something kind of important
we want to discuss with you.
“Game?” Mom watches games?
What kind, and since when?
The baseball game? It is April,
you know. Mark’s a Yankees fan.
Oh, of course. And it is April.
Like that’s ever meant anything
before. What the hell’s going on?
“I don’t care if he comes over.”
Actually, I do, but whatever.
She turns and gives Mark a thumbs-up,
and I follow her to her car, wishing
I’d driven my Bug so I could skip out
on whatever it is they’re determined
to tell me. It can’t be anything good.
On the way home I sit in quiet
anticipation of a Valium cocktail.
That’s what I need. Deep silent
space and zero communication
with the living or the dead, whether
or not it’s all in my messed up head.
I consider the text I might or might
not have received in church. Paradise.
Is that the same place as Heaven?
If it exists, Erica would be there.
But what about Cam? Or Daddy?
Not only was he mean, but despite
the noble way he died, he did plenty
of dirty cop things. Makes me wonder
out loud, “Hey, Mom. Think Daddy
ever found the key to the kingdom?”
If you mean do I think he’s with our
Heavenly Father, of course I do.
“But what about . . . ? He did
some shitty stuff, you know.”
She actually lets the S-word slide.
He was a good man who behaved
badly sometimes. God understands
human frailty and forgives our sins.
Every sin except suicide, apparently.
But I keep that nugget to myself.
By the Time
Mark arrives, extra large meat
lovers’ pizza in hand, the game
is underway, the Yankees ahead
by one run in the second inning.
And I am one Valium toward calm
acceptance of the approaching
storm. I didn’t want to get too
buzzed until after the thunder
rumbled. But I’m not going to
wait seven more innings before
liftoff. I don’t watch baseball,
but I do know there are a minimum
nine to suffer through. Mom
must really have a thing for this
guy. But I don’t, so as I pick
pepperoni and sausage off
my pizza in protest of eating
in front of the television, I forge
ahead and ask, “What is this big
news you want to share?”
I expect maybe they’ll finally
fess up and tell me they’re dating
or even that they’re taking a trip
together, implying they’re having
sex. But when Mom mutes the TV
and they both turn away from
the game and toward me, I know
suddenly and without a doubt
there’s more. Mom clears
her throat. Ahem. Mark and I
have tried to keep our relationship
private, and away from here,
because I realized it might upset
you. But we’ve been seeing each
other for almost two years, and,
well . . . The truth is, we’re in love.
We think it’s time to take a big
step forward and sanctify our union
in the eyes of God. We want
to get married, Chloe. And soon.
Glad I didn’t eat any greasy
meat. But I wish I’d popped
a couple extra pills, and I’ll need
to score hella more. This won’t be
easy to live with. I feel like
someone just sledgehammered
me in the gut. “Know what?
You suck. Why weren’t you
straight up with me? You can’t
just drop something like this
in my lap. ‘Come have some pizza
and, oh, by the way, we’re getting
married soon.’ What does that
even mean? Like, when?” I try
not to look at Mark, but fail.
Smirk. Is that a word? Yeah,
it is, and that’s what he’s doing.
Calm down, honey, says Mom.
You’re right. I should’ve been
honest with you, but I didn’t
want to take a chance on hurting
you before I was sure this was
love. We’re talking about a June
wedding. Kind of corny, I know.
Now she looks at him with this
weird adoration in her eyes.
It totally creeps me out and I try
to remember ever seeing her
look at Daddy that way. Nope.
“Well, obviously I can’t stop you.
But don’t ask me to be a bridesmaid
because I sure as hell won’t be there.”
I Stand to Leave
Mark gets to his feet too,
puts a hand on my arm
to halt forward progress.
You go right ahead and
be angry. But don’t you
dare talk disrespectfully
to your mother again
because I sure as shit
won’t stand for it. You
don’t have to like me.
But you do have to accept
that I’ll be living here,
and that means if you want
to keep living here too,
it will be by my rules. Get it?
I jerk away, sheer hatred
foaming at the corners
of my mouth. I glance
at Mom, whose eyes stay
fixed on the muted TV.
I really want to spew a stream
of obscenities, but know
it will only make me feel better
for the shortest of moments
before the crap pile hits
the fan. So I fall back on
my usual, “Whatever,”
turn on one heel and stalk
from the room. This will be
a two Valium night.
