Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

him to know any details about Bryce

  and me, some people might

  say I’ve earned it to some

  degree. But, hey, a month

  of secrets in seventeen years?

  I’d say that’s not so bad.

  And a month of romance

  in all that time means I’ve got

  a fair amount of catching up to do.

  I HAVEN’T CAUGHT ALL THE WAY

  Up yet. Haven’t gone all the way

  “there,” not that he’s asked to.

  Part of me really likes that—

  that he respects me enough

  not to pressure me into something

  I’m probably not ready for. Part

  of me wonders if I’m not good

  enough for him to even want to try.

  It’s warped. So am I. Although

  I have to say, with Bryce in my life

  I feel a little less distorted than

  I used to. He grounds me. Not only

  that, but for once, people at school

  don’t look at me like I’m a complete freak.

  Not with Bryce’s arm around my waist

  as he walks me to class. Not when they see

  us steal kisses (you’re not supposed

  to swap spit in the hallways). Not when

  they see us come and go in his car,

  stereo blaring. Sometimes grunge,

  sometimes country. I’m happy to listen

  to Three Days Grace. And, with some

  coaxing, he’ll agree to Toby Keith,

  though I haven’t quite convinced him

  Toby’s music is rock with a Texas

  drawl. On weekends we manage

  to steal some time together, if I can

  talk Grandfather into letting me go

  to a game, the mall, or the library. Bryce

  will meet me and we’ll cheer our team,

  window shop, or make out behind the stacks.

  I must say, I’ve become a pretty good kisser.

  And I’m starting to like how that makes me feel

  in places I’ve always refused to think about.

  YEAH, I KNEW I HAD THEM

  I took sex ed twice

  in middle school.

  I totally get the

  mechanics, and

  when it comes

  to spelling the

  names for those

  places, hey, I’m a

  regular champ. But

  up until now, the

  idea of putting

  that knowledge

  to genuine use

  seemed way too

  complicated to

  consider. Not to

  mention more than

  than a little messy.

  Okay, when it comes to E X, I’m retarded. But

  better late than never.

  IF YOU BELIEVE THE HYPE

  Pretty much everyone my age

  has been doing it since puberty

  claimed them. I have no idea

  how

  accurate that is, but think it must

  be a gross exaggeration.

  In health class, Mr. Vega said

  most self-proclaimed virgins

  will

  resort to self-satisfaction. Just his

  saying the word “masturbation” out

  loud bellowed embers in my face.

  I

  have never … could never …

  At least I’m pretty sure I could

  never. Mr. Vega also said

  that the best way to

  know

  what you like is to experiment

  without a partner. What I like?

  That’s up to me? And anyway,

  I’m

  afraid if I happen to figure out

  what I like, I might never stop

  doing it. OCD masturbation.

  The world is definitely not

  ready for that.

  WONDER WHO THINKS I DO

  Aunt Cora? Maybe, maybe not.

  Seems like satisfaction of any type

  would make one’s little gold flecks

  multiply like jackrabbits. My aura

  would sparkle like an Oscar-

  night Yves St. Laurent. And anyway,

  Aunt Cora is probably too busy

  basking in her own satisfaction

  to worry too much about mine.

  Cherie? She thinks I do, of course

  she does. She’s got a grubby mind.

  Grandfather? No way. If he thought

  such a thing, for even one

  minute, he’d cure me, Baptist-style.

  The only other person who might

  care is Bryce. Oh God, I hope

  he doesn’t think I do. Hope …

  Wait one sec. Maybe I hope he does.

  HOPE HE DOES

  Because, so sayeth

  Mr. Vega, the big M

  is normal. I want Bryce

  to think I’m normal,

  though I suspect he

  might guess otherwise.

  (Guess otherwise and like me

  anyway? What’s that about?)

  Hope he does because

  that would mean Bryce

  is putting me and sex

  in the same thought,

  something I’m pretty

  sure no one else has.

  (Want—really want—him to think

  about me in a sexual way? Weird.)

  Hope he does, mostly

  because putting me

  and sex in the same

  thought means he’s

  got me, Autumn Rose

  Shepherd, on his mind.

  (Means he’s got me on his

  mind in any way at all.)

  I WISH I WAS SPENDING

  Thanksgiving with Bryce. Just the two

  of us, plus cornbread-stuffed turkey,

  taters, gravy, cranberries, pumpkin

  pie. Skip the green bean casserole.

  Aunt Cora loves that stuff. Claims

  it’s her specialty. Special? Uh …

  Anyway, it’s my fantasy, so

  excise the French cuts, smothered

  in mushroom soup. Start with

  Bryce and me nibbling each other

  for appetizers while the bird

  roasts and the pies cool

  on the counter, perfuming

  the kitchen with cinnamon and

  nutmeg. Bryce leans me back

  over the Formica … scratch that.

