Fallout

  him. Stop. I have to stop. Can’t …

  SUDDENLY, I AM JERKED

  Into the air,

  kicking,

  swinging.

  Strong bands

  of muscle

  encircle me,

  pin my arms

  against my side.

  What in the hell

  are you doing,

  Summer?

  It’s Phil. Of course.

  Have you

  totally flipped?

  “No! It’s not me!”

  “It’s her!” I yell,

  nodding toward

  Erica. “She did it,

  not me!” But

  even as the words

  spit from my mouth,

  I know I look like

  the crazy one.

  I MAKE MYSELF GO LIMP

  What happens next

  can go a number of ways,

  I realize. Darla has pulled

  Erica off to one side of the room.

  Surely Darla notices the state of her high

  or the stench of meth sweat.

  Ashante stands in the doorway,

  holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.

  “Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what

  she did to you.” Her eyes look like

  they’ll pop right out of her face.

  Suddenly I notice crimson

  drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try

  to reach up, find the source,

  but Phil still has a death grip

  on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”

  His squeeze relaxes some.

  Let me see. He spins me around,

  draws in his breath. Uh, yeah.

  You’d better clean that up. He lets

  go of me. Come right back, okay?

  THAT BAD, HUH?

  I go to the bathroom,

  flip on the light switch.

  Aagh! No wonder

  Ashante looked so

  scared. This is ugly.

  Striping the right side

  of my face from eyebrow

  to cheek is a long, narrow

  gash. Not a scratch.

  Too deep, carved by

  something critically

  sharp. A ring? Closer

  inspection makes

  me slightly queasy.

  This will leave a scar.

  Soap. Water, hot as

  I can stand it. Pain

  can be a good thing.

  Sometimes it means

  killing germs, and if this

  gets infected … well,

  I’m not sure exactly what,

  but I’m positive I don’t want

  that to happen. The bleeding

  slows, but the wound puffs up.

  The girl in the mirror

  looks like a total freak,

  with one side of her face

  swollen. Ugly. Deformed.

  She starts to cry. Shit!

  No fair. No fucking

  fair. It wasn’t even

  any of my business

  what Erica did. Was it?

  And what if Ashante

  won’t tell what she did?

  Who will take the fall?

  Erica? Or me? If I tell,

  will they believe me?

  And how much do I tell?

  Everything could come

  crashing to the ground.

  It’s like trying to cross

  a raging river on a rope

  bridge—fairly stable until

  you reach the middle,

  and then it all starts

  to sway, and you know

  you shouldn’t look down.

  But you can’t help yourself.

  DARLA COMES INTO THE BATHROOM

  She approaches slowly, warily,

  as if she’s cornered a killer tiger

  or something. I snort. “No worries.

  One attack per day is my max.”

  But her expression shows concern,

  not fear, and I realize it’s my face

  she’s worried about. That looks bad.

  Maybe we should take you to the ER.

  ER? They’ll want to know what

  happened. Take a report. Send

  it off to my caseworker. Bye-

  bye, Darla and Phil. “No. I’m okay.”

  That’s going to leave a nasty

  scar, Summer. Unless … we

  could try the Liquid Band-Aid

  stuff. It stings like crazy, but …

  “I can handle it.” I follow her

  to the other bathroom, watch

  her dig through her medicine

  cabinet. Finally she finds the bottle.

  This is a good antiseptic, too.

  That’s why it stings so much.

  The smell is almost enough

  to knock me over. Hang on.

  Sting? It’s liquid fire, welding

  my skin together. “Holy crap!”

  But it lasts only a few seconds.

  And I’ve felt worse pain.

  Darla looks at me with sympathetic

  eyes. But then she says, Okay,

  now that you’re going to live, will

  you please tell me what happened?

  IF I TELL

  Things could go

  from bad to worse.

  It’s been stable here,

  few real surprises. But

  if I tell,

  the status quo will be

  ruptured. The system

  isn’t famous for

  equitable fixes.

  Things could

  go from worse to

  unbearable. But if I don’t

  tell, Erica will get away

  with her disgusting act

  and Ashante will

  go

  without the help

  she needs right now.

  If I don’t tell, things

  could definitely go

  straight to hell.

  MY MOUTH OPENS

  Like a floodgate,

  cascading words

  doubtless better left

  dammed up inside.

  But every ugly detail

  comes splashing out.

  As I talk, Darla’s eyes

  grow wide. She didn’t

  suspect a thing. How is

  it possible to take care

  of problem kids and not

  maintain a semi-constant

  vigil for problems? Is she lazy?

