Collateral by Ellen Hopkins Page B

jaw tightens
    and her violet-blue eyes flash anger.
    Want to know what hurt is? It’s . . .
    Her words puncture the space
    between us, fangs, but I want to hear
    the rest. “What is it? Tell me, Dar.”
    She considers. Shakes her head.
    Maybe someday. But not tonight.
    Tonight is supposed to be fun.
    Wait. I know . . . She gets up, rushes
    down the hall to her bedroom.
    When she returns, she’s wearing
    red flannel pajamas. She offers a blue
    pair to me. Get comfy. Then we can
    play What If? Our old sleepover
    game. She goes to switch out CDs
    while I heard toward the bathroom
    to change, a little reluctant about
    her plan. What If? was a blast when
    we were in middle school. I’m not
    sure it’s such a great idea tonight.

THE RULES ARE SIMPLE
    One of us asks a “What if”
    question. The other promises
    to answer truthfully. When
    we were kids, the questions
    were simple enough. Dar:
    What if the hottest guy in school
    tried to kiss you? She knew
    I was petrified my first kiss
    would totally suck, and guessed
    my answer: “I’d run the other way.”
    Or, from me: “What if your
    parents got divorced? Darian’s
    answer, in eighth grade: I’d
    help Mom find a nice man.
    In high school, the game got
    more complex. Freshman year,
    Dar: What if Matt tried to put
    the make on you? Matt was her
    new boyfriend. I’d crushed on
    him for over a year, and she knew it.
    As I considered my answer,
    it occurred to me that if things
    were reversed, I wouldn’t be going
    out with my best friend’s crush.
    In that moment, what I really
    wanted to say was, “I’d tell him
    let’s do it right here. And then,
    let’s do it where Darian can’t help
    but see us.” Okay, the closest
    I’d come to doing “it” was actually
    enjoying my first kiss. So when
    I said, “I’d deep throat him and
    walk away,” I meant I’d tease
    my tongue down his throat, zero
    follow-through, because Dar
    was my BFF, and I’d never mess
    with that. I swear, I had no idea
    â€œdeep throat” could mean oral sex,
    but it did to Darian. Game over.
    It took several days to convince
    her of my naïveté, and only after
    she forgave me did I pause long
    enough to think that my best friend
    really should have known me better.

ALL COMFY IN BLUE FLANNEL
    I hope for the best, return to
    the front room, where Darian
    and the Dixie Chicks are singing
    â€œCowboy Take Me Away.”
    â€œBeen a while since I’ve listened
    to Fly. ” It was our favorite album
    in seventh grade. We even thought
    we might be the next Dixie Chicks—
    Darian taking lead with her fine,
    clear voice and me on guitar, doing
    harmonies. We drove our parents
    nuts, practicing over and over.
    It’s the perfect lead-in for our
    game. What if, Darian asks, we
    would have put together a band
    and gone on the rodeo circuit?
    We figured that was the easiest
    place to break in. Plus, Dar’s dad
    could give us rides to events. I mull
    over my answer. “If we’d actually made
    it on the circuit, you and your father
    would either totally hate each other
    by now or we’d be so rich and famous,
    he’d insist on being our manager.”
    She laughs. Pretty sure it would
    be the former. Or maybe both.
    Who knows? Okay. Your turn.
    She waits while I think of a question.
    I sip tequila, relish the crawl
    of heat. “What if you hadn’t broken
    up with Carson Piscopo?” They were
    everyone’s idea of the perfect
    couple for almost two years. Dar
    smiles. I’d be living in a trailer,
    chasing a pack of kids around
    while Carson sucked down beer.
    â€œHe did like his Budweiser, didn’t
    he?” Not so unusual, of course.
    The majority of the football team
    overindulged, as do most Marines
    I know. Then again, any soldier
    worth his MREs deserves to relax
    when he can, with whatever. High
    school jocks? Not so much.