Triangles by Ellen Hopkins Scientists say every action initiates an equal and opposite reaction. I say that’s just the start. I say every action initiates a most unequal and unpredictable chain reaction, that every filament of living becomes part of a larger weave, while remaining identifiable. That each line of latitude requires several stripes of longitude to obtain meaning. That every universe is part of a bigger heaven, a heaven of rhythm and geometry, where a heartbeat is the apex of a triangle.

From Triangles by Ellen Hopkins. Copyright 2011 by Ellen Hopkins. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc., NY. Click here to read more about the book!

3

As AlwAys

I wake to anorexic rays of morning, prodding gently through cracks in the blinds.

The breathing beside me is even. Familiar. Safe. Once upon a time, I might have slid

a leg up over Jace, reveled in the way he stirred, hot and hard before the rest of him

surfaced from dreams. But not today. Not in many, many days. I ease out from under

the sheets, slip into shorts and a sports bra, grab my running shoes, gentle my way

out the bedroom door and into the silence of my house, asleep. Even after school starts

up again, I won’t see the kids until after six a.m. But early June, the mad dash to cereal rarely begins

until nine. Which gives me almost four hours to myself. I take three bites of a PowerBar,

wash it down with Smartwater. Outside, the sun has yet to crawl over the eastern hills,

yet warm waves temper the night-cooled air. It’s going to be a hot one today. A quick stretch

and I start my daily run downhill. Can’t do it any other way, since we live on top of a sage-

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crusted knoll. A series of hills rims the lake-lush valley where Jace and I bought our home, fifteen

years ago. Down. Along. Up. Along. I run, flushing rabbits. Quail. Squirrels. Hopefully, no coyotes,

hunting for the rest. I see them every now and then, eager-eyed and scruffy-coated. Sometimes they trot

straight up the roadways, unconcerned about human intrusion. In fact, they relish it, and

the opportunities it brings. Trash on Fridays. Cats on their own evening prowls. Small dogs,

let out to wander. But they don’t bother me and almost seem to enjoy my company. No

coyote escort today, however. I fall into my well- practiced rhythm, draw deeply of the dawning

morning. Here, in the zone where every breath takes on such meaning, I find the best part of my day.

Today, I discern some subtle shift. Perhaps it is the earth’s lean toward summer, but there is motion.

Unexpected. Disorienting, as if I’m running somewhere new. But am I running from? Or to?

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22

Andrea

Best Friend Meltdown

Is a hard thing to watch. Especially when you’ve been there, done that, and you’re certain

fulfillment is not on the far end. Holly and I have known each other for over a decade,

since our girls did toddler playgroup together. I’ve always secretly envied what she has—

a McMansion on the hill overlooking the wide lake-fed valley that divides the south reaches of

Reno from the northern grasp of Carson City. Three great kids. An adoring husband who, while

not exactly movie star material, is precisely the kind of man I dream of. But Holly glimpsed

her fortieth birthday, fast approaching. Panicked. Dropped sixty pounds, thinks she needs to lose

more, though size four is starting to look baggy on her. She runs miles every day, lifts like a man,

all, she says, so she can enjoy her nightly libations and keep turning heads. Like now. They swivel

in our direction as we come through the big glass door. Reno is an enigmatic city, and its bars are

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representative. Tucked away with the weekly motels are cheap booze dives. Near the university,

campus hot spots and sports bars draw young crowds. Downtown, casino neon and noise deny

easy conversation. But here, on the Riverwalk near the business district, this bar is polished brass,

oiled oak, and low-lit crystal. Not the type I used to frequent before I quit looking for Mr. Amazing

in every wrong kind of place. This is the right kind of place. Unfortunately, all these spit-shined

Versace guys are checking out my married friend. I’m getting used to it. Sort of. I guess. Good thing

I’ve given up on men. Focused on my career and daughter, who is thirteen and starting to ask

those difficult questions a mom should be available to answer. Tonight, however, Harley’s on a rare

visit to her who-wants-to-be-a-dad-anyway father. Which is why I’m here, watching

my best friend flirt like she’s the single mom. And I’m mostly along for the ride.

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it’s nOt tHe First tiMe

He hasn’t come home, and he always has an excuse. Big project. Too tired

to drive the fifteen minutes from work on the south end of the city to home, in

the northwest. Still, I did promise Shelby her daddy would take her outside to swing.

I pick up the phone. Dial Christian’s cell. Four rings, to voicemail. “Where are you?

Your daughter is hoping you can spare a few minutes for her today. Call, okay?”

The teakettle whistles and as I pour the steaming water into a cup, I happen

to glance at the calendar. This particular June Saturday is marked Claire’s Shower.

Claire and I were flight attendants together, and though we don’t see very much of each other

anymore, we did our share of high—and low— altitude partying. She’s having a baby at thirty-nine.

Lucky her. Everything looks fine, according to her ob-gyn. Then again, in utero, Shelby

looked just perfect too. We didn’t know there was a problem until she was around

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seven months old and couldn’t turn over, let alone sit up. I hope things turn out better

for Claire’s baby girl. The phone rings. Christian. Uh . . . hey. Sorry. We’re trying

to fulfill this big contract . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah. What counts is, I can’t make it home

until tonight. Tell Shelby I’ll play with her tomorrow, okay? He’s about to hang up

when I locate enough guts to say, “You promised you’d take care of her while I went to Claire’s

baby shower. That’s at two p.m. God, Christian. Why can’t I ever fucking count on you?”

Ask your sister to watch her. See you later. No apology. He’s just gone. A white-hot cinder

flickers in my head. “Bastard!” The word slithers from my mouth, much to the amusement

of my son, who has come into the kitchen in search of breakfast. He laughs. What have

I been telling you these last few years? Dad is a bastard. Question is, why does he stay?

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