Burned Page 5

  not to tense, not to betray

  you. Sight again. Adjust.

  Don’t become distracted by

  the heat of the hunt.

  Instinct takes over.

  You shoot and adrenaline

  screams as your target shreds

  or the rabbit drops. And for

  one indescribable instant,

  you are God.

  By the Time

  I started high school,

  I was a dead-on shot.

  I spent a lot of Saturdays

  maintaining that distinction.

  You might think

  a teenager’s parents

  would take notice

  when she disappeared

  into the desert

  for hours at a time

  (with a rifle and purloined

  ammo, no less!).

  But Mom only

  noticed diapers

  in need of changing.

  By then, I could bribe

  Jackie to do it.

  All it took was my

  own silence about her less

  than “saintly” behaviors.

  And as for Dad,

  well, he and Johnnie

  had started to buddy up

  almost all day, almost

  every Saturday.

  How he sobered up

  by Sunday morning

  was a complete mystery.

  On That Saturday

  He’d already started, which

  made me thankful for my solo

  time in the silent desert.

  I trudged along, brain only

  partially engaged, and about halfway

  to my favorite place,

  my mind veered from Dad

  back to chemistry lab. Jealousy

  rushed, hot, through my veins.

  But why? I mean, it wasn’t

  like Justin had ever really been

  mine. Dreams were only dreams.

  It wasn’t like my life had

  changed at all, and maybe

  that was part of the problem.

  Because something inside

  me was different. Shifting,

  like a tide or sand dune.

  That something was growing,

  stretching, taking shape

  beneath my skin.

  And I wondered if very

  soon it might blow

  me apart at the seams.

  I Thought About That

  As I set up a long, thin row of V8 cans

  (single serving, not the big, easy-to-hit kind).

  Loaded my peashooter, took aim, and…

  missed wide with the first shot, high with the second.

  Checked my sights; they didn’t look bent. Tried again.

  Skittered up dirt, nicked a can with the ricochet.

  Timing, I heard my dad’s voice in my head.

  Then he added, What could you expect from a girl?

  That did the trick. I settled down into my zone, took

  out that row of cans one by one, not a single miss.

  As I lined them up again, an annoying mechanical

  whine broke the morning’s tranquility.

  Louder. Louder. A three-pack of quadrunners

  sprinted closer and closer across the sage-studded sand.

  I didn’t dare take another shot until they passed

  by and rode off to disturb distant eardrums.

  Instead they slowed, drew even, and stopped.

  Three guesses who drove the first quad.

  One guess who rode behind him.

  Justin Took Off His Helmet

  Climbed off his quad.

  Tiffany did likewise.

  The others—Brent and Melina

  on quad #2, Derek solo on #3—

  remained astraddle.

  Hey, Pat, tittered Tiffany,

  Watcha doing all the way out here?

  I stood, .22 by my side,

  taking deviant satisfaction

  as her eyes went wide.

  Justin surveyed the rifle.

  Target shootin’, huh?

  My voice tried to stick behind

  my tonsils, but somehow I

  choked out a solid, “Uh-huh.”

  He slithered over.

  You any good with that thing?

  I nodded, heart hiccuping

  at his proximity. “Good

  enough, I guess.”

  He moved behind me, stood way

  too close. Okay, then. Show me.

  I couldn’t, not with my

  hands trembling like saplings

  in a summer zephyr.

  Justin noticed, whispered in my ear.

  I’m not making you nervous, am I?

  He Was Making Tiffany Nervous

  Or maybe I was.

  She shifted from

  foot to foot. C’mon, Justin.

  Wait. I want to see her shoot.

  Okay, I’d show him.

  I took two steps forward,

  sighted in, steadied…

  Damn! Six clean shots. Not bad….

  Here it came. The old

  “for a girl” addendum.

  But no, he said instead,

  Can I have a try?

  It was the most attention

  he’d ever paid to me.

  I could take more. “Why not?”

  Hey, Tiff. Set up the cans.

