Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Identical (9 page)
Flip them off? Drop our pants, bend
over, and tell them just what to kiss?
The thought makes me smile. Not only
that, but the grin stretches lobe to lobe.
Poor Mom only knows I’m smiling.
She smiles too.
That’s my girl.
Daddy Isn’t Running
This time round, but he has before
and is intimately aware of campaign
protocol. Exactly as might be expected,
he drapes an arm (a ravenous arm, but
no one but his closest family members
knows that) around Mom’s shoulder.
She stiffens, and her smile slips ever so
slightly, but I’m the only one who notices.
And she doesn’t dare shrug him off.
Thank you all for coming
, she says.
It’s good to be home with my family.
The campaign trail is a lonely one.
I wonder just how lonely. I wonder
if she’s getting a little on the side.
Probably not. I can’t imagine her
actually getting close enough to
someone—anyone—to invite them
into her bed, let alone her pants.
I watch her, the ultimate politician,
working the press like she was born
for it.
I’ll take questions now.
Queries Fly
…universal health care
…uranium enrichment
…trade deficit
…right to choose
…gay marriage
…immigration reform
Mom is prepared,
knows every answer
by heart, could
recite them in
her sleep, in fact.
Harder questions.
…balanced budget
…troop withdrawal
…raising taxes
…torturing terrorists
…citizens’ rights
…presidential authority
Cool under pressure,
She’s twelve for twelve.
carefully, no
missteps that might
make dirty TV spots.
she words her responses
And then…
Some Thirtyish Ditz
Tosses her long, dark-rooted
platinum hair. In a cheap tweed suit,
with a skirt much too short
to compliment the blocky legs
poking out from under it,
she clears her throat, squeaks,
What about judicial reform?
How do you feel about judges
who break the same laws
they are sworn to uphold?
All eyes latch onto Daddy,
whose face is the color of raw
cotton. His own eyes scream
panic, but the subtle shake of my
head reassures, “Nope, not a word.”
Mom remains the stoic politician.
I’m sure such a thing is a rare
occurrence. No judge I know
holds him or herself above
the law. It is sacrosanct.
Ms. Tree-Trunk Legs refuses
to be so easily satisfied. She
hems and haws, checking her
notes. Finally, just as the others
seem ready to pack up and leave,
she throws a bucket of verbal shit.
Isn’t it true that while under
the influence, your husband,
Judge Raymond Leland Gardella,
was involved in a fatal accident? And…
If she thinks she can possibly
go one-on-one with my mother
and come out on top, she really
should think again. Like a wolf
on a duck (with incredibly fat legs!),
Mom turns on the reporter.
Ray is the finest jurist I know.
He does not hold himself above
the law, but dispenses it with
knowledge and forthrightness.
Told you Mom had every
correct response right at her
fingertips. If there was ever
any doubt about where Kaeleigh
got her acting ability, this
afternoon smashed it to bits, and
Mom is not quite finished yet.
The incident to which you refer
was a great personal tragedy.
Should we apologize for not dying?
Castrated
Frustrated, the brittle
blonde shakes her head,
ignoring the buzz
all around her.
What she still doesn’t
get, I’m betting,
is how connected
my parents are.
The others, still
buzzing like electric
lines in a storm,
understand, though.
My parents’ connections
reach well beyond
political circles,
and some of those
connections might very
well disconnect one
mouthy young reporter
from her job.
Sound Bites Bitten
Mom actually cooks dinner
tonight, perhaps worried some
nosy journalist might peek
through the window.
Of course, it’s frozen lasagna
and bagged salad. But hey,
who’s complaining?
It’s almost
like we used to be, once
upon a time. If I close my
eyes, I can almost pretend
like we’re
a normal family, gathered
round the table, discussing
stuff like plays and grades,
not unusual
dinner-table topics like war
chests and fund-raisers. If
I keep my eyes closed, Mom is
not indifferent,
not some cardboard cutout
in a lace apron. Eyes firmly
closed, Daddy is
not famished
for affection, perverted or
otherwise. Eyes squeezed
tight, Kaeleigh and I are
not irrelevant.
Having Mom Home
Makes things easier. Makes things
harder, like looking
through the window,
needing to see what’s on the other
side, but your eyes have to work
too hard to reach beyond the grime.
It’s almost
as hard as pretending I don’t care
if she leaves again. Almost as hard as
sitting around the dinner table
like we’re
a cohesive family unit. A little
pasta, little wine, little conversation.
Damn little, which is
not unusual
for the Gardella clan. What talk
there is, of course, is election talk.
I guess I should act like I’m
not indifferent
and, really, I’m not. I hope with
every ounce of hope I have left
that the voters snub her. No, I’m
not famished
for revenge. I’m starved for her
company and even more, for her
affection. I love her, and that’s
not irrelevant.
Actually, I’m Hungry
For more than Mom’s affection.
My body is screaming for food.
And tonight we get the
real deal (instead of
our usual fast
or flash-
frozen repast).
But any food is my
friend because it’s under
my control, unlike most of the
rest of my life. I eat when I’m sad.
I eat when I’m lonely. I eat when
I hurt so much inside, it’s
either eat or find an
easy way to die.
The only
time I
can’t eat to
total contentment
is when Daddy’s around.
No
daughter of mine will wear double-
digit clothes,
he said once, and meant it.
Wonder what he thinks about Mom’s
new curves. She’s put on
a few pounds. All that
rich food on the
campaign trail,
I guess.
Schmooze
’em with five-star
dinners, high-dollar wine,
and aperitifs; ask ’em for a fistful
of dollars. Calorific politics at its best.
I happen to think Mom wears double
-digit designer clothes pretty
well. She is the portrait
of a beautiful,
highbrow
woman,
curves or no.
What she doesn’t look
like is a girl, all narrow hips,
straight waist, and teacup breasts.
And if I have my way, I won’t either.
And Tonight Mom’s Home
I can eat what I want,
Daddy or no. After dinner
I help load the dishwasher,
more to be close to Mom
than anything. Every time
I brush against her, though,
she stiffens, like a wet sheet
in January wind. Not fair.
Why can’t she love me
like I love her? Does she
somehow blame me? I ask
simply, “What’s wrong?”
Mom keeps scrubbing
the stove, like it isn’t already
spotless. Finally she says,
Nothing’s wrong with me
that winning this election
won’t cure. It’s been a long,
hard campaign, and the polls
say it’s too close to call.
Nothing I didn’t know.
But there’s something
more. Something I can’t
quite put my finger on.
I mean, even for Mom, this
woman is unapproachable.
“Can I ask you something
without you getting mad?”
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
Of
course.
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
She’s gonna get mad for sure.
“Well, what if you don’t win?”
She stops scrubbing, fires
at my eyes with her own.
I can’t think like that, and
I don’t want you to either.