Impulse (25 page)

twins. One egg, one sperm, one zygote, divided, sharing one complete

set of genetic markers.

On the outside we are the same. But not

inside, think she is the egg, so much like our mother it makes me want to scream. Cold. Controlled. That makes me the sperm,

I guess. I take completely after our father.

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All Daddy, that's me.

Codependent. Cowardly.

Good, bad. Left, right. Kaeleigh and Raeanne. One egg, one sperm. One being, split in two.

And how many souls?

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Interesting Question

Don't you think? I mean, if the Supreme Being inserts a single soul at the moment of conception, does that essence divide itself? Does each half then

strive to become whole again, like a starfish or an earthworm?

Or might the soul clone itself, create a perfect imitation of something yet to be defined? In this way, can a reflection be altered?

Or does the Maker, in fact, choose to place two separate souls within a single cell, to spark the skirmish that ultimately

causes such an unlikely rift?

Do twins begin in the womb?

Or in a better place?

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One Soul or Two

We live in a smug California valley. Rolling ranch land, surrounded by shrugs of oak-jeweled hills. Green for two brilliant months sometime around spring, burnt-toast brown the rest of the year.

Just over an unremarkable mountain

stretches the endless Pacific. Mornings here come wrapped in droops of gray mist. Most days it burns off by noon.

Other days it just hangs on and on. Smothers like a wet blanket.

Three towns triangulate the valley, three corners, each with a unique flavor: weathered Old West; antiques and wine tasting; just-off-the-freeway boring.

Smack in the center is the town

where we live, and it is the most

unique of all, with its windmills and cobbled sidewalks, designed to carry tourists to Denmark. Denmark, California-style.

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The houses line smooth

black streets, prim rows of postcard-pretty dwellings, coiffed and manicured from curb to chimney. Like Kaeleigh and me, they're perfect on the outside. But behind the Norman Rockwell facades, each holds its secrets.

Like Kaeleigh's and mine, some are dark. Untellable.

Practically unbelievable.

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But Telling

Isn't an option. If you tell a secret about someone you don't really know, other people might listen, but decide you're making it up. Even if you happen to know for a fact it's true. If you tell a secret about a friend, other people want to hear all of it, prologue to epilogue. But then they think you're totally messed up for telling it in the first place. They think they can't trust you. And hey, they probably can't. Once a nark, always a nark, you know?

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Kaeleigh

I Wish I Could Tell

But to whom could I possibly confess a secret, any secret? Not to my mom, who's never around. A time or two, I've begged her to listen, to give me just a few precious minutes between campaign swings. Of course it's true the wrong secret could take her down, but you'd think she'd want to hear it. I mean, what if she had to defend it? Really, you'd think she'd want to be forewarned, in case the
International Inquisitor

got hold of it. Does she think this family has no secrets?

The clues are everywhere, whether or not she wants to know.

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There's Daddy

Who comes home every day, dives straight into a tall amber bottle, falls into a stone- walled well of silence, a place where he can tread the suffocating loneliness.

On the surface, he's a proud

man. But just beneath his not-

so-thick skin, is a broken soul.

In his courtroom, he's a tough but evenhanded jurist, respected

if not particularly well liked. At

home, he doesn't try to disguise his bad habits, has no friends, a tattered

family. A part of me despises him, what he's done. What he continues to do. Another part pities him and will always be his little girl, his devoted, copper-haired daughter.

His unfolding flower. But enough about Daddy, who most definitely

has plenty of secrets. Secrets Mom

should want to know about. Secrets

I should tell, but instead tuck away.

Because if I tell on him, I'd have to...

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Tell on Me

How I'm a total wreck. Afraid to let anyone near. Afraid they'll see the real me, not Kaeleigh at all.

I do have friends, but they don't know me, only someone I've created to take my place. Someone sculpted from ice.

I keep the melted me bottled up inside. Where no one can touch her, until, unbidden, she comes pouring out.

She puddles then, upon fear-trodden ground. I am always afraid, and I am vague about why. My life isn't so awful. Is it?

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About the Author

Ellen Hopkins has been writing poetry for years and has also published several nonfiction books. Her first novel,
Crank,
released in 2004 and quickly became a word-of-mouth sensation, garnering praise from teens and critics alike. Ellen's other novels include
Burned
and
Glass,
the sequel to
Crank.
She lives with her husband and son in Carson City, Nevada. Visit www.ellenhopkins.com and www.myspace.com/ellenhopkins.

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