  She was irritated, and it

  showed, but she did

  as instructed. Justin took aim…

  Shitfire! One out of six.

  As the others climbed off

  their quads, I suggested ways

  to improve his performance.

  Three out of five. Right on!

  Now everyone wanted

  a turn. Everyone,

  that is, except for Tiffany.

  Come on, Tiff. Give it a try.

  You know I hate guns.

  They’re stupid. She stood

  off to one side, simmering.

  Fuck you, bitch. This is fun.

  We Had Fun

  For an hour, maybe

  more. For once, I

  lost

  track of time,

  found

  I didn’t care what

  time

  it was, not in this amazing

  space

  I was somehow in.

  After a while, I didn’t

  even

  feel like the

  odd

  girl

  out

  of this decidedly

  in

  clique. In fact, I felt more “in”

  than Tiffany, who stood

  off

  by herself, carrying

  on

  about firearm

  danger

  and her personal

  safety.

  I didn’t feel

  bad

  about being with boys,

  and thinking not quite

  good

  thoughts about them.

  My heart insisted it wasn’t

  wrong

  that they weren’t Mormon, either,

  though my head said it wasn’t exactly

  right.

  I Barely Flinched

  When Brent pulled out a pack

  of cigarettes, lit one for Melina,

  another for himself.

  “Hey,” squealed Tiffany,

  “what about me?”

  Justin handed me the rifle

  and fished inside his pocket

  for his own nicotine stash.

  He gave one to Tiffany,

  offered one to me.

  Cigarettes are high on

  the list of Latter-Day sins.

  The smoke, hanging like

  smog, made me queasy. So

  why was I tempted to join in?

  Watching them inhale

  poisonous fumes, I shook

  my head. But maybe I looked


  envious, because Derek pulled

  closer. Have you ever tried?

  Don’t be stupid! said

  Tiffany. Don’t you know?

  She’s a Mormon.

  The word seethed from

  her mouth like spittle.

  Derek measured me with

  cool blue eyes.

  Could have fooled me.

  I didn’t know Mormon

  girls were so pretty.

  Okay, it was a line, but

  it put me in a heady new space.

  No one had ever called

  me pretty before.

  Not even my mom and dad.

  Derek Wasn’t Exactly Justin

  Not pinup gorgeous

  or hot bod built,

  but he wasn’t bad:

  Tall,

  around

  6’2,

  slender,

  with

  black

  coffee

  hair

  and

  vivid

  blue

  eyes

  that

  could

  pierce

  you

  through.

  His hands were soft.

  I discovered that when

  he brushed my cheek.

  So what’s a nice Mormon

  girl like you doing in a place

  like this?

  We Laughed at the Old Joke

  And talked and talked

  about nothing much,

  while the others kept

  their lips busy in much

  more interesting ways.

  Lightweight conversation

  with a guy of Derek’s

  caliber, clique-wise,

  was way beyond my

  loveliest fantasy.

  What was I doing here?

  With them? With him?

  And why his sudden interest

  in me? I mean, we weren’t

  exactly strangers, but

  we’d never exactly

  been friends, either.

  Looking back, I guess

  it was kind of strange.

  At least for me, who’d

  never been that close

  to a boy before.

  But I liked him.

  I liked his optimism,

  his easy way with words.

  Most of all, I liked

  how he made me feel

  that I—Pattyn

  Von Stratten—

  mattered.

  After a While

  Brent pulled Melina to her feet,

  dragged her off for a private minute or ten.

  Justin winked at Tiffany. Sounds like

  the right idea to me.

  I had a general idea of what they had

  in mind. Envy jolted.

  You like him, huh?

  I gulped down the truth and said

  simply, “He’s not mine to like.”

  That doesn’t stop most people.

  “I’m not most people, Derek.”

  Even if I did, in fact, like him.

  So I’ve noticed.

  With a drift of tobacco and sun-scented

  skin, he moved very close to me.

  What I can’t figure out…

  My heart tap-danced as he slipped

  his arm around my shoulder.

  is why I never really

  noticed you before.