  Ignorant? Or maybe she doesn’t

  really care about anything

  except the monthly stipends.

  If that’s the case, too bad, so

  sad. I’m betting one or more

  of those is about to disappear.

  DESPITE DRAGGING

  My rear on three hours’ sleep;

  despite my swollen cheek

  being sort of stitched together

  by a substance resembling dried

  nail polish; despite the drama

  I’ve jump-started, then left in my

  exhaust, I am sent to school.

  While I wait for Matt, people take

  one look, swing wide around me,

  as if the condition of my face

  might be contagious or something.

  I seriously need a major dose

  of Matt. Need to feel cared for.

  Loved. So far, though, no Matt.

  But here comes Kyle. Solo.

  Odd. He and Matt always ride

  together. He notices me, and

  even from here I can see his face

  light up. But when he pushes

  near, he pales. Oh my God.

  What happened to you?

  I launch a condensed version

  of the lurid story, and as I talk,

  he reaches out, gently traces

  the contour of the wound.

  The move is unexpected.

  Uncharacteristic. Unbelievab
ly

  tender. No one has ever touched

  me quite this way. I look up

  into his eyes, find invitation.

  That isn’t new. But this feels

  different. My own hand lifts,

  covers his, rides along as it

  travels my cheek again, this

  time all the way down to

  the corner of my lips. I kiss

  his fingertips before yanking

  myself out of the moment.

  “Uh … where’s Matt, anyway?”

  I let my hand drop. His should

  too. But it doesn’t. He’ll be here

  later. Dentist appointment.

  MY ACTIONS

  Imply regret, but we both know

  I’m not sorry for what just happened.

  Hastily withdrawn affection or no,

  we both understand I want to touch

  Kyle again. Almost as much as I want

  him to touch me again. I need to

  say something, but can find

  no words to convey the burst

  of emotions I’m feeling. Guilt.

  Lust. Remorse. Intrigue. Perhaps

  most of all, I have an intense

  desire to see where Kyle’s small

  gesture of concern might lead.

  But what should I do now?

  Best answer: nothing. Pretend

  it didn’t happen. “Bell’s gonna ring.”

  I’ll walk you to your locker.

  He keeps his body very close.

  Protectively close. Almost

  as if I belong to him. Hmm.

  MATT FINDS ME

  At lunch, sitting on the lawn,

  absorbing cool autumn sun.

  Thinking about the other guy.

  He comes up behind me and

  when I turn, reacts immediately.

  Holy crap. That’s fucking nasty.

  It is pretty swollen and in a few

  small places, the adhesive has

  come unstuck. I dabbed blood

  a few times this morning.

  Unlike Kyle, Matt is not

  inclined to touch the thing.

  In fact, he looks kind of nauseated

  when he says, Hope whoever did

  that to you looks worse than you do.

  Ouch. I’d chalk that up to being

  a male reaction, if not for the one

  I got earlier from—Stop already.

  “I dunno. Haven’t seen her this

  morning.” Come to think of it,

  she wasn’t in chemistry today.

  Oh. Well, do you want to tell me

  what happened? The tone of his

  voice says he doesn’t really care.

  He is just voyeuristic

  enough to enjoy the bitch

  fight part. But that isn’t what

  matters, and if he enjoyed

  hearing the other part, it

  would piss me off. “Not really.”

  Okay then. Skip it. I’d kiss you—

  he gives me a grossed out look—

  but I wouldn’t want to hurt you.

  I don’t know if it’s because

  he doesn’t seem to care,

  or because someone else

  cared so much, but suddenly

  I’m pissed all over again. I jump

  to my feet. “Don’t bother!”

  I head for the nearest building,

  ignoring his confusion-soaked question.

  Damn, Summer. What did I say?

  FOR THE MOST PART

  I keep my temper in

  check. Rarely does

  anger get the best of me.

  The past twenty-four

  hours have used up my

  pissed-off allowance

  for the rest of the year!

  I sit in Spanish. Thinking

  about the puta who

  messed up my cara, and

  the cabrón who doesn’t

  really care about my face. Not

  that I learned the Spanish

  words for whore or bastard

  from Señor Gonzales.

  I learned those in my last

  foster home. One of the girls

  there was pretty much a chola.

  That’s a gringa word for

  gangbanger. Anyway, I did

  learn a couple of palabras

  here with Señor Gonzales:

  amor and nuevo. If you

  put them together, what do

  you get? Answer: new love.

