Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse, #Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, #Dating & Sex
her four years ago, fried in a fiery bus
crash. Half of his football team died
with him. He would have been forty-five
today. Sean’s making his annual
pilgrimage to the cemetery, and I’m
going along. Here comes his jock-
worthy GMC pickup. It was a gift from
his uncle Jeff, who will never quite
measure up, no matter how hard he tries.
Sean idolized his father. He pulls into
the driveway, and even from here I can
see sadness in the forward tilt of his
shoulders. It’s a memory-shadowed day.
The Sean Who Stops
And gets out to open the passenger
door for me is subdued.
Hey, you
.
It comes out a throaty whisper.
He kisses me, and the kiss is quiet too.
Sean helps me up into the cab. It over-
flows flowers. I haven’t seen so much
color in months. “Where did you find
such a big variety this time of year?”
He gives me a tepid smile.
I had to
go to five grocery stores and Wal-Mart
.
Stupid, I know. They’ll freeze first
thing. It’s supposed to snow tonight
.
“Well, at least it’s nice right now.”
Nice, meaning thirty degrees, partly
cloudy, not much wind. Some would
call that inclement. But Sean agrees
with my assessment.
Yes, it is. Let’s
go before something nasty blows in
.
As we drive toward the city, I notice
there isn’t one rose in these dozens
of flowers. Lilies and asters, tulips,
carnations, sunflowers and mums,
but… “You couldn’t find roses in all
those stores?” Sean drums the steering
wheel with one hand, musing.
Finally he says,
My mom loved
roses. She grew them everywhere
in our yard, and when she died
,
Dad went kind of crazy and
tore them all out. I can’t even
look at a rose without thinking
about that day. I was so afraid
he’d flipped out for good and
I would lose him, too. He kept
saying he’d replant them in
her memory. Never happened
.
February Doesn’t Seem
To be a big month for mourning.
Maybe it’s too cold to die?
Wow. Too cold to die. Wonder
if that’s why Conner’s still alive.
Okay. That’s dumb. I know people
die in February. But obviously,
their loved ones don’t come to say
hi in dead of winter. The cemetery
is—uh—dead. No one here but
Sean and me. Which makes it
exponentially creepy, even in
daylight. The only time I’ve been
to a graveyard was for my grand-
father’s burial. Dad said the old
jerk deserved to go early. Who
knows? I had one bad experience
with him. Of course, it was the only
time I actually met him. So, yeah.
Anyway, I’ve never shared any
of that with Sean yet. And this
is probably not the right time
or place to mention it. He looks
scared. Flustered. Duh. The flowers.
“Let me carry some of those.”
Sean leads the way, and as we walk,
a fist of clouds chokes out the sun.
Despite the overwhelming gray, our
blossoms mist the gloom with color.
Scarlet. Lilac. Tangerine. Bronze.
Evening star gold. Late morning
sun yellow. Any place but here,
it would be romantic. It isn’t far
to the gravesite, on a slight rise well
away from the road. This time of year,
there’s no grass, just packed layers of old
snow. Sean stops to lay his flowers
in front of an ice-rimmed headstone.
Hey, Dad
. Sean’s breath steams into
frozen air, and his voice pierces
the silence of death.
Happy birthday
.
No Answer
At least, not one I can hear, unless
it is the disturbing mutter of wind.
“Should we find something to hold
the flowers?” They’ll soon clutter
the cemetery if we don’t, but Sean
says,
Let them blow if they want to
.
That way everyone here can enjoy them
.
It is so unlike anything I’d expect
from him, I hardly know how to
react. So I kneel to place an armful
of spring atop slick layers of winter.
Within seconds, they chase each other
across the grounds, halted here and
there by marble and granite head-
stones. I glance at the inscriptions here:
CLAIRE JENNIFER O’CONNELL
, adjacent to
“
COACH” BRYAN PIERCE O’CONNELL
.
It hits me, electric, like lightning.
“Your mom was so young when she
died.” Only twenty-eight. I wait for some
sign of sadness. But Sean responds
instead with a quick jab of anger.
Stupid
bitch
. He takes a deep breath.
If she hadn’t
gone all New Agey, she wouldn’t be dead
.
We’ve never really talked about
her, or how exactly she died.
“New Agey? What do you mean?”
He trembles, but whether from cold
or memory, I can’t be sure.
She decided
to use a midwife instead of going to
the hospital. If she had been at Saint Mary’s
,
she wouldn’t have bled to death when
she hemorrhaged. The paramedics
couldn’t save her. And you know
the worst thing? I was standing right
there. I saw her go. I was just a little
kid, but I’ll never forget watching her
fade away. One minute she was Mommy
.
The next, she was a mannequin
.
All that was left of her was Wade
.
Bitterness
Tints his voice. That, and anger.
How can he blame his mom?
I’m not sure I understand. Then
again, I have no frame of reference.
My mother is still one of the walking,
talking, breathing. But she doesn’t
do a whole lot more for me than Sean’s
mom does for him now. We never
spend time together. Rarely even
attempt to communicate. For all
our daily interaction, she might
as well be dead. I don’t hate her.
But I’m not really sure I love her,
at least not in the classic fashion.
And if she loves me, she hides it well.
Parenting should be a passion, not
a part-time pursuit. The wind kicks
stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe
skeletons. Bones of abandonment.
Ghosts of what will never be.
Kendra
Ghosts
Take shape under moonlight,
materialize in dreams.
Shadows. Silhouettes
of what is no more. But
ghosts don’t
bother me. The day brings
bigger things to worry about
than flimsy remains of
yesterday. No, spooks don’t
scare me.
Gauzy apparitions might
prank your psyche or
agitate your nightmares,
but lacking
flesh and blood
they are powerless
to hurt you—cannot hope
to inflict the kind of damage
that real, live
people do.
Miss Teen Spirit Of The West
Is not the biggest pageant I’ve ever done.
But as regional pageants go, the prize money
is good, especially compared to the entry fee.
And every pageant I compete in keeps me
tuned up for heavier-weight competitions.
This one is in Elko, a five-hour drive from
Reno. Five hours, listening to my mom remind
me about stuff I don’t need to be reminded
about.
Remember to keep your chin tilted
up and your shoulders back. Act like…
“The royalty you pretend to be. I know,
Mom. You’ve only told me that, like, eight
gazillion times. If I can’t remember it by
now, I never will.” The tone was testier
than I intended. Mom looks a little stung.
“Sorry. It’s just, I’ve got it, you know?”
Interstate 80 is mostly flat Great Basin desert.
Salt flats, sage, and carrion. Not much to excite
the eye or stimulate conversation. I guess
I should be grateful to Mom for trying.
After several very long silent minutes,
she tries again.
Do you still enjoy them?
Pageants, I mean. You used to love them,
at least I thought so. But now I’m not sure.
Does she want the truth? Do I want
to give it to her? I decide to compromise.
“I like winning them.” Like every eye on me,
and when those eyes find me fairest of all.
What I don’t like is what it sometimes
takes to win. Backstabbing. Manipulation.
Out-and-out bribery once in a while,
and not always the monetary kind.
Beautiful Bodies
Are ripe for the picking. It’s rare. But not
unheard of. Unless I am willing to go that far,
I’ll always be at a slight disadvantage.
I most definitely wouldn’t stoop so low
to win Miss Teen Spirit of the West.
Miss America, however, might be a whole
different tale. Not even sure Mom
would object. Pageants are a means
to an end, as she reminds me now.
Winning is good. Every crown puts
you one step closer to the runway.
You get there, you’ll never have to
depend on anyone else. A self-reliant
woman. That’s what you’ll be.