Scary Out There Read online

  something kind of important

  we want to discuss with you.

  “Game?” Mom watches games?

  What kind, and since when?

  The baseball game? It is April,

  you know. Mark’s a Yankees fan.

  Oh, of course. And it is April.

  Like that’s ever meant anything

  before. What the hell’s going on?

  “I don’t care if he comes over.”

  Actually, I do, but whatever.

  She turns and gives Mark a thumbs-up,

  and I follow her to her car, wishing

  I’d driven my Bug so I could skip out

  on whatever it is they’re determined

  to tell me. It can’t be anything good.

  On the way home I sit in quiet

  anticipation of a Valium cocktail.

  That’s what I need. Deep silent

  space and zero communication

  with the living or the dead, whether

  or not it’s all in my messed up head.

  I consider the text I might or might

  not have received in church. Paradise.

  Is that the same place as Heaven?

  If it exists, Erica would be there.

  But what about Cam? Or Daddy?

  Not only was he mean, but despite

  the noble way he died, he did plenty

  of dirty cop things. Makes me wonder

  out loud, “Hey, Mom. Think Daddy

  ever found the key to the kingdom?”

  If you mean do I think he’s with our

  Heavenly Father, of course I do.

  “But what about . . . ? He did

  some shitty stuff, you know.”

  She actually lets the S-word slide.

  He was a good man who behaved

  badly sometimes. God understands

  human frailty and forgives our sins.

  Every sin except suicide, apparently.

  But I keep that nugget to myself.

  By the Time

  Mark arrives, extra large meat

  lovers’ pizza in hand, the game

  is underway, the Yankees ahead

  by one run in the second inning.

  And I am one Valium toward calm

  acceptance of the approaching

  storm. I didn’t want to get too

  buzzed until after the thunder

  rumbled. But I’m not going to

  wait seven more innings before

  liftoff. I don’t watch baseball,

  but I do know there are a minimum

  nine to suffer through. Mom

  must really have a thing for this

  guy. But I don’t, so as I pick

  pepperoni and sausage off

  my pizza in protest of eating

  in front of the television, I forge

  ahead and ask, “What is this big

  news you want to share?”

  I expect maybe they’ll finally

  fess up and tell me they’re dating

  or even that they’re taking a trip

  together, implying they’re having

  sex. But when Mom mutes the TV

  and they both turn away from

  the game and toward me, I know

  suddenly and without a doubt

  there’s more. Mom clears

  her throat. Ahem. Mark and I

  have tried to keep our relationship

  private, and away from here,

  because I realized it might upset

  you. But we’ve been seeing each

  other for almost two years, and,

  well . . . The truth is, we’re in love.

  We think it’s time to take a big

  step forward and sanctify our union

  in the eyes of God. We want

  to get married, Chloe. And soon.

  Glad I didn’t eat any greasy

  meat. But I wish I’d popped

  a couple extra pills, and I’ll need

  to score hella more. This won’t be

  easy to live with. I feel like

  someone just sledgehammered

  me in the gut. “Know what?

  You suck. Why weren’t you

  straight up with me? You can’t

  just drop something like this

  in my lap. ‘Come have some pizza

  and, oh, by the way, we’re getting

  married soon.’ What does that

  even mean? Like, when?” I try

  not to look at Mark, but fail.

  Smirk. Is that a word? Yeah,

  it is, and that’s what he’s doing.

  Calm down, honey, says Mom.

  You’re right. I should’ve been

  honest with you, but I didn’t

  want to take a chance on hurting

  you before I was sure this was

  love. We’re talking about a June

  wedding. Kind of corny, I know.

  Now she looks at him with this

  weird adoration in her eyes.

  It totally creeps me out and I try

  to remember ever seeing her

  look at Daddy that way. Nope.

  “Well, obviously I can’t stop you.

  But don’t ask me to be a bridesmaid

  because I sure as hell won’t be there.”

  I Stand to Leave

  Mark gets to his feet too,

  puts a hand on my arm

  to halt forward progress.

  You go right ahead and

  be angry. But don’t you

  dare talk disrespectfully

  to your mother again

  because I sure as shit

  won’t stand for it. You

  don’t have to like me.

  But you do have to accept

  that I’ll be living here,

  and that means if you want

  to keep living here too,

  it will be by my rules. Get it?

  I jerk away, sheer hatred

  foaming at the corners

  of my mouth. I glance

  at Mom, whose eyes stay

  fixed on the muted TV.

  I really want to spew a stream

  of obscenities, but know

  it will only make me feel better

  for the shortest of moments

  before the crap pile hits

  the fan. So I fall back on

  my usual, “Whatever,”

  turn on one heel and stalk

  from the room. This will be

  a two Valium night.