  With His Arm Around Me

  I asked what happened to Carmen,

  the girl he’d been linked

  with practically forever.

  He shrugged. Don’t know.

  Guess we grew apart.

  Then he asked, What about you?

  I knew what he meant, but not

  how to respond. So I said,

  “What about me…what?”

  He smiled and his hand

  toyed with my hair. Any good

  Mormon guys on your line?

  On my line? I had to laugh.

  “No way,” I admitted. “I don’t

  think I’ve got the right bait.”

  Derek turned my face so I

  couldn’t avoid his eyes.

  Don’t sell yourself short, Pattyn.

  Oh God! This was crazy.

  I thought he just might try

  to kiss me, when Tiffany yelled,

  Shit! It’s almost four. My

  mom is going to kill me.

  Let’s go, you guys!

  Almost Four!

  I’d never stayed

  out in the desert

  this long, and I

  had a good half-

  hour walk home.

  What would my own

  mom say? Anything?

  I didn’t want to think

  about Dad at all, although he and Johnnie were

  no doubt

  pretty

  cozy by

  then.

  Luckily

  (happily),

  Derek

  offered

  to save

  me some

  time: Can

  I give you

  a ride?

  No Spare Helmet

  Derek promised to go slow

  and told me to hang on tight.

  Rifle in my right hand,

  I wrapped my left around

  his waist, leaned my face

  against his back.

  If I turned my head,

  I could hear his heartbeat,

  a steady drum, unlike my

  own hummingbird pulse.

  It was all too incredible,

  like a scene from a movie

  or a page from a book, one

  you read again and again.

  My head swam with the scent

  of him, the promise of him,

  and I never once stopped

  to think that being with him

  could mean the end of Pattyn

  as I knew her up until that day.

  He Dropped Me Off

  Right where the dirt trail

  segued into pavement.

  I’ll see you Monday, okay?

  Was that a promise?

  A generic blow-off?

  I watched him motor

  off, then started for home.

  Slowly. Thinking. Trying

  to process the weight of my day.

  For once, I didn’t feel

  like an outcast, a major loser.

  Whether or not Derek

  ever spoke to me again,

  I had fit in with the in

  crowd, if only for a while.

  Not only that, but one of the in

  crowd had put his arm around me.

  Maybe almost kissed me.

  And I would have let him.

  So what did that make me?

  When I Got Home

  None of that mattered.

  Reality

  rushed in

  around me.

  Crushed

  me, like the watery

  weight of the deepest sea.

  Jackie ran out to warn

  me Dad had already

  drowned

  himself in Johnnie WB,

  Mom had asked where

  to find me, and the kids were

  yelling for me. I went inside,

  all remnants of the newfound me

  smothered.

  Later On

  I lay listening to the music

  of sleep. Inhale. Exhale.

  A symphony of breathing,

  hearty, steady, frail.

  I shimmied out of bed,

  tiptoed to the bathroom.

  Listening for movement,

  I sat a moment in the gloom.

  Then I turned on the light

  above the narrow mirror,

  needing to analyze

  the face that appeared.

  Funny, but I rarely

  studied my reflection,

  rarely allowed myself

  such te
dious inspection.

  But someone—a boy—

  had liked my face

  and I liked that he liked it.

  Had I tumbled from grace?

  What had he seen that

  I’d always missed before?

  Plain amber eyes. Straight auburn hair.

  Was there something more?

  Something indefinable,

  that somehow made me pretty,

  like how brilliant neon lights

  cheer the dirty streets of a city?

  All I saw in the mirror’s depths

  was a spatter of freckles, sharp angles,

  too much flesh here, not enough

  there, imperfect teeth, dry skin, and tangles.

  So what had he seen in me?

  I Pondered That

  All the next day—through breakfast

  and the pre-services scramble;

  through three hours of Mutual

  and droning testimony.

  My thoughts were far from pure.

  Through après-services chatter,

  squashing into the car for the short ride home.

  I couldn’t turn off my brain.

  What did yesterday mean?

  Anything?

  Or was it all just another dream,