Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Identical (29 page)
I pull back from the mac-
spattered toilet, feel a
fleeting sense of shame
and commiseration for
Manuela. But then I
remember she’s out of
commission. Just who
will scrub this mess?
Can’t trust my shaky
legs. I crawl over to the
tub, hoist myself inside,
slide out of my vomit-
crusted clothes. Ugh!
My legs are fat. Fat and
hairy. Time for a major
shave. And not just hair.
New Blade
No razor burn.
No razor nicks.
No more hair.
Legs are smooth.
But still fat.
Open my skin.
Right ankle.
Left ankle.
White flesh.
Red polka dots.
Ha! That’s funny.
Ouch. Stings.
Behind right knee.
Left knee. Oops.
A little deep.
Blood pumps.
Check it out.
Thump. Thump.
Oh my God.
Can I stop it?
Who really cares?
The drain runs red.
I’ve Heard Exsanguination
Is a pleasant enough way to go.
Bleeding out, ebbing away, one
heartbeat, ever slower, at a time.
Thump-thump. Thump…thump. Thump…
…thump………
until you look
death
right in the eye, decide you like
what you see. I’ve always feared
dying before, psychological
fallout from my childhood
near
death experience. The accident
replays in a series of black-and-
white snapshots. Raeanne laughs.
Daddy swears. Mom screams,
Ray!
Glass rains. Darkness. Someone
calls,
Wake up
, and I open my eyes
to a swarm of disembodied faces.
Halloween masks. Bloated. Distorted.
Hands, gloved red, reach out
to me.
I fall back into blackness, stumble
toward an orange glow, vaguely aware
of spectral movement. Ahead, a figure
leans into a low-banked fire. He lifts
his horned head. Daddy! I leap
from the shadows
into antiseptic white.
OM—Effing—G
The bathroom looks like a battle
field. Tangerine-colored puke
paints toilet and tiles, and the
whole place smells like
death,
not only because of the barfed-up
whatever, but also because
of the blood, thick maroon drips
all over the tub and towels. And
near
the sink is a sticky crimson puddle.
What’s up with Kaeleigh, anyway?
I mean, yeah, I get throwing up.
It’s not bad at all, except for the
stomach acid part. The barf monster
calls
to me regularly. But hey, you’re
supposed to get it inside the bowl,
and if you don’t, protocol dictates
you clean it up. I guess maid duty falls
to me from
who-knows-where this morning. Kaeleigh
is gone, and if Daddy sees this, all hell
will break loose. That girl seriously
owes me, and I’d better collect soon,
before she succumbs to
the shadows
overtaking her soul.
Speaking of Souls, Monsters, Etc.
Tonight is Halloween.
Ghouls. Goblins. Witches.
Avoidable candy. And way
avoidable children in costumes.
Kind of fun to jump out and scream
boo
at the little brats. Then
they
avoid
you
. Woo-hoo.
Not only is it All Hallows Eve,
but it’s also Friday. The perfect
excuse to party hearty. All I have
to do is decide who to party with.
Tricks? Treats? Ty? Mick?
A little (a lot?) of both?
(I don’t think it’s the right night
for Lawler, but never say never.)
Daddy won’t try to stop me. He
knows who he wants to party
with. Well, maybe. I could have
read the whole Hannah thing wrong,
I guess. But if he was flirting and Hannah
didn’t go for it, he’s a bomb with
a very short fuse.
Tick. Tick.
Daddy and Hannah
As I scrub away Kaeleigh’s
disgustingness, I can’t help
thinking about them. Truth is,
the idea makes me crazy.
(Crazy jealous.)
Am I jealous? I guess I must be,
because right now, all I can see
(besides orange puke) are still
shots of Daddy and Hannah.
(Doing the dirty.)
Shot one: missionary, Daddy on top.
Shot two: doggie-style, Daddy on top.
Shot three: can’t even say it, let alone
dwell on the picture, but Daddy’s on top.
