Fallout

Once our lips connected.

  Matt was gone.

  Away from school.

  Away from town.

  Away from me.

  I almost gave in.

  Almost relented.

  Almost submitted.

  Almost said okay.

  But I remembered.

  Kyle is a stoner.

  Kyle is a player.

  Kyle is Matt’s best friend.

  I THINK OF THEM BOTH

  As I lie in bed, body

  asking for sleep

  while my brain insists on

  flashing

  cerebral photographs.

  Phffft. Matt and me,

  last summer, making

  out

  like there was no tomorrow.

  Love that phrase. Because

  without tomorrow,

  what’s wrong with

  some

  spectacular today? Phffft.

  Kyle, touching me,

  in a totally different

  kind

  of way than Matt could

  even imagine. Phffft.

  Matt, a solid dream

  of a

  guy telling me, I love

  you, as we lie together

  in a tall field of wheat.

  Warning!

  The next photo is X-rated.

  And when I wake, I am still

  warm from the night before.

  MAYBE WHAT I NEED TO DO

  Is make us a threesome.

  If I belonged to some weird

  religious sect, that’s what

  I’d do. Except don’t all those

  weird religious sects expect

  two girls to a guy, instead of

  the obviously better way to go?

  What is wrong with women,

  anyway? Two dudes. One you.

  Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m

  talking about. It’s stupid

  as hell to think that way,

  but WTF? It’s my effing

  daydream, isn’t it? I keep

  dreaming it right through

  breakfast. On the short bus

  ride to school. But then, as

  I pace the sidewalk, waiting,

  a sudden realization hits. Two

  guys. One girl. Can’t do that.

  If I did, I would be my mother.

  I WATCH THE PAIR

  Of them now, coming up the walk, cutting

  through the herd trying to make first bell.

  Matt is two inches taller. So why does Kyle

  loom larger? Why should that matter at all?

  Kyle spots me first, waves. There is much

  in his smile that Matt can’t see. But I can.

  Matt says something to Kyle, slaps his shoulder,

  turns away from him, heads toward me.

  I love the confidence in his stride,

  goal in sight, no hint of hesitation

  until he reaches it. Reaches me. Hey.

  Not exactly eloquent, but that’s okay.

  Lips have better uses. The kiss they bring

  is autumn rain—wet, warm, wished for.

  Matt bracelets me with strong arms.

  He smells clean, but not perfumed,

  like Tide detergent and Ivory soap.

  I am safe here against his chest,

  where his heart thumps desire.

  This is all any girl could want.

  So why do my open eyes stray over

  his shoulders? And why am I satisfied

  to see Kyle staring back at me?

  He gives a little shrug, continues

  inside, just as the first bell blares.

  Matt pulls away reluctantly. Guess

  that’s our cue, huh? He gives me

  another quick kiss, slides his arm

  around my waist, hustles me toward

  the door and the long row of lockers

  just beyond. At the far end, Sierra

  Freeman has cornered Kyle. Only

  his body language loudly says he’s

  not exactly frantic to get away.

  MATT WALKS ME

  To my first-period class—

  AP English. Thank God

  for advanced placement.

  The regular curriculum

  would drive me bonkers.

  I taught myself to read

  before kindergarten.

  I lived with Grandma Jean

  and Grandpa Carl then,

  and books were everywhere.

  Grandpa helped me learn

  to count. After that, math

  was easy. Two grandparents,

  take away one (goddamn

  cigarettes got him too young)

  leaves one. And when that

  one goes just a little crazy

  having lost her husband

  of thirty-nine years,

  two grandparents take away

  one equals zero. Anyway,

  words and numbers have

  always been easy for me.

  And even without people

  who care, my grades rock.

  Matt, who is clueless

  about much more than

  my relatively curvy

  exterior, likes to tease

  me. Who knew a brainiac

  could be so much fun?

  is one of his favorite

  lines. “Fun,” meaning

  I let him cop regular

  feels of those curves.

  He knows I take all AP

  classes, but somehow

  has no real idea just

  how brainy I am. Okay

  by me. It’s an advantage.

  Hunter

  SATURDAY

  The alarm blares again.

  Second snooze cycle?

  Third? Behind my eyelids,

  morning is bright. Eightish?

  I roll over and open one eye.

  Almost nine. Damn. Up I go.

  I’ve got to land an earlier

  air shift, at least if I have

  to keep doing remotes.

  Live broadcasts are fun.

  But it’s not good to do them

  with bags under your eyes.

