Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  to meet Grandfather, who has yet to

  have actually made his acquaintance.

  This is my dad, Leroy. Dad, this is Liam.

  Grandfather shakes his hand but looks

  uncomfortable. Glad to finally meet you.

  This is only the beginning of a long round

  of introductions. We meet Liam’s mom and

  dad; his brother, Tom; sister, Laurel; two aunts;

  three uncles; a cousin or four. And that’s just

  the ones in the kitchen. I can hear voices

  in some other unidentified room. I don’t think

  I made nearly enough cranberry sauce.

  Throughout the entire process, Aunt Cora

  hangs on to Liam as if letting go might make

  some imaginary tower tumble. Finally, all of

  us not quite knowing one another’s names,

  Aunt Cora’s eyes stop traveling the room

  long enough for her to notice. Oh.

  You wore the skirt. It looks amazing.

  Suddenly everyone is looking at me.

  My palms start to tingle. Before I can lose

  my breath, I excuse myself. “I could use”—

  blood jackhammers my brain—“some air.”

  I START TOWARD THE FRONT DOOR

  But someone catches my arm.

  Come on out here, he says.

  The backyard is real pretty.

  It’s one of Liam’s cousins. Beau?

  Michael? Whichever, he is a couple

  of years older than me and wears

  Irish good looks in long, straight

  black walnut hair, white linen skin,

  and eyes the color of violets.

  I catch my breath, shadow him out

  into a miniature botanical garden,

  with ponds and statuary and trees

  in full autumn dress. It’s stunning.

  Very Zen. My heartbeat slows in

  appreciation of the almost solitude.

  Almost, but for what’s-his-name.

  You okay now? His voice is satin.

  You looked right about ready to bolt.

  “I’m good, thanks. I, uh … sorry.

  Can’t remember your name.

  Too many thrown at me at once.”

  He grins, showing perfect pearl

  teeth. Micah. This is a big family,

  okay. And we’re not even all here.

  Micah, not Michael. Good name.

  But why is he being so nice?

  “Funny. Our family is all here.”

  Not exactly accurate. But close

  enough to the truth, I guess.

  Family is about connection.

  Nothing wrong with a, uh,

  compact family. Long as

  you’re good to each other.

  Are we good to each other?

  Not bad, I suppose. But all

  I can do in response is nod.

  Silence closes in, squeezes.

  Micah releases its grip. You do

  look pretty in that skirt, you know.

  Cheeks flaming, I stutter

  something like, “Thanks,” just

  as someone inside calls out,

  Dinner!

  A GIANT FEAST

  Is laid out, buffet-style, on the long kitchen counters.

  We form a line, help ourselves, then find places to sit.

  The older adults claim the formal dining room, leaving

  us younger people to choose our seats at folding

  tables in the kitchen. I fill my plate sparingly, pick

  a chair, wait to see if Aunt Cora will join me. She doesn’t.

  But Micah does, sitting beside me. Do you mind?

  I shake my head, making his recent compliment rattle

  around inside my brain: Pretty in that skirt … pretty …

  In the next room, Mr. Cregan recites grace and

  before the amen, Micah’s thigh leans gently against

  mine. This can’t be happening! But it is, and it’s warm,

  and all those newly discovered body parts alert.

  The conversation around me blurs to a buzz. I do

  my best to tune out and eat my turkey and stuffing

  without dripping gravy on my blouse or (pretty!) skirt.

  This is just dumb. Not four hours ago, I was fantasizing

  about a private Thanksgiving with Bryce. Now here

  I am surrounded by Cregans and, for some unfathomable

  reason, leg-to-leg with probably the best-looking member

  of the clan. This cannot be happening. Maybe I’m asleep

  and this is all a dream. Blood whooshes in my ears,

  damping a gush of laughter. Somebody told a joke?

  Suddenly metal clinks against glass, like a bell.

  All attention turns toward the dining room, where

  Aunt Cora and Liam are standing. Excuse us, but

  we have some happy news, says Liam. Aunt Cora

  catches my eye, smiles. We’re getting married.

  Summer

  DAD’S IDEA

  Of a Thanksgiving meal,

  Turkey Day treats, in his

  vernacular, is going out

  to my all-time favorite place,

  (are you ready for this?)

  Carrows. Best burgers, ever.

  Burgers for Thanksgiving?

  Poultry gives me the trots.

  No pumpkin pie, either?

  Bet Carrows will have it.

  Carrows pumpkin pie?

  Think I’ll skip it. Burgers?

  Maybe they have turkey

  burgers. Jeez, man. Even

  foster homes celebrate

  Thanksgiving, trying to

  make up for real parents

  who aren’t real parents.

  Hey, I’ve never been much

  of a cook. And Kortni?

