Fallout (57 page)

TELLING HIM

Was something like getting a cavity

filled. Without Novocain. Evil pain,

the words drilling through the roof

of my mouth to deep inside my brain.

It was raining that afternoon, the world cold

and gray. I haven’t yet shaken the chill.

Ms. Shreeveport gave me a three-day

reprieve, time for an early Christmas

celebration. So much to celebrate

and all. I didn’t tell Kyle when I called

him. Wanted to do that face-to-face.

We were actually belly-to-belly on

the seat of his truck when I started

to cry. “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”

I can’t hold you much tighter.

And you’re not going anywhere.

“Yes. I am. They’re taking me

to Fresno. To a new foster home.”

He looked down into my eyes.

When? How long have you known?

“Day after tomorrow. I just found

out yesterday. It’s because of Dad.”

He brushed the hair away from

my face. Dried my cheeks with

the back of his hand. Shook his

head.
I can’t let you go. Not now.

You make life worth living.

If you leave, I have nothing.

I lifted my face. Kissed him.

“I don’t have a choice. It’s all set

up. I start school at Roosevelt

after vacation.” He slumped down

on me. Heavy. Weighted. Then

he started to cry.
This is fucked up.

Which made me cry more too.

We cried together for a long time.

Finally I said, “Make love to me.

I need to remember how it feels.”

It felt rough. Like punishment.

Punishment for his own pain.

I REMEMBER HOW IT FELT

All the way to Fresno.

Ms. Shreeveport tries

to make conversation.

For about fifteen minutes.

I surround myself with

a silence-bricked wall.

Finally she gets it.

You’ve got a lot on your mind.

Well, yeah. Like not

knowing what’s coming

next. Like wondering why

my life can’t remain static.

Like thinking about

Kyle and me, on the seat

of his truck, learning

how much real love hurts.

Like remembering what

he said, when our tears

had dried. On the surface.

Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.

I WASN’T IN LOVE

With Bakersfield. (Only

with a guy who lives there.)

But I already hate Fresno.

It may be the gateway

to Yosemite’s stark glory,

but unlike the Sierra

sneaking up behind it,

the city of Fresno is an

ucking fugly collection of

east-leaning buildings,

blade-bare lawns, and

half-digested asphalt.

Cool enough now, almost

Christmas, but hotter than

Sahara sand in summer.

Really can’t wait to live here.

RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …

Do that a dozen or so times,

you end up in the broken-down

neighborhood I now call home.

The houses are fifties era. Built

around the time kids still did

duck-under-your-desk drills,

as if that could protect them

from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe

that’s what happened to this

neighborhood. Wonder if I should

worry about radiation. Maybe

wrap myself in aluminum foil.

At last (so soon?) we pull up

in front of a totally inconspicuous

place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”

Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”

Who paints a house like this?

Doesn’t matter how it looks

outside. It’s what’s inside that

counts. You’ll like the Clooneys.

SO SAYS SHE

What else would she say,

anyway? She opens

the trunk, and I

grab my

bag. Not much in it, but

only one thing matters—

my cell phone. My

lifeline

to the real world.

The one I’m about to

walk into is

pretend.

The uneven sidewalk

tries to trip me. The step

sags beneath my weight.

I don’t

want to see what’s

beyond the door, but

it opens at the bell. I

need it to

be nice inside.

I need something

solid to

hold on to.

CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE

But it isn’t horrible. My nose

says so. It smells of cinnamon

apple room freshener—fake

but not bad. You couldn’t call

the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.

Everything shrieks “seventies.”

Red/purple shag carpet. Thick

velour drapes. Linoleum in

the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen

and bathrooms). Dated. Used.

I notice all this without stepping

foot through the door. Too many

people in the way right now.

Ms. Shreeveport has to work

her way past a short, too-perky

blonde and a bear-sized, bear-

colored man. Brown hair.

Brown skin. Brooding brown

eyes. George Clooney,

he ain’t. Wonder who he is.

FINALLY, I’M IN

Introductions are passed round.

Blonde, with a loopy smile.

Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.

Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport

says,
And this is Mr. Clooney.

Bear finally opens his curtain

of silence, corrects,
Call me Walter.

I stand in wordless defiance.

Bear asks Shreeveport,
She’s

not, like, a mute, right?

I am so loving him already.

Shreeveport says,
Of course

not. Say something, Summer.

I use sign language: “Hi.”

Blonde (Tanya) takes the high road,

giggles.
Ha. Hi to you, too.

Shreeveport does not find it

funny.
Please don’t be difficult.

Bear (Walter) asserts control.

No such thing as difficult here.

I push back with a silent “Bet me.”

Tanya ignores my defiant look.

Come meet the other girls.

I shrug, start to follow her.

Shreeveport doesn’t quite drop

it.
Cooperation is important.

I grab my bag, turn shadow.

Walter goes all syrupy.

There’s a good little girl.

I try not to notice the way my skin crawls.