Rumble

  no cream, I think of the words

  that come next, the segue to

  part three of my essay, the best

  part. And, I’m sure, the scariest

  to those trying to discern some

  subtext I didn’t really intend,

  at least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

  The bridge from Imago Dei to

  my little brother, who did not

  have to die, is, and I conjure it

  strictly from memory, where

  it replays several times every day:

  The Imago Dei mythology moves straight into the realm of cruel fantasy when you consider my little brother. If any human ever to walk the face of this earth represented love, it was Luke. So if he, in fact, was God’s image, why would the benevolent creator’s faithful have played such a heavy hand in his demise?

  Strong and just sweet enough,

  the coffee I gulp can barely

  shore me up against the crashing

  tide of depression. Maybe two cups.

  Two Cups

  Plus thinking about spending time

  with Hayden today. Hope she’s not

  still pissed. Girls sure do get irritated

  easily. Trying to keep them happy

  is a game. My problem is, I’m not

  always sure of the overarching rules.

  It seems to be okay that:

  She went to a game without me.

  She chose her friend’s company over mine.

  She drank too much soda, ate junk food.

  (Just guessing, but it’s a decent guess.)

  She watched other guys be athletic.

  But it’s probably not okay that:

  I went to a party without her.

  I put up with a friend’s company instead of hers.

  I drank some beer, smoked a little weed.

  (She’d just be guessing, an accurate guess.)

  I talked to another girl, drove her home.

  Okay, it’s weighted a little unevenly.

  Still, overall, I did absolutely nothing

  wrong except try to enjoy myself

  without my girlfriend coming along.

  They Say a Solid Offense

  Is the best defense, and I’m going

  with that. I wait until a decent hour—

  eleven o’clock on a Saturday is decent,

  right?—and I go ahead and call my lovely.

  One ring. Two, and that’s enough. “You up?”

  Of course. I was in early last night.

  Snippy and inaccurate. “You texted

  me at twelve fifty-six. That’s late.

  Oh, and just by the way, I was home,

  and had been.” Not exactly true either.

  But let’s play the game. “Why are you mad?”

  Long sigh. I don’t want to fight.

  “Good. I don’t either. In fact, I want

  to do whatever the exact opposite of

  fighting is. I love you, Hayden. Now

  what should we do today?” Outside

  it’s still cold and drizzly. Go figure.

  I don’t care. Mall walk? Movie?

  We Settle on Both

  I pick her up just after lunch for the drive

  into Eugene. I watch her exit her house,

  spin to wave at someone inside before

  turning back toward me with a sincere

  smile. This day is looking up. She floats

  along the walk, ethereal in some gauzy

  skirt the color of greening spring, plus

  a darker, emerald sweater, which hugs

  every perfect curve of her body. Was it just

  yesterday I last saw her? Why don’t I

  remember her looking this way? Nymph

  is the word that comes to mind. Not

  the dirty kind, but the kind who consorts

  with the gods, lowercase g. Stunning,

  that’s what she is, and more. Breathtaking.

  We will not argue. We will not argue.

  It’s a good mantra. Almost as good as:

  We will kiss. We will touch. We will

  kiss. We will . . . Okay, probably not that.

  But the thought makes me grin, and

  my smile is the first thing she sees when

  she opens the door and ducks her head.

  What is it? she asks, voice all maple

  syrup sweet and butter smooth.

  “Nothing. I was just watching you

  and thinking how you remind me

  of spring. Come over here, okay?”

  She blushes an incredible shade

  of rose, but scoots as close as

  the arm between the seats allows,

  and that’s plenty close enough

  for me to cup her face in my hands,

  tilt her chin up just so, and realize

  my mantra. Actually, both of them.

  Because kissing like this, there is no

  way we can argue. She closes her eyes,

  but I keep mine open, watching the subtle

  movements of her body. Yes, she looks

  like spring, and tastes of winter mint.

  But her scent is summer—toasted

  skin. Hint of apricot. A potpourri

  of flowers haloing the silk of her hair.

  I’m holding Eden in my hands, and

  it makes me glad there is no God

  to take this garden away from me.

  Except . . .

  Except

  Her cell phone buzzes inside her bag.

  She jerks away, breathless, and reaches

  down to check for the text. “What is it?”

  Let’s go. She waits for me to start

  the truck, motor away. It’s from my dad,

  who was spying on us out the window.

  I try to avoid her father, who does

  not approve of his daughter dating

  anyone. Especially me. “And . . . ?”

  He said he hoped we wouldn’t repeat

  that performance in public, and to

  consider what Christ would want.