  Let her do a turkey, we’ll all

  get the trots. And anyway,

  the important thing is being

  together, right? Thankful

  we can be like a real family.

  OPERATIVE WORD:

  “Like” a real family. I’ve never

  actually had one of those, and

  I’m not exactly sure what I’d do

  with one if I got one. Don’t even

  know if I want one of my own

  creation. Marriage? Children?

  Sounds like a double whammy

  to me. You don’t even see that

  happily-ever-after crap on TV

  anymore. Death. Divorce.

  Deviance. That pretty well

  describes network television

  in the twenty-first century.

  Mostly because it reflects

  contemporary reality. No,

  I think I’ll stick to steady

  relationships for as long

  as they might reasonably

  last. No promises. No “I do’s.”

  No contributing to global

  overpopulation. Now or ever.

  LONG BEFORE

  Any Thanksgiving meal at all, a volley

  of snores—Dad’s and Kortni’s—

  chase me down the narrow hallway.

  I slip out the front door, into the bite

  of November, early morning. A day

  without seeing Kyle? Not going to

  happen. The rutted dirt challenges

  my bare feet, but somehow I manage

  the short jog. He’s there. Parked.

  Waiting. Of course he is. I barely

  have the door yanked open and

  we are kissing. Come up here.

  He pulls me into the truck and into

  his arms without our mouths unlocking.

  Lip to lip, he manages, Damn, I love you!

  I slide my arms around his neck,

  pull my head back so I can plunge

  into the aqua deep of his eyes.

  There’s something
swimming there,

  in the dark pools of his pupils.

  Something disquieting. Now

  that I think about it, I can taste

  it too, lingering on his tongue.

  It’s not quite sweet, and reminds

  me of how the chem lab smells.

  Crystal. He uses sometimes,

  has offered it to me, though

  not since we’ve been together.

  “You buzzed?” The thought

  half horrifies, half excites me.

  Nah. At my disbelieving look,

  he admits, Not really. Just did

  a little. I don’t react, and that

  makes him kind of twitchy.

  Why, you want to try some?

  Always before, I just said no,

  left it solidly there. I waver

  now. I want to share everything

  with Kyle. Want to know what he

  knows, feel what he feels, share

  the same space he’s in. I almost

  say what the hell. In fact, I open

  my mouth to do so. But what comes

  out is, “N-not today.” I hope he thinks

  it has to do with Thanksgiving.

  Instead he says, Chicken?

  Rather than argue or explain,

  I simply tell him he’s right.

  No need for lengthy stories

  about Mom and predisposition.

  INSTEAD

  I’ll try distraction. “Want to go

  somewhere?” I do my best

  to sound sexy, but think

  I need to practice. I sounded

  more fan girl than vamp.

  Sexy or just plain fanatic,

  I am a little surprised when

  Kyle responds by shaking

  his head. Wish we could …

  To prove it, he touches me

  suggestively in a very intimate

  place. But I have to get home

  pretty soon. We’re going to

  my Aunt Liz’s house in Fresno,

  and Dad wants to leave by nine.

  Just as Kyle knows better

  than to argue with his dad,

  I understand pouting will

  not only get me nowhere,

  it just might make Kyle mad.

  HE INHERITS HIS TEMPER

  From his father, he says.

  I’ve only witnessed it on

  a couple of occasions. Hope

  I never have to see it again.

  The last time was when

  we told Matt about Kyle and

  me. It was at school the day after

  we first got together. Matt came

  walking toward us in his usual

  cheerful way. His smile dissolved

  when he noticed us, hands locked

  together and eyes wearing worry.

  Uh, what’s going on? But

  what was going on was obvious.

  Hurt wrinkled his face as if

  he’d suddenly aged thirty years.

  My stomach lurched, roller-

  coaster-style. “We need to

  talk,” I started. I was wavering,

  and Kyle must have felt it in the way

  my hand trembled. He grabbed

  control. Dude, you’re not going

  to like this, but Summer and

  I hooked up yesterday.

  Matt’s reaction was swift.

  What the fuck are you talking

  about? Summer? And what

  exactly does “hook up” mean?

  My face flared, dry-ice hot, and

  I saw Matt’s eyes flood with sudden

  understanding. “Oh God, I’m so

  sorry. I never meant to hurt—”

  Kyle totally lost it. Shut up,

  Summer. Don’t you dare make

  excuses. Then, to Matt. That’s

  right. We did it. And we’ll do it

  again. She’s really good, so you

  know. And she’s mine. Understand?

  Back to me. You are mine, aren’t

  you? Didn’t you say you loved me?

  I tried to nod, but a vortex of

  confusion sucked me in. “Uh …

  yes. I mean, I guess. I mean …”

  I wasn’t sure about anything.

