Fallout (5 page)

I sigh. “I should try to write.”

“You should try
not
to write,” she counters. “Even
I
don't write all the time. I know, what about—”

The phone rings.

“Sorry—I should—”

“Do you want me to go?” she asks.

“It's okay,” I say and pick up the phone.

“Hey, Tara—”

“David!”

Ebony's eyebrows shoot up.

“Hey—it's been a while.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

God. How awkward can a conversation be? “Where are you?”

“Vancouver, of course. Where else?”

Where else. “So, what's up?” I ask.

“Not much. You?”

“Work. Slams. Are you still playing soccer?” I know he is. I follow the team online. He's still one of the best in the league.

“Yeah. I had three scholarship offers for this year.”

“Nice. Are you accepting any of them?”

“South Carolina. Full ride.”

“Wow. Congratulations!” I hope I sound more excited than I feel. South Carolina. That's a long way from everywhere.

“So, anyway, I mostly wanted to call and say hi—you know, see if you're doing okay.”

My throat closes and I can't speak. I turn away from Ebony.

“Tara? You're doing okay, aren't you?”

I hear the terror in his voice. It's what we all feel when someone doesn't pick up the phone or when a silence goes on for too long. I clear my throat. “Sorry.

I'm—I'm fighting off a cold. I'm fine.”

“Good. That's good.”

“You?”

“I'm doing okay.”

“Good.” Did we really miss curfews because we couldn't stop talking? “David, I have to go. My friend's here and—”

“No problem. I just wanted to say hi.” He sounds relieved.

“Thanks for calling. Talk to you soon.”

We both hang up. We won't talk again for a long time.

“Aw, honey—come here,” Ebony says, her arms wide. I fall against her, sobbing. She pats my back.

“Oh god—I'm sorry,” I say, gulping back tears.

“No apology needed. Go wash your face. Let's go to the farmer's market.”

Grateful not to be in charge, I head into the bathroom to pull myself together.

Chapter Eleven

“Have you ever had Maya's samosas?”

We're in front of a food cart in the middle of the market. “I don't think so.”

“Oh my god—so good!” Ebony buys a plateful of vegetarian samosas.

We sit side by side on a bench. She holds the paper plate between us. “Careful,” she says, biting off two corners of a samosa. She blows gently into one hole, forcing steam out the second. “Hot!” she says, bugging her eyes out.

“These
are
good,” I agree. I love samosas, but Maya's are amazing. Potatoes, onions, peas, cilantro, a bit of curry, something peppery…“Oh, yum!”

Ebony carefully nibbles her way into the hot filling. “So, you going to tell me about this David boy?”

“Not so much to tell, really.”

“How did you meet?”

I blush. “It's kind of a lame story.”

“No such thing as a lame story when it comes to looove.”

“You haven't heard it yet…”

“So tell me.”

“Everybody at my school knew David. He's a really good soccer player and he's also smart and funny—and, you know, self-confident.”

Ebony grins. “Sounds like Mr. Perfect.”

“Almost.”

“Have another one before I eat them all. So he went to your school and you and every other girl thought he was amazing. How did you—?”

“We were at this dance. A group of us girls—we were all dancing together. Then about four of the soccer players joined us—and somehow David and I started dancing.”

Ebony waits for me to go on.

“This is going to sound so bad—”

“I doubt it. We've all been there.”

“It was hot, so after three dances we went outside to cool off. He said he liked the way I moved—”

“Oooh…”

“And he asked me if I needed a drink—”

“I bet you did—”

“Well, yeah. So we went back to his car and I gulped this beer down way too fast and then…”

Ebony giggles. “Okay, I get it.”

“I don't. Not really. I always thought I was the kind of girl who wanted to have a conversation first—Shut up! It's not that funny!”

“Sorry. So you guys did it in the parking lot?”

My head feels like it's going to fall off. What am I doing telling her all this? “Well, more or less.”

“And?”

“What, and?”

“You must have liked more-or-lessing with him—you kept seeing him, right?”

“Yeah. We were together two years.”

“That's a lot of more-or-lessing!”

She's right. We spent a
lot
of time more-or-lessing.

“Did you like it?”

Oh god. Why did I let her start down this path? Yes, I liked it. A lot. It was the best part of our relationship. It wasn't like he was into poetry, and I don't think I ever watched a whole soccer game. How sad is that?

Ebony ignores my failure to answer and keeps right on going.

“Because there's nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Why should guys have all the fun?” She chomps down on another samosa. “Oh. My. God. These are
so
good. We should try to make them sometime.”

“Really? Do you really think that?” I ask.

“What—that we should make samosas? Or that girls can like sex as much as boys? I'm not going to speak for everyone, but sure—I mean, as long as you're careful and everybody plays nice and you both want to…”

I can't believe we're having this conversation sitting on a Camden park bench. Mom would be horrified.

“Not everybody agrees,” I say.

“Who cares? You're not trying to make other people happy. That's the fast road to hell, if you ask me.”

