Rumble by Ellen Hopkins Read Free Book Online Page A

what they are.
Before he knew.
Before we knew.
Before anyone knew.
    I wish she wouldn’t talk.
    Wish she’d remember that
    even when things weren’t insane,
    you couldn’t have called them good.
Before he grew up.
Before he grew aware.
Before he grew into himself.
    All I want her to do is keep
    weaving her fingers into my hair,
    comforting me like good moms
    do when their children hurt.

Clatter and Cursing
    Shake me awake. I’m still lying on top
    of my bedspread, covered by billows of
    afghan. I remember last night. Mom’s hands.
    Grief, tremoring in the thick mantle
    of silence between us. I inhale regret,
    listen to Dad crashing around in the kitchen,
    punctuating every dropped pan or lid
    with invective. Sunday morning and
    the lift of silver light informs me noon
    isn’t far away. Mom will be at church
    while Dad fights his hangover with
    beer, or maybe vodka. Hair of the dog,
    or pelt of the wolf. No school tomorrow,
    coupled with the cupboard chaos,
    I’m guessing he’s chosen the latter.
    How is it possible for a multiple-
    championship-winning basketball
    coach to be such a loser when it comes
    to domestic responsibilities? How can
    anyone so egotistical about his career
    completely lack self-respect in regards
    to his home and family? I could just
    lie here, ignore his tirade. Instead, against
    all that is sensible, I fold up the afghan,
    straighten the covers, slip into flannel
    pants and a clean T-shirt, go see
    what, exactly, his current problem
    might be. When I get to the kitchen,
    he is bending over a raw egg spill,
    semi-mopping it up with paper towels.
    A tumbler of something tomatoey sits
    on the counter. Bloody Mary pelt of
    the wolf, I’m guessing. His attention
    is so raptly focused on the goo that
    he hasn’t noticed me yet. I could sneak
    away. Instead, I offer, “Need some help?”
    Which startles him and when he tries to
    jump, the hand clutching the slippery
    paper towels slides, lurching his whole
    body forward toward the fridge.

Bam!
    His forehead slams into the stainless
    door. Then he windmills into reverse,
splatting backward on his ass. Fuck!
You trying to kill me, you little prick?
    “Nice parental vocab, Dad.” Not that he’s
    ever been the warm, fuzzy type. I extend
    my hand to help him up, but the gesture
    goes unappreciated, and he finds his feet
    all on his own. When he turns to face
    me, I can’t help but wince at the knot
    popping up, purple-black, just above
    the bridge of his nose. “Ouch. Sorry.”
    It would make sense for him to yell.
    Instead, he chooses obnoxious laughter.
    The Bloody Mary on the counter must
    not be his first. Might as well play smart-
    ass. It’s expected of me. “You’re supposed
    to scramble eggs in a bowl, you know.”
    I go to the cupboard for my favorite
    Pyrex container. Dad downs his drink
    and watches me expertly crack two eggs,
    depositing them in the bowl without
    so much as a sliver of shell. I beat them,
    add a dash of half-and-half, seasoning salt,
    and pepper. Then I melt a little butter
    in a frying pan, pour the yellow mixture.
Look at that, would ya? His voice
is sandpaper-textured. When did you
learn how to cook? Luckily my back
is turned so he can’t see my eyes roll.
    “Really, Dad? I’ve been cooking
    since I was a kid. God, wait for you
    or Mom to do it, Luke and I would
    have starved to death.” It was harsher
than I meant it, and he responds
in kind. You just fattened him up for . . .

His Last Sentiment
    Drops into the sizzle-pop of eggs.
    I think about letting them burn,
    but then the kitchen would smell
    like butt, so I yank the pan off
    the flame, push it onto the countertop,
    which, fortunately, is granite.
    “Enjoy.” That’s what comes out
    of my mouth, but what I really mean
    is, “Hope you choke on them.”
    And as I start to leave, I mutter
    an under-breath amen: “Dickhead.”
    Apparently, it wasn’t qute far enough
under my breath because he’s quick
to cross the floor and grab my arm.
What