Jonah calls. A couple of things. One,
I would really like for you to help out
with the lit mag next year. We need
an assistant editor. Interested?
I’m flattered he thought of me.
“Absolutely, if you’re sure
I’m capable.” I wait for the second
thing. More than capable. You’ll
be a great addition to our staff.
I also need some help screening
the poetry contest entries.
Most of them will go to the judge,
but we usually don’t send the ones
with obvious problems. Like, not
actually qualifying as poetry.
I laugh. “People pay an entry fee
to send nonpoems to a big contest?”
You’d be surprised, my dear.
Can you invest a few hours this
afternoon? I’ll buy you dinner.
“I’m a starving student, with time
to kill. When do you want me?”
He doesn’t let that one go. Only
every time I think about you. But
if you could be here by three,
that would be great. See you then.
EVERY TIME
He thinks about me? Joke or no,
that makes me warm. Makes me
blush, most of the way to his office.
Luckily, the walk from the parking
lot cools me off just enough. We spend
close to three hours screening contest
entries and tossing obvious rejections
into a pile after pulling their entry-
fee checks. Some have obvious
misspellings or grammar problems
(and since it’s poetry, that means
lack of grammar of any kind). Others
are simply very weak. “I kind of like
this one. ‘You make me go weak in
the knees. Like the birds make the bees.’ ”
Jonah looks at me with disbelieving
eyes. You’ve got to be kidding, right?
“Yeah, actually, I am. I’m about
finished here, though. And hungry.”
I leave my car, ride with Jonah.
We settle on a brewpub. Order giant
burgers and dark beer. Not my usual
thing, but Jonah convinces me to try it.
You’ve got to live large once in
a while. Veer from the norm, away
from what is or isn’t expected of you.
Yeah, like being here with him.
But it’s been such a hard week,
tossing stuff back and forth in
my head. I really need to let it all
go. And I’m starting with dark beer.
We eat. Drink. Talk. Joke. Laugh.
Drink some more. And before I know
it, evening has slipped well into night.
“The wai’ress is givning us funny looks.”
Wow. I’m buzzed. Jonah smiles.
Probably time to get you home. Darn
dark beer. I think I should drive you.
I think he’s right. I don’t dare drive
like this. But, “Wha’ ’bout my car?”
I can pick you up tomorrow and
bring you to get it. Not a problem.
He settles up, steers me to his car.
Drives me home without a single
swerve, missed stop sign, or other
indication he’s feeling anywhere
near as messed up as I am. “Glad you
can hol’ your beer better than I can.”
Just takes practice. And body mass.
I’ve got a few years on you. A few
pounds, too. Okay, a lot of pounds.
THE APARTMENT ISN’T FAR
We’re there in less than ten minutes.
Jonah walks me to the door, waits
while I fumble for my keys. I find
them and am just sliding the correct
one into the lock when a familiar
truck comes screeching to a halt
in the parking lot, right behind
Jonah’s car. The driver’s door jerks
open, and out jumps Cole. It isn’t
the first time I’ve seen him crazy-eyed,
but never has he directed those eyes
toward me in such a menacing way.
He moves like a soldier. Confident.
Fast. And pissed off at the world, or
at least this particular island of it.
Jonah reacts quickly, moving in
front of me just as Cole reaches
the sidewalk, hands clenching.
And who the fuck is this? He reeks
of whiskey, tobacco, and anger
sweat. “Cole! What are you doing
here?” His eyes focus on me, and
just for a second, seem to soften.
But when he looks at Jonah, fury
glazes them over. What are you
doing here? He mimics, slurring.
Didn’t expect me, did you? Didn’t
think I’d be watching you, huh, bitch?
Watching me? A cold wave of fear
washes over me. Jonah feels it, too.
His body tenses. But somehow
he keeps his voice steady. Wait
a minute. Don’t talk to her like that.
Cole takes a step toward him.
He’s wearing a tight khaki T-shirt,
and I can see his biceps twitching.
Or what? You gonna kick my ass,
queer? He gives Jonah a hard push
with two hands, knocking him
backward, into me. “Cole, please.
