
to Bree’s chagrin.
Leigh jumps up to pacify
the baby while Heather
goes to stick her finger
down her throat and puke
up the few calories that
have managed to make
it past her lips. Scott
gets up to read the paper.
Mom and Jake go to
do the dishes. Lucky me.
I wander outside to do
you know exactly what.
To sleep tonight.
I’ve spent all day
climbing
to anxious heights,
me and my buddy
the glass monster,
reaching
for a better buzz,
a taller head, one
more little whiff
(what could it hurt?),
finally cresting
steep cliffs of speed,
rising above mundane,
towering over ordinary.
No sense of fear,
I sit in my room,
sketching beneath
pale lamplight.
No sense of foreboding,
I listen to Leigh
and Heather giggling
behind the too-thin
walls, doing
whatever
girlfriends do. At
last, they fall silent.
I immerse myself
in charcoal portraiture,
not even stressing about
the fact that it might
be a while before I have
time to sketch again,
or that I have most
definitely embarked on
a major bender.
And not only that, but in
hindsight it probably wasn’t a great
time for me to jump back
into the arms of the monster.
Not that there
is
a good time
to do that, and damn it all, you
know what they say about hindsight.
I mean, when I went to Stockton,
there were no plans for Hunter’s
baptism, and a visit from my dad
was completely implausible,
especially at the exact same time
Leigh finally decided to schedule
one, after many distant months.
Throw in a bulimic lesbian
cheerleader with an aversion
to me, my dad’s latest girlfriend,
a little brother with a major crush,
parents intent on a perfect weekend,
a pending new job, and what is left
of an eight ball of incredible speed,
and just about anything can happen.
And if Bree has her warped way,
just about anything will.
When my dad pulls into our driveway,
no call to warn us of his imminent
arrival. Up till now, the day
has been relatively uneventful
except for a quick exchange
between Heather and me.
I noticed your light was on
this morning around three,
she says.
Up all night, huh?
I shrug. “A lot of it.
Something about the bedsprings
creaking next door.”
We left it at that and went on
about our business. Which is
a good thing. Sleep-deprived, brain
sizzling on yet another toke, my
thought processes are jumbled.
I’m not a worthy opponent.
The plan is a birthday dinner
at our favorite Italian bistro.
But dinner for six (plus room
for an infant seat) becomes suddenly
complicated when Dad’s “new” ‘98
Montero wheezes up the driveway.
Otto barks, announcing a stranger’s
arrival. Dad sits in his car a good
long while, no doubt ascertaining
his safety. Truth be told, Otto—
a hundred-pound black sable German
shepherd—would probably eat
Dad for lunch. I know he’d love
to take a big bite out of Dad’s new
girlfriend, Linda Sue.
But locked safely away behind
six-foot chain-link, he won’t
get the chance. Poor dog.
Once the two of them decide
Otto can’t scale the fence,
Dad and Linda Sue slither
from the SUV. They stand
in the driveway, checking out
the view and ogling the house.
Five minutes of no sound
but barking, five final minutes
of peace before certain chaos.