Tumbling Early
Toward abysmal
sleep, I know morning
will still arrive too
soon to vanquish
the pills’ shadow.
I stumble to my desk,
find my phone in
the depths of my purse,
struggle to set the alarm
that will send me off
toward school on time.
My sight blurs and
my head spins, but I
manage (I think)
the necessary task.
Now I wrangle myself
out of my clothes,
slip naked between
the sheets, set my cell
on the nightstand.
I turn off the lamp,
inviting night’s envelope,
and just before I close
my eyes, notice the text,
highlighted in red.
No rules here.
If Sunday Was Awful
Monday is worse, starting
with the alarm dragging me
into the mist-shuttered morning.
I’m a crawling, voiceless zombie.
I skip breakfast and manage
to escape out the door without
having to talk to Mom. Screw
her. And Mark. And Pastor Smyth
and anyone else involved in
the upcoming farce. I get to school
&nb
sp; just as the first bell rings, which
makes me tardy to first period.
And from there it’s all downhill.
My chemistry test comes back marked
F, with the cheerful comment:
If this represents your cumulative
knowledge to date, be prepared
to repeat this class next year.
In the hall on the way to English,
Taryn Murphy elbows me into
a locker. Get out of my way, freak.
Who taught you how to put makeup
on, anyway? Considering I’m not
wearing any, what the hell?
PE brings the ultimate nightmare
cliché—starting one’s period right
before changing into white shorts.
Not going to happen. I go ahead
and ditch, ducking around the gym
to hang out in smoker’s alley.
I’d probably bum a cigarette,
except there’s no one here but me,
so I settle, back against a building
wall, on a thin strip of cement.
Face turned into the weak sun, I close
my eyes, feel the cloud appear.
It Arrives
On wing, chill and
menacing, accompanied
by a trio of squawks.
Chloe.
Chloe.
Chloe.
Not one crow this
time, but three, as alike
as single-egg triplets.
Black feathers.
Black talons.
Black pearl eyes.
I should be scared.
So why does crazy laughter
spill from my mouth?
They circle.
They caw.
They perch on a wire overhead.
“Screw you,” I say out
loud. “What you gonna do,
peck me to death?”
Black feathers ruffle.
Black talons stretch.
Black pearl eyes stare.
“Screw this,” I echo,
getting to my feet,
hoping the crows
don’t smell blood.
The Day Doesn’t Improve
In Government, I sit in back, staring
out the window, watching a murder
descend, a black feathered storm
cloud, over the branches of a big oak.
The crows must’ve smelled blood
after all. Mr. Webb notices my inattention,
calls me out on it, initiating a chorus
of snickers. I freaking hate school.
I do manage to meet up with my pill
connection in the parking lot right
after the last bell. Two good minutes
out of four hundred eighty or so.
I’ve got a mountain of homework,
but I’m still not ready to go head
to head with Mom about her totally
selfish decision to marry another cop.
So, rather than turn toward home,
I detour across the city, to the cemetery
I visited just a couple of days ago.
This time I go ahead and travel the road
Cam’s funerary entourage parked
along. I’ve only got an approximate
location for where his grave should be,
but it doesn’t take long to find the spot
where the grass was recently peeled
back like skin to let the backhoe dig
a casket-sized hole, drop a Cam-filled
coffin in, then close it all back up again.
Sprays of wilting chrysanthemums
and lilies leak their dying perfumes
into air richly scented with damp earth.
“Is this what Paradise smells like?”
I lie on top of Cam Voss’s fresh grave,
back against the thick peel of grass,
pretending I can’t hear bones rattle,
until I’m chilled all the way through.
I’m Shivering
When my cell buzzes in my pocket.
My stomach knots dread, but I can’t
not look. Will I learn how Paradise
smells? But no. It’s a text from Mom.
Went out with Mark after work. Ring
shopping. There’s pizza in the fridge.
Rings. Awesome. What’s next?
A white freaking dress? Oh, well.
At least I won’t have to go head
to head with her tonight about
the insane decision to commit
her life—and mine—to a cop again.
A dark form appears suddenly
in the sky, circling. Circling.
Closer. Closer. It’s black, but
too big for a crow. A buzzard,
that’s what it is, circling to take
a peek at the quiet form lying
here like a headstone. I jump
to my feet. “I’m not dead yet!”
