Read an Excerpt
From Burned
Did You Ever
When you were little, endure
your parents' warnings, then wait
for them to leave the room,
pry loose protective covers
and consider inserting some metal
object into an electrical outlet?
Did you wonder if for once
you might light up the room?
When you were big enough
to cross the street on your own,
did you ever wait for a signal,
hear the frenzied approach
of a fire truck and feel like
stepping out in front of it?
Did you wonder just how far
that rocket ride might take you?
When you were almost grown,
did you ever sit in a bubble bath,
perspiration pooling,
notice a blow-dryer plugged
in within easy reach, and think
about dropping it into the water?
Did you wonder if the expected
rush might somehow fail you?
And now, do you ever dangle
your toes over the precipice,
dare the cliff to crumble,
defy the frozen deity to suffer
the sun, thaw feather and bone,
take wing to fly you home?
I, Pattyn Scarlet Von Stratten, do.
I'm Not Exactly Sure
When I began to feel that way.
Maybe a little piece of me
always has. It's hard to remember.
But I do know things really
began to spin out of control
after my first sex dream.
As sex dreams go, there wasn't
much sex, just a collage
of very hot kisses, and Justin Proud's
hands, exploring every inch
of my body, at my fervent
invitation. As a stalwart Mormon
high school junior, drilled
ceaselessly about the dire
catastrophe awaiting those
who harbored impure thoughts,
I had never kissed a boy,
had never even considered
that I might enjoy such
an unclean thing, until
literature opened my eyes.
See, the Library
was my sanctuary.
Through middle
school, librarians
were like guardian
angels. Spinsterish
guardian angels,
with graying hair
and beady eyes,
magnified through
reading glasses,
and always ready
to recommend new
literary windows
to gaze through.
A. A. Milne. Beatrix
Potter. Lewis
Carroll. Kenneth
Grahame. E. B.
White. Beverly
Cleary. Eve Bunting.
Then I started high
school, where the
not-so-bookish
librarian was half
angel, half she-devil,
so sayeth the rumor
mill. I hardly cared.
Ms. Rose was all
I could hope I might
one day be: aspen
physique, new penny
hair, aurora green
eyes, and hands that
could speak. She
walked on air. Ms
Rose shuttered old
windows, opened
portals undreamed of.
And just beyond,
what fantastic worlds!
I Met Her My Freshman Year
All wide-eyed and dim about starting high school,
a big new school, with polished hallways
and hulking lockers and doors that led
who-knew-where?
A scary new school, filled with towering
teachers and snickering students,
impossible schedules, tough expectations,
and endless possibilities.
The library, with its paper perfume,
whispered queries, and copy
machine shuffles, was the only familiar
place on the entire campus.
And there was Ms. Rose.
How can I help you?
Fresh off a fling with C. S.
Lewis and Madeleine L'Engle,
hungry for travel far from home,
I whispered, "Fantasy, please."
She smiled. Follow me.
I know just where to take you.
I shadowed her to Tolkien's
Middle-earth and Rowling's
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
places no upstanding Mormon should go.
When you finish those,
I'd be happy to show you more.
Fantasy Segued into Darker Dimensions
And authors who used three whole names:
Vivian Vande Velde, Annette Curtis Klause.
Mary Downing Hahn.
By my sophomore year, I was deep
into adult horror -- King, Koontz, Rice.
You must try classic horror,
insisted Ms. Rose.
Poe, Wells, Stoker. Stevenson. Shelley.
There's more to life than monsters.
You'll love these authors:
Burroughs. Dickens. Kipling. London.
Bradbury. Chaucer. Henry David Thoreau.
And these:
Jane Austen. Arthur Miller. Charlotte Brontë.
F. Scott Fitzgerald. J. D. Salinger.
By my junior year, I devoured increasingly
adult fare. Most, I hid under my dresser:
D. H. Lawrence. Truman Capote.
Ken Kesey. Jean Auel.
Mary Higgins Clark. Danielle Steel.
I Began
To view the world at large
through borrowed eyes,
eyes more like those
I wanted to own.
Hopeful.
I began
to see that it was more than
okay -- it was, in some circles,
expected -- to question my
little piece of the planet.
Empowered.
I began
to understand that I could
stretch if I wanted to, explore
if I dared, escape
if I just put one foot
in front of the other.
Enlightened.
I began
to realize that escape
might offer the only real
hope of freedom from my
supposed God-given roles --
wife and mother of as many
babies as my body could bear.
Emboldened.
I Also Began to Journal
Okay, one of the things expected of Latter-
Day Saints is keeping a journal.
But I'd always considered it just another
"supposed to," one not to worry much about.
Besides, what would I write in a book
everyone was allowed to read?
Some splendid nonfiction chronicle
about sharing a three-bedroom house
with six younger sisters, most of whom
I'd been required to diaper?
Some suspend-your-disbelief fiction
about how picture-perfect life was at home,
forget the whole dysfunctional truth
about Dad's alcohol-fueled tirades?
Some brilliant manifesto about how God
whispered sweet insights into my ear,
higher truths that I would hold on to forever,
once I'd shared them through testimony?
Or maybe they wanted trashy confessions --
Daydreams Designed by Satan.
Whatever. I'd never written but a few
words in my mandated diary.
Maybe it was the rebel in me.
Or maybe it was just the lazy in me.
But faithfully penning a journal
was the furthest thing from my mind.
Ms. Rose Had Other Ideas
One day I brought a stack of books,
most of them banned in decent LDS
households, to the checkout counter.
Ms. Rose looked up and smiled.
You are quite the reader, Pattyn.
You'll be a writer one day, I'll venture.
I shook my head. "Not me.
Who'd want to read anything
I have to say?"
She smiled. How about you?
Why don't you start
with a journal?
So I gave her the whole
lowdown about why journaling
was not my thing.
A very good reason to keep
a journal just for you. One
you don't have to write in.
A day or two later, she gave
me one -- plump, thin-lined,
with a plain denim cover.
Decorate it with your words,
she said. And don't be afraid
of what goes inside.
I Wasn't Sure What She Meant
Until I opened the stiff-paged volume
and started to write.
At first, rather ordinary fare
garnished the lines.
Feb. 6. Good day at school. Got an A
on my history paper.
Feb. 9. Roberta has strep throat. Great!
Now we'll all get it.
But as the year progressed, I began
to feel I was living in a stranger's body.
Mar. 15. Justin Proud smiled at me today.
I can't believe it! And I can't believe
how it made me feel. Kind of tingly all over,
like I had an itch I didn't want to scratch.
An itch you-know-where.
Mar. 17. I dreamed about Justin last night.
Dreamed he kissed me, and I kissed him back,
and I let him touch me all over my body
and I woke up all hot and blushing.
Blushing! Like I'd done something wrong.
Can a dream be wrong?
Aren't dreams God's way
of telling you things?
Justin Proud
Was one of the designated
"hot bods" on campus.
No surprise all the girls
hotly pursued that bod.
The only surprise was my
subconscious interest.
I mean, he was anything
but a good Mormon boy.
And I, allegedly being
a good Mormon girl,
was supposed to keep
my feminine thoughts pure.
Easy enough, while struggling
with stacks of books,
piles of paper, and mounds
of adolescent angst.
Easy enough, while chasing
after a herd of siblings,
each the product of lustful,
if legally married, behavior.
Easy enough, while watching
other girls pant after him.
But just how do you maintain
pure thoughts when you dream?
Copyright ©2006 by Ellen Hopkins
