Fallout

  ’Course we didn’t know better.

  My pa was a born-again Baptist,

  and Sunday was the best day

  of the week because Baptists

  respect the Sabbath. Weren’t

  no cotton rows hoed on Sunday,

  that’s for sure. Not a single one.

  His accent is honey-thick Texas.

  But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.

  She moved to California young,

  when Maureen divorced Grandfather.

  Still, she carries a hint of Good

  Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.

  Me? I’m fighting it, though it may

  be a losing battle. Still, despite

  living in Texas for most of my life,

  somehow it isn’t Home. And

  the really messed-up part of that

  is, I have no clear idea where

  Home might be. It’s not here

  in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather

  or Aunt Cora, though it really

  should feel that way. Not with

  Trey, wherever he might settle

  down if they actually let him go.

  No, Home is somewhere else.

  I don’t know if it’s a place

  I’ve already been, or one

  I’ve yet to find. But I’m pretty

  sure the answer is tangled up

  in Where I Came From.

  AND WHERE I CAME FROM

  Is tangled up

  in those faces

  I see. At least,

  I’m pretty sure

  it is. No one here

  will tell me much

  about why I’m here.

  Other than the jail

  thing, which I get.

  But I know I must

  have more family

  somewhere. Why

  have they never

  tried to get hold

  of me? It’s all so

  confusing, especially

  when the people

  I do have insist

  on keeping secrets.

  I HAVE MANAGED

  To learn a handful

  of assorted details

  about the jigsaw

  puzzle

  that is my beginning.

  Nothing what you’d

  call solid. Bits and

  pieces.

  I know I was born

  in Nevada. Reno,

  I’m told. But I

  don’t

  know if my mother

  still lives there.

  When I ask, I

  always

  get the standard

  answer: You don’t really

  want to try and

  connect

  with her, do you?

  Well, what if I do?

  Do they

  think if I found her,

  I’d love them less?

  ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

  I’m not sure if I want to connect

  with her or not. And even if I do,

  I have no idea where to start. Not

  like Grandfather will share information.

  Reno? Maybe. But it’s a big place,

  and Nevada is bigger. And why

  think she still lives there? Besides,

  I don’t even know her name.

  I wonder

  if she

  remembers mine.

  Maybe she’s dead. Disabled.

  Brain fried too crispy to even try

  to stop by and say hello for fifteen

  years. I was two when Aunt Cora

  took custody of me, which was just

  about the time the State of Nevada

  took custody of my parents. Locked

  them up that time for a couple of years.

  Aunt Cora says

  the monster

  swallowed them.

  THE MONSTER

  Is what they called their crystal.

  We learned about it in school.

  How it messes up your brain.

  Makes your teeth go rotten.

  Blasts caustic chemicals

  through arteries and veins.

  How just a little spoonful

  keeps you up for days,

  no desire for food, high

  until you crash. Nosedive.

  How using once or twice

  can hook you. Take your mind

  captive. Agitate cerebral cells

  until you wind up psychotic.

  What they didn’t say is how

  the monster chews up families.

  MINE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE

  But it’s the only one I’m qualified

  to talk about. I don’t know if my parents

  were ever in love, but for argument’s

  sake, I’ll imagine they were.

  So along comes the monster. Then what?

  Sex, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.

  Good sex? Bad sex? Group sex?

  All of the above? I mean, why did any

  of that have to change because they

  decided to get high together? I don’t

  understand. Did they both go gay in

  lockup? Decide they liked same-sex

  sex better than sex with each other?

  Did they ever even try to put things

  right with each other after they got out?

  Did they ever even once think about me?

  Summer Lily Kenwood

  SCREAMING

  I learned not to

  scream

  a long time ago.

  Learned to

  bite

  down hard

  against pain,

  keep

  my little mouth

  wedged shut.

  Fighting

  back was useless,

  anyway. I was

  fragile

  at three, and Zoe

  was a hammer.

  Girls

  are stinkier than

  boys when they

  get

  dirty, she’d say,

  scrubbing until I

  hurt.

  And if I cried

  out, I hurt

  worse.

  I’M FIFTEEN NOW

  And though Zoe is no longer

  Dad’s lay of the day, I’ll never

  forget her or how he closed

  his eyes to the ugly things

  she did to me regularly.