  Tumbling Early

  Toward abysmal

  sleep, I know morning

  will still arrive too

  soon to vanquish

  the pills’ shadow.

  I stumble to my desk,

  find my phone in

  the depths of my purse,

  struggle to set the alarm

  that will send me off

  toward school on time.

  My sight blurs and

  my head spins, but I

  manage (I think)

  the necessary task.

  Now I wrangle myself

  out of my clothes,

  slip naked between

  the sheets, set my cell

  on the nightstand.

  I turn off the lamp,

  inviting night’s envelope,

  and just before I close

  my eyes, notice the text,

  highlighted in red.

  No rules here.

  If Sunday Was Awful

  Monday is worse, starting

  with the alarm dragging me

  into the mist-shuttered morning.

  I’m a crawling, voiceless zombie.

  I skip breakfast and manage

  to escape out the door without

  having to talk to Mom. Screw

  her. And Mark. And Pastor Smyth

  and anyone else involved in

  the upcoming farce. I get to school

&nb
sp; just as the first bell rings, which

  makes me tardy to first period.

  And from there it’s all downhill.

  My chemistry test comes back marked

  F, with the cheerful comment:

  If this represents your cumulative

  knowledge to date, be prepared

  to repeat this class next year.

  In the hall on the way to English,

  Taryn Murphy elbows me into

  a locker. Get out of my way, freak.

  Who taught you how to put makeup

  on, anyway? Considering I’m not

  wearing any, what the hell?

  PE brings the ultimate nightmare

  cliché—starting one’s period right

  before changing into white shorts.

  Not going to happen. I go ahead

  and ditch, ducking around the gym

  to hang out in smoker’s alley.

  I’d probably bum a cigarette,

  except there’s no one here but me,

  so I settle, back against a building

  wall, on a thin strip of cement.

  Face turned into the weak sun, I close

  my eyes, feel the cloud appear.

  It Arrives

  On wing, chill and

  menacing, accompanied

  by a trio of squawks.

  Chloe.

  Chloe.

  Chloe.

  Not one crow this

  time, but three, as alike

  as single-egg triplets.

  Black feathers.

  Black talons.

  Black pearl eyes.

  I should be scared.

  So why does crazy laughter

  spill from my mouth?

  They circle.

  They caw.

  They perch on a wire overhead.

  “Screw you,” I say out

  loud. “What you gonna do,

  peck me to death?”

  Black feathers ruffle.

  Black talons stretch.

  Black pearl eyes stare.

  “Screw this,” I echo,

  getting to my feet,

  hoping the crows

  don’t smell blood.

  The Day Doesn’t Improve

  In Government, I sit in back, staring

  out the window, watching a murder

  descend, a black feathered storm

  cloud, over the branches of a big oak.

  The crows must’ve smelled blood

  after all. Mr. Webb notices my inattention,

  calls me out on it, initiating a chorus

  of snickers. I freaking hate school.

  I do manage to meet up with my pill

  connection in the parking lot right

  after the last bell. Two good minutes

  out of four hundred eighty or so.

  I’ve got a mountain of homework,

  but I’m still not ready to go head

  to head with Mom about her totally

  selfish decision to marry another cop.

  So, rather than turn toward home,

  I detour across the city, to the cemetery

  I visited just a couple of days ago.

  This time I go ahead and travel the road

  Cam’s funerary entourage parked

  along. I’ve only got an approximate

  location for where his grave should be,

  but it doesn’t take long to find the spot

  where the grass was recently peeled

  back like skin to let the backhoe dig

  a casket-sized hole, drop a Cam-filled

  coffin in, then close it all back up again.

  Sprays of wilting chrysanthemums

  and lilies leak their dying perfumes

  into air richly scented with damp earth.

  “Is this what Paradise smells like?”

  I lie on top of Cam Voss’s fresh grave,

  back against the thick peel of grass,

  pretending I can’t hear bones rattle,

  until I’m chilled all the way through.

  I’m Shivering

  When my cell buzzes in my pocket.

  My stomach knots dread, but I can’t

  not look. Will I learn how Paradise

  smells? But no. It’s a text from Mom.

  Went out with Mark after work. Ring

  shopping. There’s pizza in the fridge.

  Rings. Awesome. What’s next?

  A white freaking dress? Oh, well.

  At least I won’t have to go head

  to head with her tonight about

  the insane decision to commit

  her life—and mine—to a cop again.

  A dark form appears suddenly

  in the sky, circling. Circling.

  Closer. Closer. It’s black, but

  too big for a crow. A buzzard,

  that’s what it is, circling to take

  a peek at the quiet form lying

  here like a headstone. I jump

  to my feet. “I’m not dead yet!”

