Fallout

  Here now, soothed Trey.

  I would never hurt my little

  girl. He petted me as he might

  a nervous pup, but that did little

  to quell the tornado inside me.

  SOMEHOW HE DIDN’T GET

  That, despite his probable

  relationship to me,

  I wasn’t his little girl.

  Not

  then and not now.

  He has never even pretended

  to play father to me.

  With a little help from

  my

  grandfather, Aunt Cora raised

  me, though she was only

  seventeen when I was born.

  What an amazing

  cup

  of blessing! She could

  have just let me fall into

  the system, instead

  of

  giving up her own party

  years to take care of me.

  Or she could have left

  me to suffer Grandfather’s

  poison

  alone.

  INSTEAD, SHE STAYED

  Played the “mom” role, and played

  it well. Thank God I’ve got a female

  someone in my life. I’d like to say

  I’ve got tons of girlfriends, but nope.

  Not exactly sure why, but I have

  never been what you could call

  popular. Aunt Cora says it’s my aura.

  I see them, you know. Yours is dark.

  Sort of like black coffee, although

  it fluctuates. Sometimes there are

  little flecks of gold. If you could

  make those coalesce, turn your

  aura more toffee than coffee,

  things would be different. Let me

  give you some exercises….

  Everyone needs a mystic aunt for a

  surrogate mom. Sometimes it’s hard

  to believe she’s only thirty-four.

  I swear she must be reincarnated.

  Some ancient witch, burned at the stake,

  returned for a shot at redemption.

  WHATEVER SHE IS

  Witch or gypsy,

  I don’t have time

  to think about it

  now. I summon as

  many gold flecks

  as I can, hope they

  turn me toffee-er,

  point myself toward

  Ms. Carol’s room.

  Cherie feels generous

  today, or maybe

  she’s got something

  to brag on. She’s

  waiting by her locker,

  which is two down

  from mine. I don’t

  really want to talk

  to her, or anyone.

  So much for gold

  flecks. I’m black coffee.

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE WORRIED

  About not feeling like talking.

  Cherie can talk enough for

  both of us. And she does.

  Guess what? Billy Burke

  asked me to Homecoming.

  “Great,” I say, even though

  I think Billy is disgusting.

  Why would she want to go

  out with that loser, anyway?

  Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.

  Wanna help me shop for

  my dress? I’m thinking blue,

  or maybe green, but I’m not sure.

  Is blue the wrong color for

  fall? Because all I’m seeing

  in magazines is, like, plum and

  apricot and that custard yellow….

  She goes on and on about

  fashion, all the way to Ms. Carol’s

  classroom. I nod and smile

  and do my very best to

  conjure up toffee.

  WHEN WE WALK THROUGH THE DOOR

  I really hope I’ve managed

  to glom onto a few gold flecks

  because there’s a new guy,

  sitting across from my regular

  seat. He’s not like model pretty

  or anything, but he is extremely

  cute in a boy-next-door sort

  of way, with sun-streaked hair

  and dark eyes and cheeks that

  dimple when he smiles. Smiles.

  At me. My face goes hot as I slide

  into my chair, wishing I had the slightest

  clue how to flirt. I don’t. Never tried

  it. I can barely manage to smile back.

  And when his grin widens at my obvious

  discomfort and he whispers, Hi, I think

  I might just curl up in a little ball,

  roll away into a corner, and die.

  IT’S NOT LIKE

  I’ve never been attracted

  to a guy before. I’m a normal,

  healthy heterosexual girl.

  Okay, not totally normal,

  which is why guys aren’t exactly

  fighting over me. Pretty much

  everyone here knows my tale

  of woe. Who wants to date a loser

  who uses words like “woe,” and lives

  with her grandfather because

  her parents shuffle in and out

  of jail, for cripes’ sake?

  Aunt Cora says if I’d just carry

  myself with more dignity, things

  would be different. She claims

  I overthink stuff, and maybe

  I’m overthinking stuff right now.

  Maybe the new guy is just

  being nice because we have

  to sit next to each other.

  Maybe he is smiling at Cherie,

  not me at all. Or maybe he is

  only smiling because I blushed

  like the idiot I am. Or maybe …

  Suddenly I notice that the room

  is silent, and everyone’s looking at

  me. Ms. Carol is up front, taking roll.

  Autumn? Are you here, or what?

