Rumble by Ellen Hopkins Read Free Book Online Page B

did you say ? V8 and vodka
can’t quite conceal the smell of stale
sleep on his breath. His eyes move, side
to side, as if trying to focus, and I really
    think he might be considering violence.
    “Want to hit me, Dad? Go ahead, if
    it makes you feel like more of a man.”
    The remark is unwarranted. He hasn’t
    touched me since I was around nine, and
    even then his spankings didn’t hurt.

His Grip Loosens
    But he doesn’t let go completely.
    I know what he wants is an apology.
    Whatever. No skin off my nose.
    “I’m sorry I called you a dickhead,
    Dad, but your insensitivity pisses
    me off. You were shitty to Luke
    when he was alive, and now you’re
    worse, if that’s even possible. He’s dead.
    Respect him for that, if nothing else.”
He flings his hand off my arm as if
it burns. Respect? Goddamn pussy,
that’s what he was. Goddamn cow—
    “Stop it! He was gay, okay?
    That didn’t make him a pussy.
    Stop calling him that, would you?”
He was a coward, and a waste
of talent. I can’t stand crap like that.
Not from any kid, but especially
not from one of mine. He slugs
down his drink. No goddamn
wonder those boys gave him hell.
    “No! Don’t you dare defend them.
    What is wrong with you? Luke
    was your son, and pretty much all
    he ever wanted was for you to be
    proud of him. Yes, he had talent.
    But he worked his butt off trying
    to be the absolute best basketball
    player to ever walk on this planet.
    Not for attention. Not for fame.
    Not even so he could have a friend
    or two. He did it for you, Dad. And
    you denied him.” All his tension
    releases suddenly. He shoulders go slack
    and, impossibly, his eyes water. I have
    never seen my father cry. Never. Not even
    at Luke’s funeral. He disintegrates now,
    and I’m not sure which one of us is more
    embarrassed about my witnessing the event.

I Have No Idea
    How to react.
    Hug him?
    Slap him?
    Break down
    and cry with him?
    How do you find sympathy
    for someone who has never
    once offered it to you,
    especially when that someone
    happens to be your parent,
    a person whose arms
    should always be open wide?
    This is a moment
    of weakness, nothing more,
    and likely never to be repeated
    in my presence. So why
    does any part of me wish
    it might be the door
    to a whole new father-
    son relationship?

It’s Over
    Almost as soon as it began.
    He turns his back, sucks down
    his drink. Starts to make another.
    Then he notices the frying pan.
Goddamn eggs are cold.
    Time to retreat. “Mix ’em up
    with mayonnaise and pickle relish
    and slap ’em on bread. Egg salad
    sandwich.” I leave him to consider
    my suggestion, and as I start up
    the hall, Mom comes in the front
    door, all smiles, at least until
    she notices the look on my face.
What’s wrong?
    I shake my head. Nod once toward
    the kitchen. “Dad and his eggs got
    into it. Not pretty.” I lower my voice.
    “He and Bloody Mary are melting down.”

So Much for Her Smile
    She glances toward the kitchen,
    wheels and heads for their room
    instead. Personally, I’m escaping
    this place before everything turns
    to excrement stew—a simmering
    pot of shit. It’s well after noon,
    and Hayden should be finished
    with church. But just in case,
    I text her rather than call. HEY
    LADY. YOU READY FOR ME
    TO PICK YOU UP? She doesn’t
    respond immediately, so I go
    ahead and dress in my favorite
    jeans and a dove-gray flannel shirt.
I’m in the middle of brushing
my teeth when her text finally
comes. GOING BOWLING WITH
WITH MY YOUTH GROUP. PIZZA
AFTER. FINISHED AROUND FOUR.
I’LL CALL YOU WHEN WE’RE DONE.

This Time
    It’s an emotional one-two punch
    striking my solar plexus.
    One: anger.
    Two: jealousy.
    One.
    Two.
    One.
    Two.
    Straight to the gut.
    Powerful blows
    in repetitive action.
    How
    could
    she
    do
    this
    to
    me?
    My resident little voice
    of reason—the one who
    always talks me down
    from the reactive cliff—
    seems to have
    vacated my cranium.

Can’t Sit Around Here
    Waiting for the