  I yell. Still the ugly bird makes

  long, slow loops above my head.

  I hurry to my car, drive surface

  streets home to avoid evening

  traffic. Mom is still gone

  when I walk through the door,

  and that’s just fine with me. I go

  into my room, toss my backpack

  on the floor, remove the textbooks

  I’m supposed to read. Thirty pages

  in one, twenty in another. Not to

  mention the essay due tomorrow

  that I haven’t even started. Nope.

  Not going to happen. I reach

  into my pocket for my phone.

  Not sure why. No one ever calls

  and, other than the odd one from

  my mom, the only texts I get anymore

  come from my demented psyche.

  Hey. Where is it? Not in either

  pocket. I check my bag, dump it,

  in fact. All that falls out is my wallet,

  two pens, a half pack of gum,

  and enough pills to put me in

  the proper place for several days.

  Anxiety nibbles, a caterpillar

  chewing into my brain. I go ahead

  and down a Valium, pray the worm

  turns into a butterfly. Just in case,

  I search my backpack. Nothing

  but homework. I must’ve dropped

  my phone somewhere between

  grave and VW. I could drive back,

  but it’s a long way, I’m starting

  to get buzzed, and I don’t really

  want to wander around a cemetery

  at night. I’ll go tomorrow and hope

  no grave robber finds it first.

  I Head to the Kitchen

  For a drink and a cold slice.

  I’m reaching into the fridge

  when I hear a familiar ringtone.

  My phone is on the counter.

  No. Impossible. I didn’t take my phone

  into the kitchen earlier. My heart

  flails, but I push back total

  panic, will myself to move closer.

  And, of course, there’s a message.

  I brought your cell. Didn’t

  want grave robbers to have

  it. You owe me. Big time.

  I feel sick. I grab my phone and

  a glass of water, hurry back

  to my room and gulp another pill.

  I close my eyes, wait for the kick.

  When I open them again, I find words

  floating on my computer’s black screen.

  Come to me, Chloe. I’ve waited

  too long. You’re overdue here

  and have nothing to live for there.

  This isn’t happening. So why

  do I talk to an empty room?

  “You’re wrong. I have Mom.”

  Not true. She belongs to him

&nbs
p; now. Do you really want

  to belong to him too?

  Good point. What do I have

  to live for, really? But . . .

  “What’s it like in Paradise?”

  Remember when I came to you

  in bed the other morning?

  It’s like that whenever you want.

  The memory makes me tremble.

  “Sounds nice.” My voice is Valium

  thick. “But I’m afraid to die.”

  Death is an open door—easy

  to walk through. What’s hard

  is living. Take another pill.

  Another pill. Yes. I down two,

  for good measure. He’s right.

  Living is hard. I’m tired of it.

  I should tell Mom goodbye,

  but first I swallow a couple

  more tickets to Paradise.

  That’s it. Hurry, Chloe.

  I’m standing right on the far

  side of the threshold. Come to me.

  One Valium. Two. Three. Toss in

  a couple of Percocets. How many

  is that now? Can’t remember.

  Enough? Maybe not. I finish

  my stash, one by one. Anticipation

  shimmers. “I’m on my way, Cam.”

  Sleepy. Getting sleepy. I crash

  on my bed, reach for my cell

  to call in my final farewell.

  There’s a text. No, Chloe!

  Turn back. It’s horrible here.

  Paradise smells like brimstone.

  Turn Back?

  Too late.

  Much too late.

  Brimstone?

  Paradise.

  Lost.

  No. “But . . . but . . .

  I can’t come to you.

  I’m good.

  Mom says.

  Good girls go

  to Heaven.”

  Across the room,

  the computer screen

  lights, bloodred.

  White letters

  lift and throb.

  Throb

  like

  my slowing

  heart.

  Don’t be absurd.

  You’re a liar, Chloe.

  You made a pact

  and broke it.

  Don’t you understand?

  Haven’t you heard?

  You’re only as good

  as your word.

  Ellen Hopkins is the award-winning author of thirteen New York Times bestselling young adult novels in verse, plus four novels for adult readers. She lives near Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra Youth Housing & Resource Initiative, a nonprofit helping youth at risk into safe housing and working toward career goals through higher education. She is both blessed and cursed to care for three generations of children (including her husband), all living under one roof, with two dogs, a rescue cat, and two ponds of koi.

  Website: ellenhopkins.com

  Twitter: @EllenHopkinsLit

  Facebook: facebook.com/ellenhopkinsauthor

  * * *

  The Invisible Girl

  RACHEL TAFOYA