Fallout

  a wall. Dark here. No lights.

  I could … But I can’t. Bryce.

  I love Bryce. “No. I don’t. Stop,

  please.” But he doesn’t even slow

  down. You little prick tease.

  His breath is rum and his hands

  are rough. And he is strong.

  Too strong for my drunken struggle.

  Just as I’m sure he’ll do exactly as

  he pleases, a male voice interrupts.

  Take your hands off her, you little

  shit, or I’ll kick your lily-white ass.

  It’s Trey. I never thought I’d

  actually be happy to see him.

  Micah acts like I’m burning him.

  He lets go so fast, I sway without

  his support. Uh. Okay. Sorry, man.

  We’re just a little d-drunk here, a-a-and

  I … guess we got our signals crossed.

  Not looking for trouble. He whips

  a U-turn, heads back toward

  the party. “I, uh … Thank you.”

  It’s all I can say to Trey before a half

  pitcher of mojitos comes boiling

  up my throat. Talk about burning!

  I turn my head and let it fly.

  Summer

  CONDEMNED

  One thing I’ve learned.

  Life isn’t fair. Even when

  you try to do the right thing,

  someone else’s wrong

  thing bites you in the ass.

  Dad drives drunk. Stoned.

  The judge throws the book

  at him. Still, it’s me going

  away. He’ll be out of jail

  long before I escape foster

  care. Maybe if I hadn’t

  been such a smart-ass to

  her, Kortni would have

  agreed to keep me in

  her care. Probably not.

  The State of California

  is concerned about your

  welfare, Ms. Shreeveport

  said when she delivered

  the good news. I wish it

  were possible to leave you

  here, but your safety is our

  prime concern. Drug use and

  driving under the influence

  cannot be tolerated. We’ve

  found you a new placement.

  Unfortunately, it’s in Fresno,

  so you’ll have to change

  schools. But at least you’ll

  have the vacation to settle in.

  New home. New foster

  parents. New school. Just

  when everything was going

  kind of okay right here. Dad

  and I were communicating.

  Kortni and I were in truce

  mode. I was getting good

  grades. Excelling, in fact.

  Will they even have AP

  classes in my new school?

  And what about Kyle? He

  and I were hanging strong.

  I don’t want to be without

  him. My life will be a well,

  drained to gravel and dust.

  TELLING HIM

  Was something like getting a cavity

  filled. Without Novocain. Evil pain,

  the words drilling through the roof

  of my mouth to deep inside my brain.

  It was raining that afternoon, the world cold

  and gray. I haven’t yet shaken the chill.

  Ms. Shreeveport gave me a three-day

  reprieve, time for an early Christmas

  celebration. So much to celebrate

  and all. I didn’t tell Kyle when I called

  him. Wanted to do that face-to-face.

  We were actually belly-to-belly on

  the seat of his truck when I started

  to cry. “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”

  I can’t hold you much tighter.

  And you’re not going anywhere.

  “Yes. I am. They’re taking me

  to Fresno. To a new foster home.”

  He looked down into my eyes.

  When? How long have you known?

  “Day after tomorrow. I just found

  out yesterday. It’s because of Dad.”

  He brushed the hair away from

  my face. Dried my cheeks with

  the back of his hand. Shook his

  head. I can’t let you go. Not now.

  You make life worth living.

  If you leave, I have nothing.

  I lifted my face. Kissed him.

  “I don’t have a choice. It’s all set

  up. I start school at Roosevelt

  after vacation.” He slumped down

  on me. Heavy. Weighted. Then

  he started to cry. This is fucked up.

  Which made me cry more too.

  We cried together for a long time.

  Finally I said, “Make love to me.

  I need to remember how it feels.”

  It felt rough. Like punishment.

  Punishment for his own pain.

  I REMEMBER HOW IT FELT

  All the way to Fresno.

  Ms. Shreeveport tries

  to make conversation.

  For about fifteen minutes.

  I surround myself with

  a silence-bricked wall.

  Finally she gets it.

  You’ve got a lot on your mind.

  Well, yeah. Like not

  knowing what’s coming

  next. Like wondering why

  my life can’t remain static.

  Like thinking about

  Kyle and me, on the seat

  of his truck, learning

  how much real love hurts.

  Like remembering what

  he said, when our tears

  had dried. On the surface.

  Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.

  I WASN’T IN LOVE

  With Bakersfield. (Only

  with a guy who lives there.)

  But I already hate Fresno.

  It may be the gateway

  to Yosemite’s stark glory,

  but unlike the Sierra

  sneaking up behind it,

  the city of Fresno is an

  ucking fugly collection of

  east-leaning buildings,

  blade-bare lawns, and

  half-digested asphalt.

