The You I've Never Known I Can't Remember Every place Dad and I have called home. When I was real little, the two of us sometimes lived in our car. Those memories are in motion. Always moving. I don't think I minded it so much then, though mixed in with happy recollections are snippets of intense fear. I didn't dare ask why one stretch of sky wasn't good enough to settle under. My dad likes to say he came into this world infected with wanderlust. He claims I'm lucky, that at one day till I turn seventeen I've seen way more places than most folks see in an entire lifetime. I'm sure he's right on the most basic level, and while I can't dig up snapshots of North Dakota, West Virginia, or Nebraska, how could I ever forget watching Old Faithful spouting way up into the bold amethyst Yellowstone sky, or the granddaddy alligator ambling along beside our car on a stretch of Everglade roadway? I've inhaled heavenly sweet plumeria perfume, dodging pedicab traffic in the craziness of Waikiki. I've picnicked in the shadows of redwoods older than the rumored son of God; nudged up against the edge of the Grand Canyon as a pair of eagles played tag in the warm air currents; seen Atlantic whales spy-hop; bodysurfed in the Pacific; and picked spring- inspired Death Valley wildflowers. I've listened to Niagara Falls percussion, the haunting song of courting loons. So I guess my dad is right. I'm luckier than a whole lot of people. Excerpted from The You I've Never Known 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.