  I’M NOT REALLY IN LOVE

  With Kyle. I’m not really in love

  with Matt, either. Falling in

  love

  with someone is the surest

  highway to hurt that I know.

  When the door to love

  opens,

  the window to control closes.

  I have little enough power

  over my life as it is.

  The portal

  to pain is caring too deeply

  about anyone. That includes

  me, myself, and I. It’s scary

  to

  think I might never take a deep

  drink of forever love. Scarier

  still to gag on yet another

  deception.

  Too many lies in this frozen

  world. And too few destined

  mergers of the heart.

  I DO BELIEVE THAT

  So why, after class,

  when I spy Kyle at

  the far end of the corridor,

  does my heart quicken?

  Why do I feel like I can

  barely catch my breath

  (and it has nothing to do

  with my asthma)?

  Why does a glimpse

  of his crooked smile

  threaten to melt the ice

  dam encircling my heart?

  Why do I even halfway

  buy into the ridiculous

  idea of a remote

  possibility of love?

  NEVADA APPEAL

  CARSON CITY.—Former Pink Pussycat madam Robyn Rosselli moved one step closer to the Nevada state legislature today when her opponent, Greg Cappelini, dropped out of the race.

  Cappelini’s ties to the nuclear power industry have plagued him since tentative plans to go forward with the Yucca Mountain project were recently revealed.

  “At least I’m an ex-whore,” joked Rosselli. “But seriously, if Nevada voters place their faith in me, they can be assured that I will do everything in my power to kill Yucca Mountain once and for all.”

  Rosselli worked at the Pink Pussycat for fifteen years, before returning to college to earn her BA in political science. “Running a ranch is all about politics,” she said. “Courting voters isn’t much different than courting johns.”

  Rosselli, who has admitted a youthful flirtation with crystal meth, was a vocal supporter of the new requirement for legal prostitutes to pass regular drug tests.

  Cappelini was not available for comment.

  Hunter

  NEVADA DAY

  Not sure how many

  other states make a big deal

  about the day they were admitted

  to the Union. But God bless

  the Silver State for Nevada Day.

  Three-day weekends rock.

  Especially when they mean

  you can spend Friday morning

  sleeping in late, then waking

  the beautiful lady dozing next

  to you for an extra-long go-round.

  Ambitious sex totally rocks.

  Especially when it leaves

  her damp hair splayed in silk

  cords across your chest,

  and each of her breaths lifts

  the cherry tips of perfect breasts.

  Another go-round rocks exponentially.

  WHEN WE FINISH

  We’re pretty much wrecked.

  Nikki slips out from between
/>
  the ruined sheets, heads toward

  the bathroom and a hot shower.

  But not before confirming,

  I love you, Hunter.

  “You too,” I say, mesmerized

  by the sway of her narrow hips.

  She leaves the door cracked open.

  I hear water splash against tile,

  and soon ginger-scented mist drifts

  into the room. Heaven must be

  a whole lot like this. A sigh escapes

  as I roll onto my side, notice my cell

  phone flashing. Good thing I had

  it on “silent.” I punch voice mail.

  The message is from Jude, the

  X program director. Snagged

  those David Cook tickets for you.

  I’ll leave them in your mailbox.

  MOM IS AN AMERICAN IDOL DEVOTEE

  And a huge David Cook fan.

  When he was on the show,

  she bugged me every week

  to call in and vote for him.

  So when I heard the Brewery

  Arts Center was bringing him

  in for Halloween, I asked Jude

  for tickets. The station gets them

  for just about every concert.

  I don’t ask for them often,

  but Mom and Dad have been

  totally stressed lately. Being

  around them is like tiptoeing

  on broken glass, razor-sharp

  slivers aiming for the soles

  of my feet. Sometimes

  I wonder how their lives

  would be if I had never

  been born. It’s not like

  they asked to start over.

  Sometimes I wonder if I am

  the reason they don’t hold

  hands anymore, rarely kiss

  in public. If I am to blame

  for the emotional distance

  between them, an expanding

  rift that seems to grow wider

  when I am home, near them.

  Mom insists they’re still

  best friends, and I guess

  that’s true. She says it’s

  normal for passion to cool.

  Is all love so predictable

  or is it, in fact, my fault?

  I don’t mind so much when

  Dad gets mad at me. I’m pretty

  sure that’s a testosterone thing.

  But I can’t stand it when Mom

  goes all silent and frozen.

  I hope David Cook can thaw her.

  THIS MUST BE

  How Santa feels on

  Christmas Eve morning,

  sleigh clean, reindeer

  fed, presents wrapped,