  Cool enough now, almost

  Christmas, but hotter than

  Sahara sand in summer.

  Really can’t wait to live here.

  RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …

  Do that a dozen or so times,

  you end up in the broken-down

  neighborhood I now call home.

  The houses are fifties era. Built

  around the time kids still did

  duck-under-your-desk drills,

  as if that could protect them

  from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe

  that’s what happened to this

  neighborhood. Wonder if I should

  worry about radiation. Maybe

  wrap myself in aluminum foil.

  At last (so soon?) we pull up

  in front of a totally inconspicuous

  place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”

  Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”

  Who paints a house like this?

  Doesn’t matter how it looks

  outside. It’s what’s inside that

  counts. You’ll like the Clooneys.

  SO SAYS SHE

  What else would she say,

  anyway? She opens

  the trunk, and I

  grab my

  bag. Not much in it, but

  only one thing matters—

  my cell phone. My

  lifeline

  to the real world.

  The one I’m about to

  walk into is

  prete
nd.

  The uneven sidewalk

  tries to trip me. The step

  sags beneath my weight.

  I don’t

  want to see what’s

  beyond the door, but

  it opens at the bell. I

  need it to

  be nice inside.

  I need something

  solid to

  hold on to.

  CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE

  But it isn’t horrible. My nose

  says so. It smells of cinnamon

  apple room freshener—fake

  but not bad. You couldn’t call

  the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.

  Everything shrieks “seventies.”

  Red/purple shag carpet. Thick

  velour drapes. Linoleum in

  the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen

  and bathrooms). Dated. Used.

  I notice all this without stepping

  foot through the door. Too many

  people in the way right now.

  Ms. Shreeveport has to work

  her way past a short, too-perky

  blonde and a bear-sized, bear-

  colored man. Brown hair.

  Brown skin. Brooding brown

  eyes. George Clooney,

  he ain’t. Wonder who he is.

  FINALLY, I’M IN

  Introductions are passed round.

  Blonde, with a loopy smile.

  Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.

  Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport

  says, And this is Mr. Clooney.

  Bear finally opens his curtain

  of silence, corrects, Call me Walter.

  I stand in wordless defiance.

  Bear asks Shreeveport, She’s

  not, like, a mute, right?

  I am so loving him already.

  Shreeveport says, Of course

  not. Say something, Summer.

  I use sign language: “Hi.”

  Blonde (Tanya) takes the high road,

  giggles. Ha. Hi to you, too.

  Shreeveport does not find it

  funny. Please don’t be difficult.

  Bear (Walter) asserts control.

  No such thing as difficult here.

  I push back with a silent “Bet me.”

  Tanya ignores my defiant look.

  Come meet the other girls.

  I shrug, start to follow her.

  Shreeveport doesn’t quite drop

  it. Cooperation is important.

  I grab my bag, turn shadow.

  Walter goes all syrupy.

  There’s a good little girl.

  I try not to notice the way my skin crawls.

  I NOTICE THE WALLS

  Are eerily bare. No photos. No

  paintings. No cheap ceramics.

  Apparently Tanya isn’t much into

  the Martha Stewart school of

  homey decor. Fine by me.

  Even the Christmas tree, leaning

  into one corner of the living

  room, is noticeably bare.

  I can’t not ask, “What, did

  someone steal the ornaments?”

  Tanya giggles (and I’m starting

  the hate the grate of her laugh).

  Oh, no. I’ve just been so busy

  we haven’t put them up yet.

  Maybe we’ll do that tonight.

  Sorry I brought it up. The last

  thing I want to do is hang gaudy

  crap on a fake evergreen and

  pretend like I’m part of a fake

  family. Fake. Fake. Fake.

  I pad along the fuchsia shag,

  thinking about the tatters

  of my real family. Dad in jail.

  Kortni, happy not to have me

  there. Mom. Mom. Where is she?

  A RIPTIDE OF SADNESS

  Pulls at me, but I will not cry.

  Must not show weakness as

  I meet my new fake sisters.

  This is your room, Tanya says.

  It is not much bigger than a closet.

  Take that bed over there.

  She points to a small twin under

  the window. The matching bed against

  the wall is currently unoccupied.

  Tanya gestures toward it. You’ll

  bunk with Simone. Not sure …

  Simone? she calls. Come meet Summer.

  A door (bathroom?) opens

  somewhere and a wraith—

  pale as death—appears suddenly,

  followed by two darker-skinned

  girls, probably sisters. Real sisters,

  part of my new fake family.