  “In my admittedly limited understanding

  of the New Testament definition of

  Christ, he is the foundation of all love.

  Considering how I feel about you, that

  would put Christ sitting solidly on the arm-

  rest between us. I think you’re safe.”

  She reaches over, circles my knee

  with gentle fingertips. If I didn’t believe

  I was totally safe, I wouldn’t be here.

  “Does your dad ask about the . . . uh,

  personal stuff we do? I mean, it’s not

  like we’re shacking up in motel rooms.”

  Her fingers stop their circular orbit.

  Well, that isn’t exactly how I put it.

  I said you’re a complete gentleman.

  I purposely drop my jaw. “But . . . How

  could you say such a preposterous thing?

  I mean, everyone knows that’s a lie!”

  We both crack up, and Hayden’s

  left hand relaxes on my leg while her

  right turns up the volume on the radio,

  which happens to be tuned to Liquid

  Metal. A deadly guitar riff screeches

  into the space around us. Ugh! How

  can you listen to that? Like magic,

  we’ve got boy band pop. Good thing

  Dad doesn’t know you like that stuff.

  “Or what? He’d refuse to let you see me

  because I’m obviously in league with Satan?”

  I wait for her smile. Instead, she shrugs.

  I Should Drop It

  Don’t really know why

  I feel the need to defend

  myself, or my taste

  in music. Anyway,

  she knows what I listen to.

  This is the first time

  she’s overtly
associated

  it—and so, me—with

  something as unsavory

  as the King of Lies.

  “That would just be

  your father’s opinion, right?

  You don’t believe metal

  is the voice of the Devil?”

  Does anyone in their right

  mind actually buy into that?

  My dad is a hard-core

  evangelical, but he does

  allow me a mind of my own.

  I prefer not to listen to death

  metal, but not because I think

  it’s satanic. More like a lot

  of irritating, random noise.

  We’ve Been Going Out

  For close to a year, more than long

  enough to confess music tastes.

  “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  I don’t know. Guess I didn’t

  want to sound like a nag.

  Fair enough. But, “So, why

  tell me now?” And also, just

  by the way, why change the channel

  without asking if it was okay?

  I mean, if only to be polite.

  Another shrug. Why not?

  We should tell each other

  what’s bugging us, right?

  Uh-oh. Tension grips

  my shoulders like giant

  hands, squeezes. Quick.

  Mantra one. We will not

  argue. We will not argue.

  “Of course.” I grit my teeth.

  “Is there anything else

  bugging you besides my music?”

  I Half Expect a Tirade

  Or at least a short

  list of complaints.

  I party too much.

  I’m kind of a smart-

  ass. I drive too fast.

  I eat like a hog. I don’t

  much like her friends.

  But no. She smiles, then

  brings those coral gloss

  lips against my cheek,

  tickling it when she says,

  That’s the worst thing

  about you, and the rest

  doesn’t matter. You’re not

  perfect, that’s a fact. But

  your imperfections are

  part of what makes you

  you. And that’s who I fell

  in love with. Surprises.

  She’s full of them. Like

  now, she dials back to Liquid

  Metal. For you, I can even

  handle this. Once in a while.

  Loving This Girl

  Is a roller-coaster ride.

  Protracted climb.

  Serious drop.

  Loop until your stomach

  threatens to lose it,

  jerk to the right, spin

  left. Coast to a stop.

  Disembark.

  Get back in line.

  Do it again.

  And again.

  All in the name

  of chasing a thrill.

  Is the rush worth the effort?

  Most of the time, hell yeah.

  But then come those moments

  when I’m really not sure.

  Guess it’s a good thing

  those moments

  are few

  and far

  between.

  In Addition

  To different tastes in music, we have

  a similar wide divide in our ideas

  about what constitutes a good movie.

  I’m all about action. She likes romance.

  Usually one or the other of us has to

  compromise. Today, we find one that has

  both violent revolt and tender love scenes.

  That is providential. What’s less fortunate

  is some of those love scenes involve

  nakedness and sensual discovery, resulting

  in downright hot sex. I can’t speak for Hayden.

  Don’t even know if girls react in the same

  way to such visual stimulation, but I am

  completely turned on and sitting next to a girl

  who’s every bit as beautiful as the one

  on-screen, and I’ve rarely been quite

  this uncomfortable, and all I can think

  of at this exact moment is Alexa

  asking, Don’t you want to, you know?

  My arm is around Hayden’s shoulder,

  and I am adrift in the current of her hair,

  spilling across my chest. The sudden grip

  of desire is so wicked, I can almost believe

  there is, in fact, a Satan playing some vile

  game. I move my hand to the left, whisper

  trace the outward curve of her breast.

