Ellen Hopkins - Burned

Burned Ellen Hopkins 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 alraost 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. --Then I started high Through middle -- school, where the school, librarians -- not-so-bookish were like guardian -- librarian was half angels. Spinsterish --angel, half she-devil, guardian angels, -- so sayeth the rumor with graying hair -- mill. I hardly cared. and beady eyes, -- Ms.

Rose was all magnified through --I could hope I might reading glasses, -- one day be: aspen and always ready -- physique, new penny to recommend new --hair, aurora green literary Windows -- eyes, and hands that to gaze through. -- could speak. She A. A. Milne. Ms. Potter. Potter.

Lewis -- Rose shuttered old Carroll. Kenneth -- Windows, opened Grahame. E.B. -- portals undreamed of. White. Beverly -- And just beyond, Cleary.

Eve Bunting. --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 familir place on the entire campus. And there was Ms. Rose. How can I help you? Fresh off a fling with CS.

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 youfinish those, Yd 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.

Theres raore to life than monsters. You'll love these authors: Burroughs. Dickens. Kipling. London. Chaucer. Chaucer.

Henry David Thoreau. And these: Jane Austen. Arthur Miller. Charlotte Bronte. F. J. D. Salinger. Salinger.

By my junior year, I devoured increasingly adult fare. Most, I hid under my dresser: D. H. Lawrence. Truman Capote. Jean Auel. 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. M s.

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 II be a writer one day, I'll venTure. "Not me. "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 l owdown 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 piain 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. Roberto has strep throat. Greatl Now we'll all get it. Mar. 15. 15.

Justin Proud smiled at me today. I can't believe it! And I can't believe how it made mefeel. Kind of tingly all over, like I had an itch I didn't want to scratch. An itch you-know-where. Mar. 17.

I dreanicd 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. Blushingl 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 legalfy married, behavior. Easy enough, while watching other girls pant after him. But just how do you maintain pure thoughts when you dream? Suppose That's the Kind of Thing Some girls could ask their moms.

But Mom and I didn't talk a whole lot about what makes the world go round. Conversation tended to run toward who'd wash the dishes, who'd dust and vacuum, who'd change the diapers. In a house with seven kids, the oldest always seemed to draw diaper duty. Mom worked real hard to avoid Luvs. In fact, that's the hardest she ever worked at anything. Am I saying my mom was lazy? I guess I am.