(Always on top.)
Being
On top means never saying you’re sorry, not for any damn thing you ever say or do. Daddy has got to be the king of on top, with Mom a very close runner-up. Hm. Wonder who was on
TOP
when they did have sex.
Sex, Sex, Sex
I have really got to stop thinking
about it so damn much, you know?
Daddy and Hannah; Daddy and Mom;
Daddy and Kaeleigh; Daddy and whoever;
Mom and Daddy; Mom and whoever;
Lawler and whoever; Mick and whoever; Ty…
Sex, sex, sex. I have really got to stop
wanting to have it, and more and more of it.
Clumsy sex (Mick); choreographed sex
(Ty); imagined sex (Lawler, assorted others).
I’ve even half thought about experimenting
with a girl or two. Variety is the spice of life.
Sex, sex, sex. And what goes with that?
Drugs, more drugs, and alcohol, of course.
I’m a living, walking, waking party on
two unsteady legs. (Not to mention a shaky
brain.) Tonight is Halloween, a night to
walk on the dark side. Can’t wait to hit the road.
First, I Have to Get Through the Day
And that starts with getting
out the door. Standing between
me and that goal is a red-eyed Daddy.
Apparently you forgot to tell
me something important.
Quick. Think. “Uh. Something
important? Like what?” I mentally
run down a long list of possibilities:
He saw the bathroom?
He saw me with Brittany?
He saw me see him with Hannah?
He missed a few “borrowed” pills?
One of his spies saw me with Lawler,
or told him about Mick, the pot, and the cop?
You know, the phone call? Listen…
He advances, menacing, and now
I’m thinking about phone calls.
Is he talking about the hang-ups,
or—oh, shit—the call from his father?
He never mentioned it, so I assumed
he never found out about it.
If you can’t pass on a simple
answering machine message,
don’t play them back, understand?
I Decide to Act Ignorant
And, you know, for the most part
I am. I have no clue what he’s
talking about. “Uh…I’m sorry,
but I’m not sure what you mean.”
Your mother called yesterday,
and left a rather lengthy message….
News to me. “Sorry, Daddy.
I didn’t check the machine.”
Really. And here I thought you’d
made it your mission….
What the hell does that mean?
Maybe he knows more than
he’s saying too. I apologize again.
“Sorry. I usually do, but I was
all excited about writing my term
paper.” No need to mention why.
His eyes say, yeah right, but his
lips say,
Ahem. Okay, well, your
mother is coming home to watch
the election returns and expects
to host a large party here. It’s
a big deal, as you can imagine,
and you’ll have to help me pull it
together. We’ve only got a few days.
And with Manuela unavailable,
I’m not sure what to do.
A devious thought crosses my
mind. Do I dare? Oh, why not?
“Maybe Hannah from down
the street would help out.”
H-Hannah?
he sputters, eyes filling
with uncertainty.
Why Hannah?
How much do I know, Daddy? Not
as much as I’ve guessed, but enough.
But I don’t say that. Instead
I shrug. “She’s always seemed
pretty friendly, and she looks
like she knows how to party.”
He Has No Idea
What I mean, or what to say.
His jaw drops, spittle pooling
in the corners of his mouth.
His eyes blink like some annoying
spore has found its ocular target.
Tears puddle, reflect something
like rising denial. No worries,
Pop, I won’t tell, as long as
you be nice to me. (Pretty please be nice.)
One thing for sure, his reaction,
silent as it might be, makes me
know my instincts were right.
Somehow, some way, that hurts
more than it should. After all,
he’s not married to me. Still, why
not twist the knife a little deeper?
Kind of fun to make him squirm.
“Do you want me to talk to Hannah?
I don’t mind. Unless you’d rather
do it yourself?” I ask, all innocent
eyed. “I’ll help too, of course.”
Finally Daddy snaps out of
his trance.
That’s okay. I’ll talk
to her. Good idea. She’ll be great.