  Not if you want to look

  like a radio star. Okay,

  maybe I haven’t reached

  “star” status. The stars do

  morning or afternoon

  drives. I pull ten p.m. to two

  a.m. twice a week. But

  they are weekend nights,

  so at least a few people

  are up late, listening.

  I even have groupies.

  Hey, maybe I am a star.

  THE REMOTE

  Is at the football game.

  The UNR Wolf Pack versus

  the Boise State Broncos.

  Boise is a powerhouse

  team and generally cleans

  our clock, but UNR has got

  one radical quarterback

  this season, plus an all-state

  running back. Never know.

  We just might take ’em.

  Wolf Pack fans are ready to howl.

  The game should be packed.

  Which means I’d better

  get a move on. Traffic

  will be a bitch. A glance

  out the window confirms

  it’s a crystal-edged October

  day. Perfect football weather.

  I shave. Shower. No time

  for breakfast, a quick brush

  to excise morning mouth.

  Jeans. Long-sleeved blue tee

  sporting the X logo. It’s a little

  wrinkled, but the black leather

  bomber will camouflage that.

  Socks. Socks? My sock drawer

  is empty. Oh, well. Yesterday’s

  shouldn’t be too bad. Mom’s always

  griping about my dirty laundry.

  All you have to do is get it from

  your room to the la
undry room.

  Twenty-five steps total. How hard

  could that be? The word isn’t “hard.”

  It’s “organized.” Not my best thing.

  Yesterday’s socks it is. New pair

  of Nikes, barely scuffed at all.

  Out the door in twenty minutes.

  If I’m lucky, I won’t be late.

  IT’S A HALF-HOUR DRIVE

  To the station. Another forty

  minutes to load the remote

  broadcasting equipment

  into the company van.

  Just about the time

  I’m ready to roll,

  a beater Pontiac burps

  into the parking lot.

  Oh, no. It’s Montana.

  Her real name is Corrine,

  but she wanted her air

  name to play off

  Hannah Montana.

  Don’t ask me why.

  Morning, she breathes,

  in her best “I’m trying

  not to sound like

  the dingbat I am” voice.

  (Not that it works.)

  Awesome day, huh?

  “Uh, yeah.” I load

  the last speaker. “Well,

  I’m about ready. As soon

  as Rick gets here …”

  Montana’s head swings

  side to side. Didn’t you

  get the message? Rick

  has a major flu bug.

  She moves closer. Too

  close. Her lips are four

  inches from mine when

  she says, It’s me and you.

  No, no, no! It’s bad

  enough working a remote

  with Rick the Brick Denio,

  whose “I’m God’s gift

  to the world” attitude

  has thirty years in radio

  to back it up. Montana’s

  “hey, I’m the shit” pose

  comes from bottled

  blond hair and way-

  too-round-to-be-real

  36DDs. And, fake or

  no, those babies were

  designed for Montana

  Disney (no lie!) to steal

  the show wherever she goes.

  ESPECIALLY FOOTBALL GAMES

  Especially with those DDs

  encased in a gray angora sweater,

  and her equally impressive ass

  advertised by a short, tight navy

  skirt. Wolf Pack colors are silver

  and blue. She’s a one-of-a-kind fan,

  one every guy walking by can’t help

  but notice. It’s irritating, but what

  really pisses me off is how she just

  stands there, flaunting fuzzy silver

  and tight navy blue, while I do all

  the work, setting up the X tailgate

  party. Even Rick would have helped.

  At least we have a designated

  parking spot in the alumni lot. People

  are parked down the hill, a half mile

  or more away. By the time they reach

  us, they’re huffing and puffing.

  Montana sympathizes. Long walk?

  Well, come on over here and have

  a hot dog and soda, on the X.

  MOST OF THEM

  Are already drinking beer.

  But they take the dog, if only

  for the chance to stand that

  close to those amazing ta-tas.

  I have to admit, Montana

  is great advertising, if a mediocre

  on-air personality. She knows

  jack about music. She’ll probably

  go on to fame and fortune as

  a spokesmodel or something.

  Anyway, I watch her work

  the mostly male crowd until,

  finally, a couple of cute girls

  wiggle up to me. Are you Hunter

  Haskins? says the curvy redhead.

  ’Cause I really love your show!

  Yeah, agrees the slender brunette.

  I listen every weekend. You’re good.

  My turn to flirt. “Sweetheart,

  I am so much better than good.”

  Then I remember, “Hey, are you

  interested in a hot dog?”

  The girls dissolve into laughter,

  and I realize how that sounded.

  I flush, hot despite the nip in the air.

  “Uh, I meant a Polish sausage.”