  Now everyone laughs, because

  obviously I’m not here,

  despite being present. Still, I lie,

  “Um. Yes. Here.” I slump down into

  my seat, but once everything goes

  quiet, I chance a glance at the new

  guy, too cute in a leather bomber.

  He’s still smiling. Definitely at me.

  TIME

  Slows to a crawl, each grain of sand

  in the hourglass suspended

  midair before finally

  dropping through.

  American history

  isn’t the most

  exciting class

  anyway, but there

  is no way I can possibly

  concentrate on the Industrial

  Revolution. The boredom is crushing.

  I feel like a vacuum is sucking the air

  from my lungs. My heart races.

  My wrists throb. There’s

  a gushing in my ears.

  I could die. Right

  here. Right

  now. I close my

  eyes, breathe. Breathe

  to fight the burgeoning panic.

  No! Damn it. I won’t give in. Not

  here. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

  SO CLOSE

  To feeling like

  maybe, just maybe

  I have a chance

  at being okay.

  So close

  to feeling normal.

  Regular. Not a misfit

  at all, but someone

  worthy of a friend,

  and not only a friend,

  but

  a boyfriend. Breathe.

  Deep. The threat of

  suffocation recedes.

  The all-encompassing

  terror falls far,

  far away.

  I am, in fact, okay.

  For the moment.

  I HAVEN’T HAD

  A panic attack in quite a while.

&n
bsp; I had my first one when I started

  middle school. I really thought

  I was going to die that day.

  My arms and legs went all tingly.

  Then my heart beat so insanely

  hard, I thought it would explode,

  rip my chest wide open.

  No one understood what was

  happening, not even the school

  nurse, who called paramedics.

  It took a savvy ER tech to explain

  that my heart didn’t have a problem.

  My messed-up brain did. Okay,

  he didn’t say it was messed up.

  I figured out that part myself.

  Since then, there have been

  other attacks. Other days when

  I felt like I didn’t dare leave

  my room. I’ve done my homework.

  I know anxiety causes them, just

  like it causes my OCD. You can find

  the easy fix in pharmacies, but

  I don’t want to be like Grandfather.

  Or worse, end up like my parents—

  a slave to addiction, and legal drugs

  are often as addictive as controlled

  substances. (Shouldn’t those really be

  called uncontrollable substances?)

  I learned how to mostly cope without

  medication, thanks to Aunt Cora,

  yoga-meister, who showed me

  how the right kind of breathing

  can pull my brain out of the “how

  now seems” into the “what really is.”

  Score one more for Aunt Cora.

  THE BELL RINGS

  Ms. Carol shouts out

  our homework assignment

  as the mass exodus

  begins. I gather my stuff,

  look around for Cherie,

  but the only person still

  in the room is the new guy.

  OMG. Is he waiting for me?

  Hi, he says in an accent-free

  voice. California smooth.

  I’m Bryce. We just moved

  here from—

  “California.” My fingers

  are tingling. No. No. No!

  Breathe deep. Breathe.

  He grins. Yeah. How did

  you know? You psychic,

  or something like that?

  He is just so cute. Why

  me? Whatever the reason,

  I actually smile back at him.

  “Nope. Not psychic. But

  I know California when I

  hear it.” How am I doing this?

  We start walking. Together.

  You ever been to California?

  Through the door. Together.

  “Yeah. My dad used to live

  there. And my aunt. I live

  with her now.” Too much info.

  But he doesn’t ask for more.

  Oh. Do you like San Antonio?

  Down the hall. Together.

  “It’s okay. It’s really all I

  remember.” Too much, again.

  “Someday I’ll go back.”

  He knows what I mean. Me

  too. You can take the kid out

  of California, but …

  I know what he means. At

  least, I think I do. California.

  Huh. “Exactly.” Still together.

  Summer

  ROUSED

  From sleep.

  Someone is …

  crying somewhere

  in the darkness

  blanketing me.

  “Who’s there?”

  The voice is tiny,

  frail as a promise

  when it stutters, N-no

  one. Just … m-me.

  Not quite all

  the way awake,

  still I know who

  it is. “Ashante?

  What’s wrong?”

  I reach for the lamp

  beside my bed,

  fumble for the switch….

  AMBER LIGHT

  Spills in a narrow

  stream across my

  bed to the floor

  beyond. Ashante

  crouches in the

  corner by the door,

  arms crossed tightly

  against her chest.

