Fallout (17 page)

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.