I yell. Still the ugly bird makes
long, slow loops above my head.
I hurry to my car, drive surface
streets home to avoid evening
traffic. Mom is still gone
when I walk through the door,
and that’s just fine with me. I go
into my room, toss my backpack
on the floor, remove the textbooks
I’m supposed to read. Thirty pages
in one, twenty in another. Not to
mention the essay due tomorrow
that I haven’t even started. Nope.
Not going to happen. I reach
into my pocket for my phone.
Not sure why. No one ever calls
and, other than the odd one from
my mom, the only texts I get anymore
come from my demented psyche.
Hey. Where is it? Not in either
pocket. I check my bag, dump it,
in fact. All that falls out is my wallet,
two pens, a half pack of gum,
and enough pills to put me in
the proper place for several days.
Anxiety nibbles, a caterpillar
chewing into my brain. I go ahead
and down a Valium, pray the worm
turns into a butterfly. Just in case,
I search my backpack. Nothing
but homework. I must’ve dropped
my phone somewhere between
grave and VW. I could drive back,
but it’s a long way, I’m starting
to get buzzed, and I don’t really
want to wander around a cemetery
at night. I’ll go tomorrow and hope
no grave robber finds it first.
I Head to the Kitchen
For a drink and a cold slice.
I’m reaching into the fridge
when I hear a familiar ringtone.
My phone is on the counter.
No. Impossible. I didn’t take my phone
into the kitchen earlier. My heart
flails, but I push back total
panic, will myself to move closer.
And, of course, there’s a message.
I brought your cell. Didn’t
want grave robbers to have
it. You owe me. Big time.
I feel sick. I grab my phone and
a glass of water, hurry back
to my room and gulp another pill.
I close my eyes, wait for the kick.
When I open them again, I find words
floating on my computer’s black screen.
Come to me, Chloe. I’ve waited
too long. You’re overdue here
and have nothing to live for there.
This isn’t happening. So why
do I talk to an empty room?
“You’re wrong. I have Mom.”
Not true. She belongs to him
&nbs
p; now. Do you really want
to belong to him too?
Good point. What do I have
to live for, really? But . . .
“What’s it like in Paradise?”
Remember when I came to you
in bed the other morning?
It’s like that whenever you want.
The memory makes me tremble.
“Sounds nice.” My voice is Valium
thick. “But I’m afraid to die.”
Death is an open door—easy
to walk through. What’s hard
is living. Take another pill.
Another pill. Yes. I down two,
for good measure. He’s right.
Living is hard. I’m tired of it.
I should tell Mom goodbye,
but first I swallow a couple
more tickets to Paradise.
That’s it. Hurry, Chloe.
I’m standing right on the far
side of the threshold. Come to me.
One Valium. Two. Three. Toss in
a couple of Percocets. How many
is that now? Can’t remember.
Enough? Maybe not. I finish
my stash, one by one. Anticipation
shimmers. “I’m on my way, Cam.”
Sleepy. Getting sleepy. I crash
on my bed, reach for my cell
to call in my final farewell.
There’s a text. No, Chloe!
Turn back. It’s horrible here.
Paradise smells like brimstone.
Turn Back?
Too late.
Much too late.
Brimstone?
Paradise.
Lost.
No. “But . . . but . . .
I can’t come to you.
I’m good.
Mom says.
Good girls go
to Heaven.”
Across the room,
the computer screen
lights, bloodred.
White letters
lift and throb.
Throb
like
my slowing
heart.
Don’t be absurd.
You’re a liar, Chloe.
You made a pact
and broke it.
Don’t you understand?
Haven’t you heard?
You’re only as good
as your word.
Ellen Hopkins is the award-winning author of thirteen New York Times bestselling young adult novels in verse, plus four novels for adult readers. She lives near Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra Youth Housing & Resource Initiative, a nonprofit helping youth at risk into safe housing and working toward career goals through higher education. She is both blessed and cursed to care for three generations of children (including her husband), all living under one roof, with two dogs, a rescue cat, and two ponds of koi.
Website: ellenhopkins.com
Twitter: @EllenHopkinsLit
Facebook: facebook.com/ellenhopkinsauthor
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The Invisible Girl
RACHEL TAFOYA