  Fantasy, remember? Leans me

  back over the shiny black granite,

  kisses me. And not in a nice way.

  And I kiss him back, with every

  fiber of me screaming, “Go ahead.

  Say okay. You know you want to.

  Beg him to—” Except a buzzer

  goes off. The turkey’s done. Taters,

  too. Gosh darn food fantasies.

  TURNS OUT

  The buzz isn’t fantasy. It’s my cell,

  insisting I’ve got a text message.

  Bryce. Wonder if he was reading

  my warped mind long-distance.

  He’s in San Diego, spending

  the holiday with his grandparents.

  Hey u. CA wud be prettier if u

  wur here. ’S cold w/o u.

  Abbreviations irritate me. I text

  back without resorting to shortcuts.

  “Hey, you. Texas is always warm. But

  Thanksgiving would definitely be

  a lot more fun if you were here.

  I’d even cook for you.” I hit

  the send button, fall back into

  my kitchen fantasy. But not for long.

  My cell buzzes again. Wish u wur

  cooking 4 me. Gram’s cooking

  mostly suks. Hey, are u a good

  cook? Cuz if u r, I think I luv u.

  DID HE MEAN

  He loves me? Like for real?
<
br />   Or was he just being funny?

  My stomach flip-flops. How

  should I answer? Should I answer

  at all? OMG. Because I think

  I love him, too. But do I dare

  tell him that? What if he didn’t

  mean it? I might scare him away.

  But what if he did and I don’t

  let him know I feel the same way?

  Why doesn’t love come with

  an owner’s manual? Maybe I should

  try “funny” too. I text, “No matter

  what kind of cook you are, I think

  I love you, too.” My finger hesitates

  over the send button. I reread

  his message. Reread mine, too.

  Ah, what the heck? Here goes.

  OFF

  Through

  cyberspace

  the declaration

  travels. Byte

  by byte.

  I wait.

  One minute.

  Two. No answer.

  Please, Bryce?

  Seconds tick

  by. Damn!

  Joke.

  Just a joke,

  Bryce. Please

  don’t be mad.

  Please don’t

  dump me.

  Buzz!

  I jump. Afraid

  to look. But

  glad when I do.

  Good. C u

  Sunday.

  I SOAR

  Up, up, dangerously close

  to heaven, and I’m not

  the slightest bit afraid.

  I

  have never even once in

  my life felt like this before.

  Like anything is possible.

  No matter how messed up I

  am,

  this amazing guy cares

  about me. Maybe even

  loves me. That’s seriously

  crazy.

  My aura must be all the way

  past toffee, to coppery.

  Gold, even. I have an

  in-

  sane urge to tell someone

  about this. But even Aunt

  Cora would have a hard

  time believing I’m really in

  love.

  I CRASH

  Back to earth. Back to reality.

  Back to Thanksgiving with strangers.

  Aunt Cora swore all would be well.

  You’ll love Liam’s family, she promised.

  And you’ll feel right at home. I’m even

  making my green bean casserole.

  Yeah, boy. Thanksgiving would not

  be the same without it. Everyone’s

  supposed to bring something.

  How about your special cranberry

  sauce? asked Aunt Cora, when I

  claimed I didn’t know what to make.

  I use two secret ingredients—

  orange and cinnamon. It’s easy

  but tedious, and three hours until

  we’re supposed to ring the doorbell,

  I should get to getting, as Grandfather

  says. Aunt Cora usually helps me, but

  she’s already at the Cregans’, dousing

  green beans with cream o’ shrooms.

  I DON’T NEED HER HELP

  I’ve made this recipe twice a year

  (Christmas, too) since I could tell

  the difference between a saucepan

  and a skillet. It just seems strange,

  going through the familiar motions

  laughter free. The kitchen throbs

  silence. The sound of my sock-padded

  footsteps echoes, wall to wall to wall.

  I yank open the cupboard, grab

  the necessary utensils, clanging them

  cacophonously. Noise to battle

  the hush-edged aloneness.

  Then I line up ingredients in correct order.

  Cinnamon. Cranberries. Oranges. Sugar.

  CRANBERRIES SIMMERED

  Sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon

  added. Everything in a pretty glass

  bowl, gelling rich red in the fridge,

  it occurs to me that contributing

  to the eardrum-slicing quiet is the fact

  that Grandfather has not yet appeared.

  We should leave before too very

  long. I explore. Living room? Empty.

  Hall? No sign of anything living.