“Split the last one?”

We tear the last samosa down the middle and sit side by side, chewing.

“It's not fair what some people say about girls like us,” Ebony says, wiping her fingers on her jeans.

I know exactly what she means. “There's a difference between lusty and wicked—”

“Stop! You should write that down!”

“I've wanted to do a poem about this forever,” I confess.

“Say it again.”

“There's a difference between lusty and wicked…”

“How about this—
Who says that
lusty implies some kind of wicked?
Is it better when you start with a question?”

“What do you think?”

“Maybe. Then you could go on with something like,
are lusty women lewd
or—
”

“Lascivious,” I suggest.

“Lascivious?”

“Too hot for your own good.”

“Hang on. Let's write this down.”

I pull my notebook from my bag and open it on my lap.

We work together for almost an hour, throwing ideas back and forth. Ebony takes the page and writes; I take it back and write. When we're done we have a long poem in two voices about— well, all kinds of things.

“We could perform this at Nationals,” Ebony says. “If we both make the team. God, I really hope we both do.”

“Me too.”

“Let's do it one more time,” she suggests. “Then I have to go.”

I have no idea who hears our poem, and I don't care. We read through it together as if we've been practicing for years. Sometimes she reads alone, sometimes I do. Then, somehow, we both know when we need to deliver a line together.

Who says that lusty implies

some kind of wicked?

that women are lewd

or lascivious

when, in fact, exuberant

is not lawless

extravagant

not the same as careless.

Immoral, or frolicsome?

Unchaste, or playful?

We choose playful and yet

we see how they look at us when

when my hand slides under his
shirt

rests gently against the warm
skin of his back.

when I slip my hand in his

in the lobby of the Grand Plaza
Hotel.

Your lover is a boy

mine is a man

gentle and sophisticated.

He knows his wines

cars

cruise lines

and corporate logos.

My boy knows my body.

Whatever electric pulses

hormones

or destiny

were at work on the dance floor

at the high school gym

left us sweating in the backseat
of his car.

Three years ago

it seemed that fate

had delivered my boy

into my lap

his curly hair tickling my chin

as he nuzzled his way

into cleavage

and I sighed my way into
oblivion.

My gentleman friend

understands the language of
chocolates

roses shipped by the dozen.

My boy understands the
language of soccer

shoots to score

leaves his cleats

on the floor by the bed

and whoops when he should
whisper.

There's no way to speak of this

without moaning

the pleasure of memory

the way the windows fogged

the way the springs heaved us
back and forth

the way he had to move the
umbrella

before someone got hurt.

Lace and small buttons
soccer cleats and hockey jerseys

snaps and scarves

jeans so tight you can't help
but squeeze

     
Always a drink before

Always a drink after

The hostess greets him by name

Good evening, Mr. Charmante…

wine list

specials.

I am special

his lovely girl

elegant in pearls

and pumps

and a simple black dress

he will peel off

as I loosen his tie.

It was all so easy, remember?

Of course you remember

the line in the sand

the very minute when

it stopped being easy

the evening I

picked up the cell phone

and heard his wife's voice

the day we didn't answer our
phones

and kept on playing.

You remember when we started being

something else:

an obligation

born not of pleasure

but of shared guilt

knowing that the world

divides

into two kinds of people

those who know

those who have wives

and those who don't

those who have killed

and those who haven't

those who tell the truth

and those who make love with
lies

those who know what it is to be left

and those who believe

that leaving is easy.

Chapter Twelve

Later, when I'm back at home, I wonder if it does any good to spew this stuff all over our audience. Who cares about that first time in David's car? And what about Ebony's married gentleman friend? How does it help anyone to know any of this?

These questions scribble their way into my journal. I'm left with the thought that I will never know who is listening. Maybe some girl who is churning inside with guilt because she enjoys her boyfriend's tongue just a little too much might realize she's not alone. Maybe some girl who's thinking things will be better after she takes those pills will hesitate long enough to get some help.

“Ta-ra! Ta-ra! Ta-ra!”

Ebony and Maddy start the chant.

Others in the packed coffee shop join in.

The scalding water

can't mask this other pain

can't stop the bus

rolling into the shower stall.

Number 7

Courtland-Downtown

the driver's face

a moon in the window.

one two three

Maybe she counted

then gave herself a shove.

Maybe she fell

her poor balance, the crowds…

An old man swears he heard her cry
out

a teenager claims silence.

Whatever she said or didn't say

whatever she thought or didn't think

whatever hesitation, good sense
regret

second thoughts

drowned out

by the squeal of bus brakes.

watch out!

stop!

bus driver leaping out of his seat

tie flying behind him

someone holding one of Hannah's
crutches

though it is obvious crutches won't
be much use

to the crumpled, bleeding body so
still on the road

Cell phones snap open

Nine-one-one emergency. Do you
need police, fire or ambulance?

The crowd pushing in

What happened?

   
A girl just got hit by a bus

Did she fall?

Will she be okay?

Of course not—