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 (c)2006 by Ellen Hopkins Excerpted from Burned by Ellen Hopkins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
