Rumble

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.

This book is dedicated to the far-too-many young people who ended their lives because they couldn’t see beyond the pain of the present to the joy waiting for them in the future.

Also to those who loved them then, and still love them now.

Acknowledgments

As always, I must thank my family for putting up with my author quirkiness, absences, and sequestrations; my posse for supporting me in times of doubt; my editor, Emma Dryden, for her insight, talent, and friendship; my agent, Laura Rennert, for fielding questions and concerns, sometimes at odd times of the day; and my team at Simon & Schuster, who, start to finish, help me create the very best books possible and put them into my readers’ hands.

With special thanks to those who were willing to share their thoughts about God, science, belief, nonbelief, and possibilities—most memorably, Susan Patron and Topher King, whose insights were especially valuable.

In the Narrow Pewter Space

Between the gray of consciousness

and the obsidian where dreams

ebb and flow, there is a wishbone

window. And trapped in its glass,

a single silver shard of enlightenment.

It is this mystics search for. The truth

of the Holy Grail. It is this believers

pray for. The spark, alpha and omega.

It is this the gilded claim to hold

in the cups of their hands. But what

of those who plunge into slumber,

who snap from sleep’s embrace?

What of those who measure their

tomorrows with finite numbers, cross

them off their calendars one by

one? Some say death is a doorway,

belief the key. Others claim you only

have to stumble across the threshold

to glimpse a hundred billion universes

in the blink of single silver shard.

Have Faith

That’s what people keep telling me.

Faith that things will get better. Faith

that bad things happen for a reason.

Implicit in that ridiculous statement

is the hand of some extraterrestrial

magician. Some all-powerful creator,

which, if his faithful want to be totally

frank about it, would also make him/her/it

an omnipotent destroyer. Because if

some God carefully sows each seed

of life, he is also flint for the relentless

sun beating down upon his crops until

they wither into dust. Zygotes to ashes

or some other poignant phrase. And why

would any of that make someone feel

better about snuffing out? The end

result is the same. You get a few

years on this sad, devolving planet.

If you’re lucky, you experience love,

someone or two or three to gentle

your time, fill the hollow spaces.

If you’re really fortunate, the good

outweighs the bad. In my eighteen years

all I’ve seen is shit tipping the scales.

Case in Point

I’ve been abruptly summoned to

the front of the classroom at the urgent

request of my English teacher, the oh-so-

disturbed, Savannah-belle-wannabe

Ms. Hannity, emphasis on the Mizz.

She pretends sympathy, for what,

I’ve no clue, and like she gives half

a damn about anything but clinging,

ironfisted, to her job.
Mr. Turnahhhh.

Fake “South” taints her voice and

her eyes—no doubt she’d describe

them as “cornflower”—are wide

with mock concern.
Would you

please come he-ah for a minute?

I think she thinks she’s whispering,

but twenty-seven pairs of eyes home

in on me. I straight-on laser every one

until they drop like dead fly duos.

“Yes, ma’am?” The feigned respect

isn’t lost on her, and she doesn’t bother

to lower her voice.
Mistah Carpentah

wishes a word with you. Please see

him now. And the rest of y’all, get back

to work. This doesn’t concern you.

Why, Then

Did she make it exactly everyone’s

concern? The ends of my fingers tingle

and my jaw keeps working itself

forward. Backward. Forward. I force

it sideways and audibly, painfully, it pops.

For some messed-up reason she smiles

at that. I really want to slap that stinking

grin off her face. But then I’d get expelled,

and that would humiliate my father,

everyone’s favorite science teacher, not to

mention the coach of the best basketball

team this school has seen in a dozen years.

Then Mom would bitch at him for not kicking

my ass and at me for turning him into such a wuss,

until I had no choice but to flee from our miserable

termite-ridden shack. And I’d have to live in

my fume-sucking truck, eating pilfered ramen,

drinking Mosby Creek water until I got the runs

so bad I’d wind up in the ER, hoping Dad

hadn’t had time to dump me from his insurance.

And, despite all that, Mizz nose-up-my-ass

Hannity would still be a rip-roaring bitch.

As I Wind Up

That extended interior monologue,

I notice everyone is once again staring at me,

waiting for some overt exterior reaction.

Expecting, I’m sure, one of my infamous

blowups. More fun to keep ’em guessing.

“Can you tell me why he wants to see me?

Have I done something I’m not aware of?”

I’m pulling off As in every class. Maintaining

the pretense that all is well, despite everything

being completely messed up. It would be nice

to have some idea of what I’m walking into.

But Hannity gives nothing away.
Just go.

Don’t flip her off. Don’t flip her off. Don’t . . .

