Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Identical (19 page)
thing. Why should she know
love when I don’t? When I can’t?
She’s only got a few years
at best. Why should they be warmed
by love when my own coming
decades are doomed to frigidity?
Greta’s beau shares the dinner
table with a half-dozen old
women, but he sees only her.
And she sees only him, despite
the banter and pleasantries exchanged
all around and between them.
I can’t help but watch through eyes
tinged green. Then Greta laughs,
from the heart, like she has laughed
with me, only sweeter. And suddenly
I am ashamed. No, horrified, at myself.
How could I think that way?
That Was an Incredibly Bad Scene
Like looking inside myself
and finding a stranger,
someone not only vicious
but downright
evil.
How odd, to suddenly
glimpse a facet of me
I didn’t know existed.
I guess it really
isn’t
all that unusual to surprise
oneself with an ugly bit
of ego. But was this
unsuspected piece of me
born
at the same instant I was?
Or was it spawned some
time between that moment
and now? I know, I know
it’s
a question with no answer,
undeserving of introspection.
But was this hideous thing
conceived, or was it
created?
Kaeleigh Takes Herself
Way, way too seriously.
Everyone has a secret side,
one that’s not so nice. But
evil?
I prefer to reserve that
designation for presidents,
terrorists, and Madison.
Okay, I guess the bitch
isn’t
really evil either. Too stupid
for evil. Oops. That lets presidents
off the hook too. Terrorists are
rarely stupid, but even they aren’t
born
evil. But you know, preach it—
whatever “it” is—loud enough,
long enough, someone will buy in.
Witness Jerry Falwell. Ask me,
it’s
a sin to pervert faith with religion.
Despite every church, mosque, and
synagogue in it, this is not the world
any God worth his salt would have
created.
But Whatever Created It
It’s my world, the only one
I’ve got. Might as well make
the best of it, right? Might as
well have a little fun while
I’m here. Or a lot of fun.
Might be dead tomorrow.
I’d call Mick, but he’s out
of dope, and anyway, he’s
an irritating prick. Stupid,
too, all ranting about how
he’s going to sue the sheriff’s
department for stealing stash.
I told him to shut up and think
about it, and hopefully he’s
doing exactly that about now.
I do know a few other people
who might have some bud.
But the one who comes first
and foremost to mind is Ty.
He gave me his number,
for the next time you
find your mouth watering
for a hot red lollipop…
Yeah, he’s totally disgusting.
Why do I like men that way?
Oh, and Guess What
He answers his phone first ring,
and he isn’t busy at the moment.
Lucky, lucky me. It’s a school
night, and I might very well hear
about not coming straight home, but
hey, if I go straight home, I won’t
be going out tonight. No-brainer.
I wait for him at a little convenience
store, and about the time I grow
impatient, a sheriff’s sedan cruises
by, reminding me I do not want to
be caught in the backseat of a car
in a compromising position. Turns
out that’s not a problem. Ty whips
into the parking lot, in a blue BMW
Z4 convertible. Top down. No back-
seat. We won’t be smoking or making
out in this stunning little car.
He smiles at the look on my face.
Get in. How ’bout we take a little spin?
Zero to Sixty
In five point six seconds,
says
Ty. Seemed faster to me. I love
the way acceleration presses me
back against my seat. But what’s
really interesting is that Ty can afford
this car at all. Might as well just ask.
“So what do you do, anyway?
Or are your parents loaded?”
He smiles and settles the car
into an easy cruise mode.
Actually, my parents
are
loaded. More ways than one.
I really look at him for the first
time. Handsome face, chiseled,
strong. Works-out-in-the-gym
body. Dark, longish hair, tied back.
Simple black T-shirt and Levis,
though clean, totally belie the Beamer.
And what exactly did he mean
by
more ways than one?
Might as well just ask. “Your
parents get high? Do they deal?”
Nah, they don’t deal. They indulge
plenty, though. See, my dad is
Chumash. When the casino was built,
he made—how best to put this?—more
than a tidy little sum on the deal.
He and my mom now own quite an
operation out Foxen Canyon Road.
Cattle. Horses. Young vineyard.
Who would have guessed?
Certainly not me, not even
after our little private party
up there on Figueroa. Still…
“So how about you? What do you do?
Do you live with your parents?”
A bunch more questions pop
into my head, bubbling over
like champagne, but the answers
to those two might answer the rest.
Shit, yeah. In a guest house,
actually. Once our vines mature,
I’ll play vintner. Right now,
I’m apprenticing at another winery.
Several questions answered indeed.
Finally I notice we have in fact
been driving along Foxen Canyon
Road. Ty slows the BMW and we
turn up a long driveway through
rows and rows of immature grapes.
We make a left before reaching
the rather overbearing main house.
Finally Ty crunches to a stop
in the gravel.
Here we are. Home
sweet home. Hope you’re up
for fun and games.
Fun, Ty-Style
Begins with tall Jack Daniel’s
and Cokes. As he mixes them,
I wander around the “guest house,”
thinking half the country would
flip if they could live in a home
like this. Two oversize bedrooms.
Two bathrooms, one with a Jacuzzi
tub. Beautiful kitchen, open to
the leather-and-brass living room.
With a flick of a switch, Ty lights
the gas fireplace, which throws
a gentle gleam across the hardwood
floor. He gestures toward the rich
burgundy leather sofa and goes
into the bedroom. Blink of an eye,
back he comes, holding a big wooden
box. He sits close, opens the hand-
carved oak, reveals the cache inside.
This Is Something New
My uncle has connections you
wouldn’t believe,
says Ty.
He pulls out a baggie, a quarter
full of some crumbly brown substance.
When he cracks the bag, the perfume
that escapes smells like heaven.
Opiated hash. Ever tried it?
I shake my head no, but Ty
is quick to remedy that, filling
a small pipe bowl with a miniature
ball of opium-laced hashish.
He takes the first toke, and now
heaven’s on fire, and smoking.
Still holding his hit, Ty cautions
around it,
Little tokes, now.
Don’t want to cough this stuff out.
Hold it as long as you can.
Slowly I inhale a taste sweeter
than any before. Greedy me
wants more, but I remember
his warning. The smoke expands
in my lungs, and I’m glad I didn’t
take more. I hold it until I just have
to let go. When I finally do,
my head is tingling all over.
Ty looks at me, measuring.
Having fun yet? ’Course you are.
And sweetheart, this is just the start.
We’ve still got games to play.
Games, Ty-Style
Don’t even begin until we’re well
into the fun. Drinking. Smoking.
Feeling the creep of the poppy,
all along my spine, skull to tailbone.
I know the high is mostly hash,
not so different from regular
cannabis (though even tastier).
But the opium topper provides
a whole new set of rushes. Body
rushes, like little shivers. Head
rushes, like turning in circles,
round and round, don’t fall down.
Shall we move the party
into the bedroom?
Ty reaches
over, kisses me. Hard. Harder.
My heart screams in my chest.
His teeth rake my bottom
lip, move down over my chin,
down my neck. Not too hard.
Not really. But hard enough.
Should I have worn garlic
and a silver cross? I laugh
out loud at the thought, and
I realize how fucked up I am.