Rumble by Ellen Hopkins Read Free Book Online

fight the suffocating
    quiet. It weights this house, threatens
    to drop it down into a sinkhole of memory.
    How do I escape it? Where can I go?
    What can I do? Maybe Luke had the right idea.

Buzzed but Anxious
    I won’t sleep right away, so I tune into
    old action movies on cable. Before it gets
    too late, I call Hayden, apologize again
    for doing nothing wrong, although I don’t
    reiterate that last part. “Will I see you
    tomorrow? I’m still jonesing for Thai.”
    Even bounced off a satellite, thousands
    of miles above us, her voice sounds cool.
I don’t know. I’ve got church, and after,
Mom wants us to visit Nana. The tough
    old crow lives in a retirement complex,
    but not because she needs care. More like
    because she needs company. Most of her
    circle has moved away or journeyed on
    to the Old Folks’ Mansion in the Sky.
    “Please think about dinner. And what you
    want to do on Monday. I love you with all
    my heart.” Please don’t desert me, too.

I Crash Late
    Still alone, anxiety shimmering
    around me like an aura. Though
    it’s cool in the house, I lie on top
    of my blankets, somehow too warm
    to go under. Every room is empty,
    and silence-bloated, so the blood
    whoosh in my ears sounds like
    the bellow of swollen surf. I try
    to relax my muscles, but I feel like
    a winter kill, left to freeze overnight.
    My therapist gave me relaxation
    techniques to try at times like this.
    I imagine floating on my back in
    a warm, salty sea. No effort. Eyes
    closed to the gentle sun against
    my face. Now I create a mantra,
    a rhythmic chant: “Ohm. Ohm.”
    Before long, it changes: “Omega.”
    The last. The ultra. The end. I sink
    beneath the surface, no light, no air,
    but oddly no fear, and it doesn’t hurt
    not to breathe. Is this what death is?
    I have nowhere immediate to go,
    so I let the current tug me at will.
    It carries me to some sort of undersea
    grotto, at least it seems I’m underwater
    still, until I bump up against a graveled
    shore. A thin finger of light pokes down
    from an opening in the rock above.
    I crawl onto the beach, find myself
    completely dry. Breathe in. Exhale.
    I am alive. I hear footfalls in the gloom
    ahead, the slam of a door. “Hello?”
    I call, to no reply, so I investigate.
    Along a narrow corridor flanked
    by slick black granite. A sudden whisper
    of fear lifts goose bumps all over my body,
    and I know I have to hurry, or it will be
    too late. I break into a trot, chanting,
    “No, no, no.” And now I’m running
    down the hall in this very house. “No!”
    Luke’s door is locked, but the knob
    is no match for the adrenaline screeching
    through me. The first thing I see is his
    feet. He’s still wearing his left shoe;
    the right has fallen beside the chair
    lying sideways on the floor. Then I look
    up at his face. It’s plum blue. And he’s smiling.

No! Please, No!
    My own scream yanks me awake, and I fight
    the black glove of night pressing me against
    my bed. I turn on my side, curl into a capital
    G , knees against my chest, sucking in air around
    an immense exhalation of sobs. The clipped rhythm
    of bare feet informs me Mom is home, and aware.
She bursts through the door, flips the switch
beside it, flooding my room with ochre light.
What’s wrong? She looks at me. Understands.
    “I’m f-f-fine,” I stutter, though it’s obvious
    I’m anything but. “I haven’t . . . I just . . .
    It’s been a while since I’ve dreamed about it.”
    Mom approaches slowly, almost warily.
    Something melts, her sharp edges blur
    and she puddles on the edge of my bed.
In a rare gesture, she strokes sweat-damp
strands of hair off my face, combs them
with tobacco-perfumed fingers. I still dream
about him, too. But not like that, and I’m
sorry this is the way he comes to you.
He mostly visits me as a little boy, before . . .

She Leaves the Sentence Unfinished
    Her unspoken words trail
    like breeze-disturbed smoke,
    pale and thin, toward the ceiling.
    But I know