Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  mean, but his eyes are pleading.

  “I love you, Kyle. Not Matt.

  I could never be with him

  again.” His grip does not

  loosen, so I quickly add,

  “But my knees are killing me.”

  Everything about him relaxes,

  and he laughs. Why didn’t you

  say so? As I slide to one side,

  he suddenly gets the picture. Gain

  an amazing girl. Lose a best friend.

  THAT MAKES HIM WANT

  A cigarette. He reaches into

  the glove box for a pack

  of Marlboros. Want one?

  I shake my head. “Don’t

  smoke. It’s seriously

  bad for my asthma.”

  He looks at the cigarette

  he’s about to light up.

  Asthma? Does he think

  it’s a test? “Yeah. But go

  ahead if you need to.

  Not like it’s anything new.”

  He thinks about it for

  a second or two. Put your

  shirt on. Let’s take a walk.

  It’s a brisk fifty degrees

  outside—by Bakersfield

  standards, a cool fall day.

  Kyle lights his cancer

  stick, takes my hand,

  and steers me along

  the riverbank. Summer-

  fried grass chatters

  beneath our feet, and

  the water mutters along.

  Smoke bothering you?

  Kyle asks, blowing it

  downwind, away from me.

  “Not at all.” He finishes

  his cigarette, stubs it out,

  pulls me down into a soft

  tuft, sits close, and leans

  his face into my hair. Sighs.

  Tobacco breath escapes

  his mouth, yet somehow

  it doesn’t make me gag,

  and when he lays me back

  to see the sky, I find myself

  very near heaven. Kiss me.

  It’s more order than request,

  but I don’t care. All I want

  to do is lose myself in him.

  I’M SO LOST

  I barely notice when my shirt

  comes off again, or how the cool

  breeze plays strange melodies

  up and down superheated skin.

  The sharp tang of Kyle’s desire

  rises into the chuffing wind,

  and when my lips journey

  his body, they come away

  with a thin lick of salt. We are

  moving quickly toward what

  I didn’t come here for, but I am

  powerless to stop him from

  unzipping my jeans and peeling

  them off me before sliding out of

  his own. Am I ready for this after

  all? The only things in the way

  of “all the way” are red cotton

  boxers and a pair of barely there

  panties. Ninety-eight percent

  of me is ready to say okay.

  I close my eyes against the azure

  glare. Kyle moves over me,

  expertly tries to convince the last

  two percent. Riffs of pleasure

  trill through my veins. Excite

  me. Frighten me. Delight me.

  Off go the boxers. On goes

  the latex. But just as he pulls

  at the panties, I remember

  that other girl, in that other

  town, how she watched, terrified,

  as the man who was supposed

  to protect her chose instead

  to harm her. My muscles go

  rigid. I never told anyone. Now

  someone will know. “Wait.”

  He pauses, confused at jumbled

  signals—my body screaming

  yes, while my mouth says no.

  It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.

  My eyes sting. “I want to. I do.

  But …” My face heats to flush.

  I don’t want him to know. Don’t

  want anyone to know. Tears spill.

  Kyle brushes them gently away.

  What’s wrong? The answer

  he waits for is painful. But for

  us to work, I have to tell him.

  AN INTENSE

  Shiver

  quakes me, initiates teeth

  chatter. Kyle hands me my shirt

  like an offering. Waits,

  silent,

  as I launch the lurid account.

  I can’t look at him while I recite

  it. Instead I focus on a skinny

  sapling

  wearing a single crimson leaf.

  I am the fledgling tree, weighted

  not by wind, but by memory. I

  bend

  but refuse to break. I finish

  with a plea. “I’ve never told

  this story to anyone

  before.

  Can we just keep it between

  you and me?” The question

  floats, a fallen red leaf in

  the breeze.

  KYLE HAS LISTENED

  Without comment. Finally he says,

  Who would I tell? He cocks his head,

  looks at me in an assessing way.

  That’s why you never did it with Matt?

  “Not with Matt or anyone else. But

  how do you know we never did?”

  He grins. Because Matt isn’t the type

  to get laid and not brag about it.

  I, on the other hand, am very good

  at keeping secrets. He moves closer,

  puts his arm around my shoulder.

  I’m sorry that happened to you.

  But it doesn’t change how I feel.