  Good, you’re all here, says Tanya.

  Summer, this is Simone, Eliana,

  and Rosa. Get acquainted.

  SHE GOES TO SAY GOOD-BYE

  To Shreeveport. I maintain silence,

  cross the room in three steps, claim my bed.

  I guess I should unpack my clothes.

  Having been on both sides of the “get

  to know your new foster sister” dynamic,

  I choose the respectful route and turn

  to Simone. “Are there empty drawers?”

  All three girls drill me with their eyes,

  and the air, hanging thick with unasked

  questions, prods my temper. “What?”

  Nothing, says Ghost-girl. Simone.

  Lainie had the right side of the dresser.

  Her voice is wimpy, and I’m not surprised.

  She sounds like she looks—washed out.

  I suspect the answer, but ask anyway, if only

  to break the insufferable silence. “Who’s Lainie?”

  Young Rosa (maybe ten?) rushes

  to respond, She used to live here,

  but she ran away. Walter says

  good riddance, but Tanya …

  Shh. You talk too much, scolds Eliana,

  who is thirteen or fourteen and definitely

  carries an air of older sibling. Lainie

  had … issues. She spits the last word.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t we all?”

  That shatters the iceberg, or at least

  chips it heavily, as everyone contributes

  to a chorus of giggles. We’re not exactly

  friends, and trust will never happen

  here, but at least we don’t hate one

  another. And while the mood is halfway

  relaxed, I might as well ask, “So what’s

  with Walter?” Tanya is easy to read.

  The communal amusement vanishes.

  And though no one says a word,

  I have all the answer I need.

  WE CHANGE SUBJECTS

  And within twenty minutes, I know

  most everything there is to know about

  Eliana and Rosa Garcia Famosa.

  Their father came from Cuba to

  the United States via Mexico, where

  he met some very bad people who

  he later went into business with.

  In Texas, he fell in love (my take:

  lust) with their mother, Irena, and

  together they came to California,

  where the girls were born. Irena

  Famosa expected her husband to work

  in the lush fields of the San Joaquin,

  but Ignacio Garcia chose easy

  riches, moving methamphetamine

  for a Mexican cartel. One day

  he went away and never came back.

  Irena grieved for a time, but met

  a new man. A very jealous man

  who suspected her of things she

  never did. He killed her anyway.

  END OF STORY

  Except for the fact

  that this happens to be

  the girls’ fourth foster home

  in six years, and Rosa can’t

  remember her mother’s

  face. Sad, I supp
ose.

  But “sad” is a main

  ingredient in every foster

  kid recipe. We must choose

  to accept it, or go off the deep

  end ourselves. I could

  easily dive in

  over my head right

  now. The others wait for

  my story, but this will not be

  a straight exchange. “I’ve been

  with my dad, but he just

  went to jail for DUI.”

  Familiar excuse. Nods

  all around. And Mom? Why

  is it always easier to talk about

  Dad than her? “And my mother

  has pretty much written me

  off.” The truth bites.

  I KEEP UNPACKING

  As I talk. It doesn’t take long.

  My history or unpacking. Everything

  I own pretty much fits in three

  drawers plus five coat hangers.

  Too aware of the three pairs

  of eyes, inventorying every article

  of clothing and five favorite

  books, I find a way to keep my

  cell phone discreetly stashed.

  Some things need to stay secret.

  All I want to do at this moment,

  though, is pull out the phone, dial

  Kyle’s number, hear his satin

  voice promise he’s waiting for me.

  Is he waiting for me? Or has he

  completely forgotten me already?

  IMPOSSIBLE, I KNOW

  But even considering it makes me

  want to pace. My heart accelerates,

  like something wild, snared. Caged.

  I can’t let the others see it. As nice

  as they seem, if they intuit weakness,

  I have rewarded them with a weapon.

  I deliberately plop down on the bed,

  calm my arterial stutter. No pacing

  now, damn it. Now or ever, not here.

  Instead, like an imprisoned wildcat,

  I lock eyes with the human just

  beyond the bars. The one staring

  at me with interest I cannot tolerate.

  “What about you, Simone? Why are

  you here?” Come on, Ghost-girl. Tell

  me your story, although I’m half-afraid

  to hear it. Half-afraid. Half dying to, because

  the eyes mine are locked to are haunted.

  ZERO RESPONSE

  So I prod just a bit. “Come on.

  I told you my sordid little tale.”

  Nothing.

  I look over at Eliana and Rosa.

  Both are wide-eyed, silent.

  Nada.

  Hmm. This one must be good.