  Foreboding strikes suddenly. I march

  right up to Grandfather’s bedroom door.

  Knock, half expecting no answer.

  But on the far side, a drawer closes.

  The sound precedes footsteps

  across the complaining wood floor.

  Coming, Grandfather calls. Coming.

  Twice, as if convincing himself

  he really needs to get a move on.

  I imagine him pajama-clad

  and candy-stripe-eyed, but

  the grandfather who opens

  the door is one I’ve never, ever

  seen before. “Wow. I didn’t

  know you even owned a suit.”

  A genuine grin creeps cheekbone

  to cheekbone, and his eyes—

  clear as a cold-water creek—fill

  with delight. Dug it out of mothballs.

  Today is a special occasion.

  Thought Cora might appreciate

  you and me dressing to the nines.

  Go put on something real pretty.

  It’s an order. But a gentle one.

  THE WHOLE THING

  Is so unexpected, I’m halfway

  changed into a plum-colored silk

  blouse when my fingers start to

  tingle and my breath stutters short.

  Wait. Why now? Nothing’s wrong

  except … Except for this sudden

  feeling like the world just flipped

  upside down. South Pole on top.

  Santa’s lair at the butt end. I close

  my eyes, sip in air through clenching

  teeth. What is going on with me?

  It’s just one dinner at the home of total

  strangers. One stupid holiday meal,

  Grandfather and me putting on the dog

  to impress … who? One Thanksgiving,

  not a commitment, not forever … Dread

  stuffs itself into my head, and I can’t say

  why, let alone know how to fight it.

  IT’S NOT EXACTLY UNUSUAL

  For anxiety to trill suddenly.

  But usually, somewhere in my brain,

  there’s a certainty that it’s ridiculous.

  This doesn’t feel that way. This feels

  like a warning of coming chaos.

  I finish buttoning my blouse,

  tuck it into the striking tie-dyed skirt

  Aunt Cora gave me on my last birthday.

  I’ve never worn it before. It seemed

  like a treasure. One to hang in

  the closet, a safe place to keep

  it. Now that it’s on, it’s only cloth.

  I finish dressing, brush back my hair,

  tie it loosely with blue velvet ribbon.

  Grandfather will be pleased.

  But I’m frightened by what

  I see, held completely still in

  the mirror’s glass grip. The girl

  captured there, staring back at me,

  is someone I don’t recognize.

  THAT GIRL

  Curves softly

  inside flounces

  of fabric. She looks

  like the woman

  I’m afraid to grow into.

  Lifts her hand

  with uncommon grace.

  She could pass for

  the sophisticate

  I’m too clumsy to be.

  Touches cheeks

  blushed berry in

  steep hollows.

  I wish I knew who

  sculpted her face.r />
  I don’t know

  that girl. The only

  thing familiar about

  her is how she wears

  fear in her eyes.

  IT IS THAT GIRL

  Who gets in the car with

  Grandfather. That girl who

  rides, silent as a ghost, for

  ninety-three minutes, barely

  even acknowledging her

  grandfather’s faltering small talk.

  That girl who stares out

  the window, counting water

  tanks and watching big and

  bigger American flags flap

  in the wind. That girl who

  quick-freezes after arrival.

  Coming? asks Grandfather,

  exiting the driver’s side and

  then, in a most gentlemanly

  fashion, circling the car to

  open the passenger door.

  What can that girl do but join

  her grandfather on the wide

  sidewalk? Together, the two

  assess the Cregan place—

  a huge, upscale tract home.

  One of those houses that

  resembles its huge, upscale

  neighbors to a creepy

  degree. The houses come

  in three hues—beige, gray,

  and not-quite-white. Not much

  to distinguish one from another

  except the number of stories,

  size of the garage, and gravel

  color. Even the plants—native

  Texas species, known to thrive

  in this climate—are the same.

  All, no doubt, must be approved

  by the homeowners’ association.

  Part of me likes the conformity.

  The order. Part of me wonders

  if anything ever disturbs it.

  Wind? Rain? Hurricane?

  Birth? Divorce? Argument?

  What difference does it make?

  THE DOOR FLIES OPEN

  Before we make the welcome mat.

  Some sort of chaos, after all?

  But no. It’s just a jacked-up Aunt Cora.

  Come in! Everyone’s here. She snatches

  Grandfather’s elbow, tugs. All right,

  he snarls, tugging it back. I’m working on it.

  Maybe his suave exterior is nothing more

  than a barely disguised case of nerves.

  I follow, cradling my cranberry surprise

  as if it might jump from my arms. Aunt Cora

  leads us into the kitchen, where most

  of the celebrators have gathered.

  She sidles up to Liam, pulls him over