Fallout (18 page)

Authors: Ellen Hopkins

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #General, #Orphans & Foster Homes, #Social Issues, #Adolescence, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse

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. Unbelievably

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Hastily withdrawn affection or no,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?

N
EVADA
A
PPEAL

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.