  He never said a word about

  the swollen red places. Never

  told her to stop. He had to know,

  and if he didn’t, she must have

  been one magical piece of ass.

  Cynical? Me? Yeah, maybe

  I am, but then, why wouldn’t

  I be? Since the day I was born,

  I’ve been passed around. Pushed

  around. Drop-kicked around.

  The most totally messed-up

  part of that is the more it

  happens, the less I care. Anyway,

  as foster homes go, this one is

  okay. Except for the screaming.

  SCREAMING, AGAIN

  It’s Darla’s favorite method

  of communication, and not

  really the best one for a foster

  parent. I mean, aren’t they

  supposed to guide us gently?

  Her shrill falsetto saws through

  the hollow-core bedroom door.

  Ashante! How many times

  do I have to tell you to make

  your goddamn bed? It’s a rule!

  Jeez, man. Ashante is only

  seven, and she hasn’t even

  been here a week. Darla

  really should get an actual job,

  leave the fostering to Phil,

  who is patient and kind-eyed

  and willing enough to smile.

  Plus, he’s not bad-looking

  for a guy in his late forties.

  And I’ve yet to
hear him scream.

  DARLA IS A DIFFERENT STORY

  Here it comes, directed at me.

  Summer! Is your homework finished?

  Hours ago, but I call, “Almost.”

  Well, hurry it up, for God’s sake.

  Like God needs to be involved. “Okay.”

  I need some help with dinner.

  Three other girls live here too.

  And turn down that stupid music.

  The music belongs to one of them.

  I can barely hear myself think.

  She thinks? “It’s Erica’s music.”

  Well, tell her to turn it down, please.

  Whatever. At least she said please.

  And would you please stop yelling?

  GAWD!

  My neck flares, collarbone

  to earlobes. Like Erica

  couldn’t hear her scream?

  I fling myself off the bed,

  cross my room and the hall

  just beyond in mere seconds.

  “Erica!” (Shit, I am yelling.)

  “Can’t you …?” But when

  I push through the door,

  the music on the other side

  slams into me hard. No

  way could she have heard

  the commotion. “Great

  song, but Darla wants you

  to turn it down. What is it?”

  Erica reaches for the volume.

  “Bad Girlfriend.” By Theory of a Dead-

  man. I just downloaded it today.

  She looks at me, and her eyes

  repeat a too-familiar story.

  Erica is wired. Treed, in fact.

  I TOTALLY KNOW TREED

  In sixth grade, the D.A.R.E.

  dorks came in, spouting stats

  to scare us into staying straight.

  But by then, I knew more than

  they did about the monster

  because of my dad and his women,

  including my so-called mom.

  Her ex, too, and his sister and cousin.

  Plus a whole network of stoners

  connecting them all. The funny

  thing is, none of them have a fricking

  clue that I am so enlightened.

  Tweakers always think no one

  knows. Just like Erica right now.

  “Shit, girl. You go to dinner lit

  like that, you’re so busted.

  Darla may be a bitch. But she’s

  not stupid, and neither is Phil.”

  Here comes the denial.

  Her shoulders go stiff and

  her head starts twisting

  side to side. But she doesn’t

  dare let her eyes meet mine.

  What are you talking about?

  “Hey, no prob. I’m not a spy,

  and it’s all your life anyway.

  I’m just saying you might

  as well be wearing a sign

  that says ‘I Like Ice.’ If

  I were you, I’d skip dinner.”

  I turn, start for the door,

  and Erica’s voice stops me.

  It’s just so hard to feel good,

  you know? I do know. And

  more than that, it’s just

  so incredibly hard to feel.

  MAYBE THAT’S WHY

  I have also felt the gnawing desire to try

  crystal, despite knowing what it did

  to

  Barely There Dad

  to

  Rarely Here Mom.

  Maybe they were just trying to feel

  something too. Something besides

  heat

  for each other

  hate

  for each other.

  It’s too bad they hooked up at all. Because

  the only things they have in common

  are

  giving me life

  and

  tearing my life apart.

  MY MOTHER

  Gifts me with a visit once, maybe

  twice, a year. Our conversations

  seesaw between inane and trite:

  How’s school?

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Still running track?

  “Not for a while.”

  Extracurricular stuff?

  “Not really, no.”

  How they should go is like this:

  How’s school?