  That makes Red laugh even

  harder. Is Haskins a Polish name?

  The brunette’s eyes are watering.

  And just how big is that sausage?

  Wow. Obnoxious. So why does

  the thought of a threesome

  cross my perverted mind?

  “I’ve never had a complaint,

  if that’s what you mean.” A gasp

  behind me makes me turn….

  AND THERE IS NIKKI

  And not only that,

  but there is Nikki with

  her parents, UNR alumni

  and rabid Pack fans.

  But not exactly fans

  of Hunter Haskins.

  Surely they realize this

  is part of the radio

  personality game?

  “Oh, hey!” I reach for

  Nikki, who shrinks

  back a little. “Great

  to see you all here.

  How about a …”

  Shit. If I say hot dog,

  my groupies are gonna

  howl. I turn my back

  on them completely.

  “Want some lunch?”

  I gesture toward

  the gathered X fans

  all happily munching

  Polish sausages. Nikki,

  red-faced, shakes her head.

  Her mom, all stuck-up,

  slides her arm around

  Nikki’s shoulder. No.

  Her dad looks slightly

  amused, but his voice

  is stiff. We already ate.

  “Oh. Okay.” How do

  I make this right? “Nik,

  can I talk to you a sec?”

  She starts to say no,

  but if I don’t fix this

  now, it might be unfixable.

  “Please?” I take her

  arm, pull her away

  from her mother’s grasp

  and off to one side. “Hey.

  Those girls are listeners.

  You are the one I love.”

  I NOTICE HER MOM AND DAD

  Watching us. Standing

  a couple of feet apart,

  as if they want nothing

  to do with each other.

  And I remember. “So,

  are your parents back

  together?” I know her

  answer before she says,

  Not really. He claims

  he wants to come home,

  but he still wants to work

  with … with her.

  His boss. And maybe

  the woman he loves

  more than he loves

  his wife and daughter.

  There’s a big alumni

  party today. They only

  came together to keep up

  appearances. She starts

  to tear up again, and

  I pull her into my arms.

  Kiss her forehead softly.

  “It will all work out. I promise.”

  WHY DO I PROMISE

  Shit like that?

  Then again, it

  will

  all work out.

  Just not necessarily

  the way she wants

  it

  to. I look at her

  mom, rigid as iron,

  suspicion written

  all

  over her face. And

  why not? Her husband

  has blatantly

  come out

  about falling for

  someone else. Wh
y

  would she want him

  back, anyway?

  In the

  final analysis, their

  marriage will forever

  be stained. In the long

  run, stay or go, it’s a

  wash.

  IN MY ARMS

  Nikki sways, relaxes

  just the slightest bit.

  I take the opportunity

  to repeat, “I love you.”

  Love you, too. Her whisper

  is shaky, like aspen leaves

  in a bold autumn breeze.

  They’re waiting for me.

  “I know. But I’ll see you later,

  right?” Her answer is slow

  coming. Finally she gives

  me a lukewarm, I guess so.

  We turn back toward the X

  lunch line. My groupies, thank

  God, have wandered off.

  Nikki’s mom watches us

  with relentless eyes, unlike

  her dad, who is focused on Montana.

  That fact does not escape

  Nikki. God. He’s such a dog.

  HE DOES KIND OF LOOK

  Like one—a basset hound,

  maybe, or a cocker spaniel.

  A dog with dopey eyes.

  Nikki pulls away from me,

  pushes between her parents,

  forms a three-link chain.

  They start toward the gate

  just as the cannon fires,

  signaling first kickoff.

  Hot dogs in hand, the X fans

  disperse, leaving Montana

  and me to watch the stragglers.

  After a while, Montana turns

  to me. Pretty girlfriend, she says.

  You two serious, or what?

  Without my telling them to,

  my shoulders hunch into a shrug.

  “We’re not, like, getting married

  or anything. But I like her a lot.”

  Her question was out of left field,

  my answer bordering on evasive.

  Looked more like love to me.

  Meaning, I guess, that she was looking.

  Mind if I give you a little advice?

  Advice? Who does she think

  she is? Dr. Phil in drag? But

  what the hell. “Uh, guess not.”

  Radio is entertainment, or should

  be, anyway. Your jock persona

  should feel real to your listeners.

  But never forget that it’s fabricated,

  created in the name of entertainment.

  Once you start thinking it’s real,

  start taking the fake you too seriously,

  the truly important things in your

  life will vanish. Believe me, I know.

  I do believe her. But why?

  Montana is schlock to the n th

  degree. “Do you want to elaborate?”

  Her smile, sad, makes her pretty.