Stop it. You need to quit now.”
Unlike Jonah’s voice, mine is
quivery. Cole moves back as if
he might listen, but now Jonah
says, I think you should go. Come
back tomorrow, when you’re sober.
It’s enough to set Cole off again.
I’m not taking orders from you,
motherfucker! He’s screaming
now. You either, you goddamn whore.
I knew you were fucking around!
NEXT DOOR
The neighbor flips on her porch
light and now everything is in motion.
Cole comes at Jonah, who does
his best to defend himself. But he
is no match for a Marine trained
in hand-to-hand combat. Jonah goes
down on one knee. Cole circles to do
more damage. I move between them.
“Please, Cole. You don’t understand.
Nothing’s . . .” My jaw explodes.
Pain shoots through me and now
I am falling. Someone catches me,
keeps my head from snapping back.
Jonah lays me down, covers me
with his body, expecting more blows.
But Cole freezes. I look up at him,
through a haze of red. Blood. From
me or Jonah, or both of us. I’m not
sure. I try to say something, but
my mouth won’t work. And, oh God,
it hurts. Don’t move, says Jonah,
and don’t try to talk. He reaches
for his cell phone, dials for help.
Still, Cole doesn’t move. Just stares
at me, shaking his head, as if he can’t
believe what he just did. That
makes two of us. “Go,” I manage
to tell him. “Get out of here.” I don’t
know if he understands. But he runs.
BY THE TIME
The paramedics arrive, I am
sitting up, propped against
the wall. Jonah keeps asking
if I’m okay. I must not look it,
or he’d probably quit askin
g.
I reach up, touch my cheek,
which feels like someone shoved
a volleyball inside it. My jaw,
I’m sure, is broken. Along with
my heart. Once Jonah and I both
swear it was not Jonah who did
this, the EMTs want to know what
happened. “My ex,” I say, then
point to my jaw. “Hurts.” I don’t
want to talk to them or anyone.
Don’t want to say who’s responsible.
Classic battered wife syndrome.
The EMT whose name badge reads
Alvarez is unsympathetic. I see this
shit all the time. You’d better file
a police report. Get a restraining
order. Especially—he gives Jonah
a straight-out once-over—if your, uh,
friend here is going to be around.
Meanwhile, your jaw is busted up
pretty good. We can take you into
the ER, or he can drive you. Cheaper
that way. He gets to his feet and starts
packing up his stuff. Jonah says
he’ll take me. He and Alvarez help me
to the BMW, and by the time we get
there, Jonah’s wheezing. A quick
exam, and Alvarez tells us Cole also
cracked one of Jonah’s ribs. Jonah
actually smiles. Always wanted to
take one for the team. It hurt.
We drive to Emergency in stunned
silence. Jonah reaches over, grabs
my hand, and holds it the whole way.
I can’t believe what just happened.
I’ve been with Cole for over five years,
and though I’ve seen him angry—frozen
over, even—I never thought of him
as violent before. Okay, as a soldier, yes.
And he did shake me that one time.
But this? No. He’d never. Except,
he did. How could anyone do this
to someone they loved? Does he love
me? Can I possibly still love him?
And even if I can, do I want to? One
thing’s for certain. There won’t be
a wedding. All that money, down
the drain. And I’ll need to start making
calls. Except, I can’t talk. Can’t think
very well, either, though I’m mostly
sober. Guess it can wait till tomorrow.
Fast Forward
SCHOOL STARTS
In a couple of days. I’m looking
forward to it, with the kind of
rapt anticipation I haven’t had
since I first went off to college.
Time to focus on what Ashley wants.
My jaw has healed, at least it’s hard
to tell now it was broken in three
places, required surgery and wiring
my mouth shut for eight weeks.
That was a lot of soup. And Jonah
brought regular milkshakes.
I didn’t want to press charges,
but Darian convinced me I should.
Cole needs help, and he won’t get it
unless you do. Anyway, Jonah will.
If I’d asked him not to, he wouldn’t
have. But I decided Dar was right.