  “Better than could be

  expected, considering

  I only have foster parents

  to make sure I’m there

  on time, with breakfast in my

  belly, encouraging my rather

  outstanding performance,

  despite the fact that no

  one really gives a shit.”

  Still running track?

  “Not since the day a wind

  sprint almost sent me to

  the hospital because my

  asthma (which can no doubt

  be attributed to your

  tweaking during the first

  trimester you were pregnant

  with me, and smoking the entire

  nine months) kicked in so

  hard I could barely suck

  enough air to keep my

  face from turning blue.”

  Extracurricular stuff?

  “Sure, because I’ve been

  encouraged so regularly

  to explore my unique set

  of talents, huh? And, like,

  I’ve got parents who’d

  come watch me perform

  even if I could sing or act

  or dance or whatever.

  No, Mother. My only

  extracurricular stuff has

  to do with making out.”

  I COULDN’T SAY THAT, THOUGH

  Because then she’d feel validated

  about her other regular line of inquiry:

  Boyfriends? No?

  Girlfriends, then?

  Either way, it’s all

  good with me.

  I hate that she thinks sex

  is the only thing on my mind.

  The last time she went there,

  she was taking me back to Darla

  and Phil’s, after a long weekend

  of not-quite-bonding at her tacky

  Vegas apartment. Any news on

  the boyfriend front? Getting a little?

  Like I’d confide in her if I was.

  “Who do you think I am? You?”

  Sometimes, I guess, I’m snappish.

  But doesn’t she deserve snap?

  Her comeback was immediate,

  not to mention completely lame.

  Summer Lily Kenwood!

  Why are you so angry?

  “Let’s start with my name.

  Like my life is so full of sunshine,

  and like you didn’t know how

  crappy it would be the day you

  named me. And then there’s

  you, who chose to go ahead

  and have me, even though

  you didn’t want me….”

  She jerked her piece-of-crap car

  over against the curb. Lit a new

  cigarette off the one already

  irritating my asthma. Shut your

  mouth. I did want you. Still want you.

  I just don’t have enough resources….

  “God, Mother. You sound like

  an investment banker instead of

  a total loser tweaker. Resources?

  What you don’t have is enough love.”

  IT WAS NASTY

  Mean.

  In your face.

  Designed for

  overt reaction.

  And it got zero.

  She pulled away

  from the curb, exhaling

  nicotine poison, regardless

  of my little brothers, chilling

  in the backseat. Drove me home,

  dropped me off without a single word.

  I don??
?t know

  if she was stunned

  into silence, or if her

  meth-mangled brain couldn’t

  grasp what I said. Either way, we

  haven’t spoken

  in months. I’m pretty

  sure she was straight that

  day. Pretty sure she’s been

  straight every time I’ve seen her.

  Always, she’s chain-

  smoking anxious. Often,

  she’s angry. I’ve never seen

  her happy. Was she ever happy?

  Was she ever happy when not using?

  GODDAMN METH

  Has ruined

  so many lives.

  Her life.

  Dad’s life.

  My life.

  Friends’ lives,

  because they use

  or because people

  they love use.

  They don’t call it

  the monster for

  nothing. It chews

  people up, spits ’em

  out, often unsalvageable.

  So why have I been even

  a little tempted to take

  a spin with the monster?

  IT’S NOT HARD TO FIND

  Here in Bakersfield. In fact,

  California’s central valleys

  are fertile ground for more

  than pistachios and wheat.

  They are, in fact, a sort

  of monster lair. Bikers

  have busily built labs

  in the area for many years.

  And while law enforcement

  has been busy too, there’s

  a lot of “nothing” out here.

  They can’t be everywhere.

  I know all this because

  my boyfriend’s Gramps

  was an original Hells

  Angel manufacturer.

  He’s in prison too. Not for

  cooking it or transporting

  it, but for stabbing a guy

  in a bar fight while high on it.

  That’s not something Matt

  is proud of. In fact, he hates

  meth, and what it’s done

  to his family. If he knew

  the idea of trying it had

  even crossed my mind,

  he would not be happy.

  And if he had the slightest

  notion that his best friend,

  Kyle, is the one who keeps

  offering it, Matt might end

  up just like his grandfather.

  SO FAR

  I’ve refused.

  Refused the meth.

  Refused the scene.

  Refused Kyle’s kiss.

  Well, sort of.

  Once he cornered me.

  Once he held me close.