  But even if I’d wanted to change

  my mind, it was too late. Matt’s hurt

  had fanned into full-blown anger.

  I guess, I mean, whatever. Fuck

  you both. I don’t need a whore

  like you, Summer. And no one

  needs a so-called friend like you.

  He was solidly in Kyle’s face.

  And Kyle reacted badly, shoving

  Matt backward. Hard enough

  to land Matt on his butt. Just

  leave us the fuck alone, okay?

  I was mortified. Freaked out

  that it had gone so badly.

  Even more freaked out at how

  easily Kyle went off. Crazy.

  But that didn’t change how I feel.

  Didn’t make me love him less.

  In fact, in some perverted way,

  it was sort of a turn-on.

  EVEN SO

  One thing I do know.

  I don’t ever want to

  make him mad at me,

  and he does not much

  care for the “oh, poor

  me” routine. So I’ll suck

  it up. Still, my melting

  smile must signal

  disappointment. “That’s

  okay. We’ll get together

  tomorrow, right?”

  Couldn’t keep me away.

  He reaches for my shirt,

  pulls, and not too gently.

  Again, we are connected

  by the kind of kiss that

  should be integral

  to every single good-bye.

  I WATCH THE DUST

  Of his retreat lift

  into the bitter

  blue sky. Not

  a single cloud

  to catch it.

  Clear.

  Cold.

  Empty.

  Like how I feel

  right now. Love

  is strange. One

  minute you’re

  jungle fever.

  The next

  you’re

  Arctic

  winter.

  I’M GETTING DRESSED

  For our like-a-real-family Thanksgiving

  Day jaunt to Dad’s all-time favorite

  Carrows when my cell warbles.

  Kyle! I scramble to find the phone

  hidden in the chaos that is my dresser.

  But no, it’s not Kyle. (Why did I think

  it would be?) When I see whose number

  has in fact materialized on caller ID,

  I consider pretending I never heard

  the very loud ring tone. Still, it is a holiday.

  Guess I should pick up. “Hey, Mom.

  Happy Thanksgiving.” I expect some

  sweet, if bogus, holiday greeting.

  Instead she launches verbal mortars.

  I called Darla and Phil’s to say hello

  and they told me you’re not there

  anymore. You’re living with your dad?

  Why didn’t you bother to let me know?

  My first instinct is to lob a grenade

  right back at her, but something in her

  voice says she doesn’t want to go to war.

  She sounds ready to implode. “You okay?”

  That’s all it takes to light the fuse.

  She’s falling bricks. No. I’m not okay.

  The boys are with your grandparents

  in Reno because Ron set me up….

  The fifteen-minute rant nets some

  pertinent information. Mom’s fragile

  life has shattered yet again. Ron beat

  her up, possibly left a stash of meth


  where the cops who came calling

  could, or even would, find it. And now

  it’s up to her, in a couple of weeks,

  to try and convince a judge that she,

  a proven liar and twice-convicted

  felon, is, this time, completely innocent.

  Best of luck, mother-of-mine. I don’t

  believe you. Why should a judge?

  BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHE WANTS

  To hear. So I listen without commentary.

  And, I guess, less sympathy than she,

  for some stupid reason, expects.

  Well? she finishes. Nothing to say?

  Her supercilious tone irritates me.

  “Sucks to be you,” is the best I can

  do. What does she want from me?

  How can you be so … so mean?

  Now, somehow, it’s on me? My turn

  to blow. “God, Mom, are you stupid

  or what? Why don’t you move the fuck

  away from there? Go somewhere

  Ron can’t find you. Start over …

  Get a real job. Take care of your kids.”

  How would I do that? I don’t have—

  “Don’t say it. Don’t say you don’t have

  the resources. Grandma Marie would

  help. You know that. You’re just a …”

  A what? Her breathing sounds tattered.

  I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.

  I can’t. I’m sick of her freaking

  excuses. “A goddamn coward.

  It’s easier to keep on living like you

  do. Day-to-day. No thought for

  the future or the past. Not caring

  about the shit you’re always crotch-

  deep in. What about the boys,

  Mom? What about any of us?”

  She is quiet for a very long time.

  I hope it’s because something I said

  actually sliced through her denial.

  But no. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.

  And she’s gone. Suddenly I want

  to take it all back. Damn her, anyway.

  I love her. I hate her. I wish

  I didn’t know her. I ache to know

  her better. My glass bravado

  cracks. Splinters. Crashes down.

  I NEVER CRY

  Never, ever cry over Mom

  or the charade that is my life.

  But tears fall now. And I do

  nothing to try and stop them.

  God, how I want to let her in.

  But I know she’d only shut me out.

  Doesn’t matter why—meth or

  men or something I can’t fathom

  at all—the fact is, she’s incapable

  of loving me like a mother should.