The wheels of justice turn slowly,
though, especially when the military
is involved in a civilian action. It took
months to set up a court date. Enough
time for Cole to complete his special
ops training. Next thing we knew, he’d
been sent overseas. Probably to
Afghanistan. That part is a secret.
He called me once during that time.
Told me how sorry he was. I didn’t
mean to hurt you. Never wanted
that. I just went a little off. Can you
find it in your heart to forgive me?
By then, I’d thought it through.
Dissected it. Tried to stitch it back
together. But no matter how hard
I tried, I could not reconcile Cole
and me and the future. He’d broken
my jaw, but he had shattered
my heart. Smashed all the love
I’d felt for him into a small heap
of dust. Residue. That’s all I had left
for him. The man I’d first met, the Cole
I fell in such overwhelming love with,
had been so profoundly changed
that he no longer existed. The soldier
who remained was largely a stranger.
Because I watched the transformation,
understood why it had happened,
I could tell him, “I forgive you, Cole.
But we need to end it here. Please ask
for help.” After five and a half years,
there would be no more Ash time.
I DIDN’T LOSE
Much money on the wedding. Dar
helped there. Every vendor heard
a very sad story. All deposits were
returned, even the winery’s. They
were able to rebook that night.
I spent it walking the beach, beneath
a thin stream of moonlight. Jonah
asked if I wanted company, but I
needed to be alone. I’m still nursing
a wound that has nothing to do
with my jaw. It’s scabbed over, but
every now and then something rubs
against it, makes it bleed. When
the news broke about the soldier
who flipped out one night, took
his rifle and killed more than a dozen
women and kids, I thought it must
be Cole. But then they said he was
Army. My first reaction was relief.
It wasn’t him. I couldn’t have been
that wrong. Then came the certainty
that one day it could be Cole I hear
about on the news. I’ve witnessed
him a little crazy. He could go rogue.
He is not the type to ask for help.
I asked for help. I’m in therapy.
Working my way out of my own dark
places. Depression. Stress anxiety.
Chronic OCD. I’ve quit pharmaceuticals.
Still drink wine, the occasional dark beer.
But not to sleep. Not to avoid dreams.
The nightmares don’t come so often
anymore. A couple of times, I have jerked
awake in bed, sure that Cole was lying
there beside me. Once, I thought
he was walking through the door.
But as the fear fades, mostly I dream
of the ocean. Surfing. Jonah. I’m treading
lightly there. I want to give him more.
But whenever I get close, I see golden eyes.
Jonah says he understands, that
he’s waited a long time for the right
woman. What’s a little more? For now,
he’s content to help me heal. Anyway,
he’s still my professor, emphasis on
the “my.” I watch him pull our boards
from the back of the Woodie. Small
breaks only for a while, until I rediscover
my courage. But one day I’ll ride Banzai.
And Jonah will be there to have my back.
WAKE ME LIKE SUNRISE
by Ashley Patterson
An orbit of need, aroused
by flight of morning,
feathered in tentative light.
Tempt me from this drowsy
abyss, persuade me from these tepid
dreams with the scorch
of your kiss.
But lips do not belong
to lips alone.
Bid yours to forge
&nb
sp; fresh trails upon my earth, rich
with taste of summer skin
and muted scent of longing.
Leave no ground undisturbed,
no pebble disregarded.
No hiding place.
Drench me with your mouth,
fix your eyes on mine.
Allow me audience as you open
me wide, an empty book,
awaiting words penned by your tongue
without censor, without pause.
Fill these famished pages,
complete this passage,
write me to zenith.
Drown me with poetry
as dawning slips away.
Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Triangles, as well as nine young adult novels, including the Crank trilogy and Tilt, which are beloved by teens and adults alike. She lives in Carson City, Nevada, with her family. Visit her online at EllenHopkins.com.
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JACKET PHOTOGRAPH BY IRENE LAMPRAKOU/TREVILLION
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY SONYA SONES
COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER
Also by Ellen Hopkins
Triangles
Young Adult Novels
Crank
Burned
Impulse
Glass
Identical
Tricks
Fallout
Perfect
Tilt
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Ellen Hopkins
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First Atria Books hardcover edition November 2012
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