Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Identical (8 page)
I’m just sick of that pissy look,
the off-the-wall snipes. I had
nothing to do with her problems
with Mick. What wasn’t her
being a bitch was him, being
a creep. All I am is fallout.
The bell rings.
Okay, girls!
yells
Ms. Petrie.
Hit the showers!
Showers. Oh, goody. Can’t wait.
Yeah, I’m dripping sweat. It’s
not what you might call fragrant.
Not good fragrant, anyway.
But public showering is
my least favorite thing about
PE, and considering I hate PE,
that says a lot. Ugh! Stripping
down to skin and hair, showing
everything to everyone else.
That includes Ms. Petrie, our
elderly PE teacher, who seems
more interested in our hygiene
than in our physical fitness.
The one job she takes seriously
is making sure we shower.
It’s kind of creepy, although
I suppose some people might
never de-sweat without a Ms. Petrie
to check up on them. Anyway,
today I want to make sure Madison
is scrubbed and dressed before
I even look at the shower. I help
Ms. Petrie bring in the balls and nets.
By the time I shed my shorts
and lather up, the locker room
is mostly empty. The final bell
rings and I’m still under water.
When I exit, hair dripping, out
the double doors, I’m mortified
to find the bus has already gone.
I Need to Get My License
I’ve been old enough for months.
Problem is, you need a parent to sign
off for you. And I do not have
the luxury of parents who are able
or willing to do that for me.
Mom is always traveling. She only
drops by long enough to pick up
a change of clothes and maybe,
if we’re very, very lucky, share
a meal. She has completely
forgotten what being a mother means.
Kitchen duty and housework fall
mostly on Manuela, who comes in
three times a week to do laundry, dust
and vacuum, cook and freeze meals.
As for Daddy, well, he pretty much
works from early morning until
the sun creeps toward the western
horizon. The closest DMV is in Lompoc,
a half hour from here. Closed Saturdays.
Not that Daddy is likely to let me
have my license anyway. A car means
escape. And I’m pretty sure he plans
to keep me his prisoner forever.
The More Immediate Problem
Is I need a ride home and the parking lot
is deserted. Everyone bails as soon as
the last bell rings. Walking home
isn’t impossible, but it’s five miles away.
Who can I call? Ian, of course. But his cell
rings four times, goes to voice mail.
I try Shelby. Katrina. Lisa. Danette. No luck.
Everyone’s busy, grounded, unavailable,
or simply not picking up.
Just as I think I’ll have to walk after all,
a black Charger draws even, window lowering.
Something wrong?
It’s Mr. Lawler.
“Kind of. I missed the bus. I’ve called everyone
I know but can’t seem to find a ride home.”
Hop in. I’ll take you. I’m going that way.
Does he know where I live? I give the parking
lot another scan. He smiles at my hesitation.
What? Don’t tell me you don’t trust me?
Not at All
You can’t trust a man,
any man,
any more than you can
put your
faith in a rabid dog, not
even your
own dog, one who would
never hurt
you, except he’s rabid.
Not sure why I believe that.
But I solidly
do. I’ve seen guys act
like they
are just so in love with
their girl-
of-the-moment, only
to turn
around and dump her cold.
And as for adult men, men
who should
not look twice at someone
half their
age, well that rarely turns out
to be their MO.
No, their method of operation
is to hang
out their tongues and pant.
To Be Fair
I haven’t seen Mr. Lawler
actually pant. And the only
time I’ve seen his tongue
is when I’ve bothered to look.
So I say, “Of course I trust
you. Thanks for offering.”
And, mostly against my better
judgment, I open the door, slip
into the shelter of his car.
Promise not to tell, okay?
I could get into all kinds
of trouble, you know.
My turn to smile.
“What? For rescuing
a damsel in distress?”
For others’ perceptions.
But I promise to be the
perfect gentleman.
He turns toward town,
drives cautiously, completely
the perfect gentleman.
Some Girls I Know
Talk about Mr. Lawler like he’s
on their “available” list or some-
thing. He’s not married, at least
I don’t think
so. I guess he could be closet
married, but why bother?
Teachers and students?
Absolutely taboo! If
I could ever
get past my private taboo,
I’d have to call Mr. Lawler
“cute.” But how could I
get beyond
the fact that he’s almost
as old as Daddy? And yet,
as we drive along, I find myself
moving closer to him,
pretending
I can’t quite hear what he’s
saying with his frothy, smooth
cappuccino voice. One time
in class a couple of weeks ago,
he was
lecturing about immigration.
I was lost in reverie about the night
before, and when Mr. Lawler called
on me, I almost answered, “Yes,
Daddy?”
Kind of Funny
Watching Lawler and Kaeleigh
pull up at the house together.
I don’t think
I’ve ever seen her alone
with a grown man (well, except
for Daddy and he doesn’t count).
Maybe I need to miss the bus. If
I could ever
find a good excuse to get Lawler
alone, he would discover a different
Gardella girl, one who could easily
get beyond
not only his age, but also any
stupid notion of impropriety.
I would never act like Kaeleigh,
craving his proximity, his touch, yet
pretending
not to notice the cut of his silk
trousers, the way his biceps fill
his tailored shirtsleeves. Even
from a distance, I could tell
he was
interested in more than just giving
her a ride home. She should
consider it. After all, there happen
to be better men out there than
Daddy.
Other Men, Anyway
A whole big, giant world,
full of men. Men with blue eyes.
Brown eyes. Green eyes. And indescribable
shades in between. Tall men. Short men. Skinny men.
Built men. And all combinations thereof. Nice men (so I’ve
heard, but never really seen). Mean men. Decent men, indecent.
And who knows which is the best kind to have, to hold, to love?
I’d say, with so many men in the world, it would pay to sample
a few. Scratch that. More than a few. Lots and lots. And then
a few more. And maybe, after years and years of research,
taste testing, and trying ’em on for size, just maybe,
you might find one worth not throwing back.
But hey, the fun is in the fishing.
Kaeleigh’s Not into Fishing
Too much effort, too few rewards.
Watching her work Daddy now,
you’d think she reeled in the big one.
Selective amnesia?
Putting on a show?
She is a good little actress.
Daddy is already home but
hasn’t yet waded into his bottle.
“You’re home early today,”
she soothes. “Special occasion?”
He’s jonesing for a swig. Can’t.
Your mother will be here soon.
Press conference on the lawn.
“Oh, right. I forgot. Do you want
me to iron a shirt for you?”
Daddy shakes his head.
A jacket will do. You should
put on something pretty, though.
She nods and we go to change,
knowing where his eyes are.
No Doubt
He’ll be watching the sway
of Kaeleigh’s hips, craving her.
And a drink. Not sure which one
he craves more. But tonight
he’ll have to play the good (sober)
husband and devoted father.
As I slip into a Vera Wang blouse,
Tommy Hilfiger jeans, I can hear
Mom’s well-staged entrance.
Hello, Raymond. You look well.
The election is a few precious
weeks away. Before the final charge,
Mom needs to make her constituency
believe she actually cares about family.
Her own family is the best place to start.
They’re setting up the cameras.
Being fairly cute and very well
dressed, we make a damn fine photo
op, too. Especially just as the sun
starts to sink behind our designer home.
Reporters and news crews have
gathered on the front lawn.
Mom herds us outside.
Don’t forget to smile.
Yeah, Mom. Like what else would
we do? Stick out our tongues?