  She doesn’t protest, but rather sighs

  into the heavy fabric of my shirt, and now

  I wonder what it would be like to “you

  know” with her right here, right now, zero

  hesitation, just please, please, let me

  love you like that. But now the screen

  lights with battle, and in the barrage I hear

  my mom, hear my dad, hear Hayden’s father,

  all shouting, Be careful! Don’t ruin your life

  like I did! And, What would Christ think?

  From Satan to Christ

  In about twenty seconds, all because

  of a flush of passion. And that is made

  all the weirder considering neither S

  nor C means one damn thing to me.

  Consider the poor kid who stumbles

  through life in the shadow of both.

  The credits roll and as we exit,

  I ask, “Did you like the movie?”

  It was pretty good, I guess. She slips

  her hand into mine, steeples our fingers.

  Some parts were better than others.

  I wish I could read her, know for sure

  she means what I think she does. But

  I’m not about to ask her to clarify.

  I unlock our hands, tuck her slender

  shoulder beneath my arm, kiss the beat

  in her temple. “I love you. Know that?”

  Her arm circles my waist and she tucks

  a thumb in my back pocket. Yes, Matthew,

  I know that. And I kind of love you, too.

  Kind Of?

  Hope she’s not trying to tell me

  something. We cruise the mall

  like Siamese twins until something

  in a window catches her eye, severs

  our connection. As she exclaims over

  the latest Coach purse, my eyes scan

  ahead, and I’m dismayed to see Lainie

  heading our way, elbow to elbow

  with Vince. So much for breakups.

  I hope Marshall is still in one piece.

  Vince gives me a curt nod and Lainie

  coos, Oh, hey, Matt, pulling Hayden’s

  attention away from turquoise leather.

  This could go poorly, and does instantly,

  when Vince rather obviously checks

  out my nymph. Lainie’s voice frosts.

  Hayden. Huh. She considers what to say,

  and I think she might spare me. But

  the green-eyed monster wins out.

  Her mission is now to hurt Hayden.

  I’m surprised to see you here. Her words

  stab and the “you” twists the knife.

  No Escape

  I’m in trouble now.

  I should have known.

  Hayden: Really? Why would

  you be surprised to see me?

  Lainie: Because of last night.

  I kind of thought maybe Matt

  and Alexa were a thing now.

  Hayden (a serious shade of red):

  Last night? What do you mean?

  Lainie (ignoring my evil glare):

  Sorry. Sometimes I read too much

  into things. Guess I was wrong.
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  I can either stand here

  like a wuss and wait

  to be leveled, or act

  like a man, invite

  the solar plexus punch.

  “Alexa was at the party

  last night. I drove her home.”

  Acting Like a Man Is Overrated

  Especially when it means hurting

  someone you love, and Hayden

  is stung, even though she hangs on

  to a good percentage of her dignity,

  at least in front of Lainie (the bitch).

  Oh, that, is all she says, refusing

  to publicly cede ground.

  Something simmers beneath

  the surface, though, sizzling

  like hot oil. Vince senses it, too,

  decides to dodge the pending spatter.

  Let’s go. He gives Lainie

  a decent push, ignores her complaint.

  Hayden watches their retreat,

  mostly as a way not to look at me.

  I reach for her, but she sidesteps.

  Will you please take me home?

  Sssssssplatter! It blisters.

  Hope it doesn’t leave a scar.

  She Walks Two Steps

  Ahead of me all the way to the truck.

  It’s a struggle to stay behind her,

  considering the relative lengths

  of our strides, but if I’m lucky,

  maybe her quickened pace

  will burn off a little anger.

  Luck is not my best thing.

  We are barely out of the parking

  lot when she spits, Alexa? Really?

  I thought Marshall was your date.

  Reverse déjà vu?

  “I did take Marshall to the party.

  What Lainie forgot to mention

  was how she climbed all over him,

  trying to piss off Vince. . . .”

  Lainie and Marshall? Whatever.

  Anyway, what’s that got to do

  with Alexa? Cavernous breath.

  That’s why you got home so late.

  “Listen. Lainie drove Alexa

  to the party. When she hooked up

  with Marshall, Alexa needed

  a ride home. That’s it. Nothing

  happened between Alexa and

  me.” Except for my wanting to kiss

  her, and her slightly disparaging

  remarks about Hayden. But that’s

  nothing much. Nothing, really.

  It’s maddening when the truth

  (mostly the truth) isn’t enough.

  You know how I feel about Alexa.

  I can’t believe you’d do this to me.