Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Identical (13 page)
unexpected move, his hand
settles gently on top of mine.
I should pretend propriety, pull
my hand away. But I like how
it feels beneath the warmth
of his. I give my most vampish
smile. “Extra effort is my middle
name. Thanks, Mr. Lawler.”
That Was Fun
Maybe even more fun
than what I’ve got on my
agenda now. We shall see.
I wander into drama, wearing
“innocent”
like baby powder perfume.
Onstage, waiting for direction,
Madison stands with a couple
of girls and several guys.
Perfect.
God, she’s such a cow,
hardly even worth my
jealous
response. I almost change
my mind, but then she catches
sight of me and her expression
puts me on my feet. Totally
guilt
free, I saunter up the stage
steps. Kaeleigh hasn’t yet
appeared,
and Ms. Cavendish won’t
know the difference unless
I try to sing. I pass Madison’s
knot, sniff the air beside her
dramatically,
loudly project, “Ugh! What’s that
smell? Madison, are you on the rag?”
Everyone’s Laughing
At Madison, whose face has turned
the approximate color of pickled beets,
as she struggles for a comeback. I almost
feel sorry for her, not that she’s exactly
innocent
of saying mean things to people.
Or about people, behind their backs,
or even worse, where they can overhear.
Most everyone I know thinks she’s a
perfect
bitch. Even her friends don’t like her
much, that’s my guess. Maybe I’m
jealous
somehow. Nah. She’s the one
with the problem, not me.
Anyway, the more I remember
how nasty she can be, the less
guilt
I feel about thinking what just
happened is funny. Still, Ian
appeared
just about the time she sputtered
off. He looked at me like I was
at fault. Whatever.
Dramatically,
I tilt my face toward the ceiling,
walk by him without a word.
Ian Retaliates
In his own subtle way, goes
and sits by Shelby, rotates
completely away from me.
I’ve studied this scene, know
my lines. So why can’t I
remember a single one?
Uh, Kaeleigh? You seem
a bit distracted today,
says
Ms. Cavendish.
Everything okay?
Wonder if Ian…oh, did she
just ask me a question?
“I’m sorry, what?”
Definitely distracted. Get your
script. You and Ian run lines.
We’ll block this scene later.
I slip quietly into the vacant
seat on the other side of Ian.
“She wants us to run lines.”
He nods and Shelby retreats.
Ian and I crack our scripts
without exchanging glances.
Eventually
We reach a romantic scene.
Onstage, Ms. Cavendish
has the chorus singing a big
ol’ production number.
It’s an unusual backdrop
for Ian’s and my scripted passion.
But even with numerous
vocal errors, corrections,
and amended directions,
so many distractions,
our declarations of love intertwine.
And even as Madison
stomps back into the theater,
to be corralled by Ms. C and
told to join the others onstage,
Ian finally looks up, into my eyes.
Just then the bell rings,
and as everyone deserts
the stage, locates possessions,
escapes the building, he says,
Sometimes I just don’t know who you are.
Not Exactly
The words I’d hoped to hear.
Then again, what exactly
were
the words I’d hoped for?
Anyway, to be honest,
sometimes I’m not so sure
just who I am either.
So I admit, “That makes
two of us, I guess.” At least
when I smile, he does too.
He offers me a ride home,
but I opt for the bus. “Maybe
tomorrow? I need to think.”
Ian walks me to the yellow
dinosaur, bends down,
kisses a sweet good-bye.
As the bus belches and squeals,
pain bubbles up inside, an evil
spirit, demanding escape.
And by the time I reach home,
I know I’ve got to uncork
the bottle, free my evil genie.
It’s Been a While
Since I’ve really binged.
Mostly, I guess, because things
have seemed fairly flatlined
recently. No major upsets.
No major downslides.
But that episode with William
has bothered me since
it happened. I let it fester,
though on the surface
the blister has popped,
scabbed over. William didn’t
cause the infection, he was just
its manifestation. God, I’m so
in need of spiritual antibiotics.
Then the Madison thing.
She is a major, total shit
stirrer, vicious clear through,
and obviously out to shred
any living thing that stands
in the way of what she wants.
On one level, what happened
in drama was the funniest
thing ever. I laughed out loud,
along with most everyone
else. So why did I feel bad later?
But When It Comes
To my personal sundae
of interior upheaval,
Daddy is the ice cream.
Raeanne is the hot fudge.
Mom is the whipped cream.
And Ian is now, and maybe
forever, the cherry on top.
Why can’t he and I find
a way to accept each other,
lose ourselves in all-
encompassing love,
the kind that can save you?
The kind that can glue
all the fragments of two
broken hearts together.
Sometimes, every once
in a while, it feels like
we’re almost there. Close.
So close. But then something
happens, something out
of my control, and mostly
it comes from inside of me—
this terrible black energy,
wrenching us apart. I think
I should be able to control
it, make it go away. But I can’t.
And So, Right Now
I will control one of the few
things I can. Gaining curves.
Funny thing is, I still haven’t
graduated to double digits,
despite semiregular binges
amounting to amazing quantities
of food. Maybe stress burns
a lot of calories or something.
But hey, I’m gonna try, at least
as long as there’s food in the house
and Daddy isn’t home. He’s not.
The garage is vacant, awaiting
the Lexus’s return. I glance at
the grandfather clock in the hall.
Not yet four. I should have an hour
or more, all to myself and my genie.
It’s screaming to be fed.
Begging to be satisfied.
It’s Probably Weird
To think about an addiction
like it’s a sentient being,
but that’s how it feels.
Like it’s something living
inside you. Something
you can’t get rid of because
killing it means killing you.
I can’t really understand
addictions to drugs or alcohol.
Things that control you.
But an eating disorder
is an addiction you control.
Wait, is that paradoxical?
I prefer to believe not.
Either way, I kick off my shoes,
slide along the tile and into
the kitchen, calming my genie
with promises. Twinkies. Ice
cream bars. Halloween candy.
Screw the trick-or-treaters.
Little heathens are bums.
Sweet Stuff
Sounds good, but I know from
experience I’ll get sick before
I can eat enough sugar to satiate
this kind of need. I should start
with something else. Hey.
I know. I’ll binge healthy
and do the five food groups.
Crackers. Chips. Both whole
grain. Salsa. Fruit salad.
Canned, but oh well. Cheese
for the crackers. (And later,
ice cream, dessert dairy.)
Protein? Think there’s lunch
meat in the refrigerator.
Hope it’s bologna.
That just leaves fat. So I’ll
butter my bologna. First,
I spread a quarter roll of paper
towels on the table. Have to
do this crumb free. Next
I arrange silverware in
a perfectly straight line.
About the time I turn toward
the cupboards, I notice
the obnoxious repetitive noise.
The Answering Machine
Is beeping, accompanied
by a red warning light.
Blip-blip-blip
. Three messages.
One: Mom.
Can’t talk
long. But thought you’d
want to know, in case
you haven’t checked,
the campaign is picking
up. I’m ahead in current
polls. Will be home to watch
the election coverage.
Click.
Awesome. Looks like we’ll lose
her completely. Not that I expected
anything else. No, not at all.