I flip her off mentally, sharp turn on one heel,

head toward the door. Laser. Laser. Laser.

Pairs of dead flies drop as I pass, anger obviously

obvious in the death beam of my eyes. What now?

All I want is to be left alone. All I want

is to cruise in radar-free space. Scratch that.

What I really want is to disappear. Except,

if this in-your-face place is all I’ll ever

get to experience, I’m not quite finished

here. “Live large, go out with a huge bang,”

that’s my motto. Too bad so many minuscule

moments make up the biggest part of every

day. Moments like these. A familiar curtain

of fury threatens to drop and smother me.

I push it away with a smile, hope no one

takes a candid photo right now, because

I’m as certain as I can be that I resemble

some serial killer. Tall. Good-looking.

The boy next door, with near-zero affect.

Totally fine by me. Keep ’em guessing.

I swear, I can hear the collective breath-

holding, all those goddamn flies hovering

silently at my back. I plaster a grin. Spin.

“Boo!” Audible gasps. Yes! Okay, screw it.

I flip off the lot of them, dig down deep

for something resembling courage, and skip

from the room, a not-close-to-good-enough

tribute to my little brother, Luke, deceased

now one hundred sixty-eight days. Exactly.

A Tribute

So why do I stop just beyond

the door, assess the scene . . .

what am I waiting for? A sign?

The hallway is vacant. Silent.

No one to bear witness to . . .

what? Some ill-conceived

testimony? “Fuck you, Luke.”

Another pointless statement,

echoing. Echoing. Echoing

down the corridor. Luke. Luke.

Luke. You selfish little prick.

My eyes burn. No, damn it!

If the vultures see me cry,

they’ll swoop in, try to finish

me off. And I’m just so tired

of fighting, they might actually

manage it this time. Screw that.

They already got my brother.

It will be a cold day in hell

before I give up, give in, allow

them to claim another victory.

I’m Not Quite

To Mr. Carpenter’s office when the bell

rings. Okay, technically it’s a blare, not

a bell. Some new-wave administrator

decided to replace the old
buuurrrriing

with a blast of music so we don’t feel

so much like we’re in school, despite

the off-white cement walls and even

offer-white linoleum, lined with

not-quite-khaki lockers. Doors slam

open and out spills noise. Lots of it.

Laughter and curses and screeches

echoing down the corridor. I scan

the crowd, as I always do, hoping

for even just a glimpse of her. There,

on the far side of the counselors’ offices.

She’s hard to miss, my amazing girl—

a whole head taller than her pack

of loser friends, with perfect slender curves

and thick ropes of honey-colored hair.

“Hayden!” I yell, though it’s impossible

to hear in this obnoxious swell. Yet

she turns, and when those suede chocolate

eyes settle on me, her diamond smile lifts

my mood. She gestures for me to come there.

I shake my head, tip it in the direction

of the counseling offices. Even from here,

I can see the way concern crinkles her eyes

at the edges. I shrug a silent, “No worries.”

That’s one thing I love about Hayden—how

we can communicate without words. It’s not

the only thing I love about her, or even close

to the most important. But it’s really special,

sort of like Heath bar sprinkles over the vanilla

cream cheese frosting on top of the very rich

red velvet cupcake. Ultra extra deliciousness.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s mine.

But knowing that—trusting it—helps

me tilt my chin upward, straighten

my shoulders, and put one foot in front

of the other, toward Mr. Carpenter’s lair.

As Is Usual

Whenever you’re called, posthaste,

to the counselor’s office, it becomes

a game of
Hurry Up and Wait
. I sit

on a hard plastic chair, pretty much

the color of a rotting pumpkin, just

outside the inner sanctum. Not a whole

lot to do but try and discern words

in the muffled exchange behind

the closed fiberglass door. This

school is barely ten years old and

the builders had some new tricks

up their sleeves—things that might

thwart punches, kicks, and other

assaults that damage painted wood.

Eventually, the door clicks open,

and Alexa Clarke emerges, thin

tracks of mascara trailing down her

cheeks. Guess it didn’t go so well.

Hayden and Alexa used to be best

friends, until Alexa veered off

the straight and narrow, or whatever.

Personally, I have no problem with

detours. “Hey, Lex.” I grin. “Thanks

for warming Carpenter up for me.”

The Defiance

So obvious only seconds ago melts

from her eyes, and she manages a smile.

Warm. Yeah, right. But it’s all good.

He’s only on you ’cause he cares.

“I’ll remember that.” I’ve barely spit

the words from my mouth when

Mr. Carpenter’s hulking form appears

in the doorway.
Come on in, Mr. Turner.