  She is a storm

  cloud—puffs of

  ebon skin fringing

  her soiled white

  cotton nightgown.

  And the repulsion

  glimmering cold in

  her eyes is familiar

  because it is some-

  thing I have seen

  staring back at me

  from the glacier ice

  of my mirror. I already

  suspect the answer

  when I ask, “What in

  the hell happened?”

  I OPEN MY ARMS

  Her eyes grow wide, and she shakes

  her head. Tears streak her cherub cheeks.

  I slip out of my bed, move toward her,

  and she shrinks back against the wall.

  “It’s okay,” I soothe. “I won’t hurt you.”

  I approach her as I would a cornered dog,

  crazy wild with fear. I force my voice low

  and calm. “Now tell me what happened.”

  This time when I reach gently for her,

  she tips forward into my arms. Sh-she

  m-m-made me do something b-b-bad.

  I told her n-no, but she said I h-had to.

  She? Darla? What kind of bad?

  “Who, honey? Did she hurt you?”

  Ashante hesitates, trembling. I insist,

  “What did she make you do?”

  Finally she admits, It was Erica.

  She made me touch her in bad places.

  It didn’t hurt me, though. But she said

  if I told, she’d make me be sorry.

  A MEMORY SLAMS INTO ME

  A different room.

  A different house.

  A different town.

  I was young.

  I was small.

  I was afraid.

  He was big.

  He was strong.

  He was supposed

  to keep me safe.

  No one saw when

  he came to me,

  put his hand over

  my mouth, and said,

  If you tell, I’ll make

  you sorry. Understand?

  He was all over me.

  He was on top of me.

  He was inside me.

  I never told.

  I never screamed.

  I never healed.

  A different night.

  A different place.

  A different girl.

  I NEVER TOLD

  I’d already been

  pushed aside by

  my mother

  and my father.

  I’d already lost

  my Grandpa Carl

  and Grandma Jean.

  I’d already been

  shuffled through

  one foster home,

  another, one more.

  That was the fourth.

  Why didn’t anyone want me?

  What was wrong with me?

  What if that place

  was my last chance?

  Was that what it took

  for someone to care?

  No, I never told.

  Another girl did.

  MY BODY

  Healed quickly. But the wound

  to my psyche was deep.

  Wide. First aid, too little, too late,

  left me hemorrhaging inside,

  the blood unstaunched by psychological

  bandage or love’s healing magic.

  Eventually it scabbed over,

  a thick, ugly welt of memory.

  I work to conceal it, but no matter

  how hard I try, once in a while

  something makes me pick at it

  until the scarring
bleeds.

  In my arms, Ashante cries,

  innocence ripped apart

  by circumstance. Bloodied by

  inhuman will. Time will prove

  a tourniquet. But she will always

  be at risk of infection.

  ANGER MUSHROOMS

  Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,

  every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to

  the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.

  “Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever

  she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t

  worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”

  Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

  My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.

  It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice

  the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really

  care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.

  She’s wide awake when I storm through it,

  into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”

  SHE STARES AT ME

  With meth-emptied eyes,

  and when she smiles in silent

  defiance, she is death, grinning.

  I want to shake her. Want to

  kick her ass. But what for?

  She’s not even here. Still,

  I can’t let it go. Girl. Man. Mostly

  dead or no, a predator is a predator.

  You can’t let it roam unshackled.

  “What did you do to Ashante?”

  I demand, stomping right up

  in front of her and grabbing

  her by her hair. I expect her

  to jerk away, swing at me, or

  something. But she just sits

  there like a mannequin.

  I didn’t do anything to her,

  but she did plenty for me.

  ZERO REMORSE

  Zero guilt. Zero emotion.

  She really is evil, or at

  least what she smoked

  this afternoon is. I can’t

  take it. I want her to hurt.

  I swing a stiff backhand,

  slap her face. Hard.

  She animates suddenly

  and we are on the floor.

  She is stronger than I thought.

  Her right hand connects.

  Fingernails bite into my

  cheek, sink through my skin.

  All the hate and pain and fear

  I’ve ever felt in my life ball

  up into one vicious biting,

  scratching beast. “Fuck you,

  bitch!” I scream. She is Zoe.

  She is my mother. She is …