  I love you. And if you really love

  me, you have to trust me. In one

  swift motion, he shifts his body

  and I am again reclining in autumn

  gold grass. I learned a long time ago

  not to place my trust in anyone.

  You always get screwed in the end.

  But when Kyle lowers himself over me,

  the kiss that finds my lips is brimming

  with promise. He lifts my wrists above

  my head, pins them purposefully to the ground

  with one strong hand, as if I might complain

  about his other hand, voyaging over

  my body, lingering in all the right places.

  It already knows me. Such intimate

  awareness deserves trust, and so I open

  myself to it. And to Kyle. He takes complete

  control. Instinct or experience? No matter.

  My body surrenders. Reacts. Invites.

  He is not gentle. But I am not afraid.

  And as we rise and rise in symphony,

  each note completely new to me, I think

  I might never be frightened again.

  AWASH

  In love’s pastel afterglow,

  we drive slowly back toward

  town. Back toward Matt. Still

  wondering what I’ll tell him, but

  worrying less about his reaction.

  As we turn down the dirt track

  toward home, Kyle pulls over.

  He gives me a long kiss, then

  says, I’ll pick you up tomorrow,

  okay? We’ll deal with Matt together.

  He puts the truck in gear, and

  as we near the trailer, I notice

  Dad sitting outside, smoking.

  When he sees who I’m riding

  with, his body straightens.

  Kyle stiffens a bit himself. I can

  almost smell the testosterone

  exchange. Is that, like, your father?

  “Well, yeah.” Who else would

  it be? “Come say hello.”

  We get out of the truck, butr />
  Dad doesn’t budge, just sits

  staring. Kyle offers his hand.

  Hey, Mr. Kenwood. I’m Kyle.

  Good to meet you. Quite polite.

  At least Dad shakes his hand.

  Uh … yeah … same here.

  Dad’s majorly checking Kyle out,

  and it’s making him uncomfortable.

  Better go. See you tomorrow.

  We watch him leave, and once

  the dust dissolves, Dad asks, Who

  was that? Your boyfriend?

  “Not exactly,” I lie. “And why

  were you staring at him like that?”

  Dad shrugs. He kind of reminded

  me of someone I used to know.

  When I ask who, his answer

  feels somehow a little evasive.

  Just an old friend of mine. Trey.

  VARIETY

  HOLLYWOOD—Citing the usual “irreconcilable differences,” producer Chase Wagner split with Amanda Haynes, his wife of almost twenty years. Haynes, however, said those differences have everything to do with Wagner’s frequent dalliances.

  “A marriage simply can’t survive the pain that comes from this sort of deceit,” Haynes said. “I thought I could make him love me. Guess I was wrong.”

  Wagner has lately been spotted with Sara Leander, star of his upcoming Nevada Heat. But former fling Merri Childs maintained the relationship is likely doomed.

  “Chase never quite got over his first love,” Childs said. “He only mentioned her once, but when he did, oh the sadness in his eyes! She was his high school sweetheart in Reno. No wonder he never wanted to film on location there.”

  Wagner and Haynes will share custody of their three minor children. Their oldest son, Kristopher, is a sophomore at USC, where he follows in his father’s film-major footsteps.

  Hunter

  CONFUCIUS SAY

  The more things change,

  the more they stay the same.

  Okay, it probably

  wasn’t Confucius

  who said it, but

  whoever it was had

  it all wrong. In my

  humble opinion,

  the saying should go:

  The more things change, the more

  you wish they would stay the same.

  I like things on track.

  A railroad track, in

  fact. Humming right

  along, buzzing with

  a regular rhythm. Slip

  in a little adventure,

  sure. But don’t flip

  a switch and send me

  down a different rail.

  The more things change,

  the less I like my direction.

  CHANGES

  Donald and David have

  taken up residence in my bedroom

  at home. Despite Dad’s objections,

  there wasn’t a better choice.

  They just started Pleasant Valley

  Elementary, the same school I went

  to at their age. The transition has

  been difficult. Okay, that’s putting

  it mildly. Vegas to Reno is like Palm

  Springs to Placerville. Low desert

  heat to foothill chill. And that’s just

  the beginning. After mostly running

  roughshod over Kristina, adapting

  to Mom and Dad’s rules is sort of like

  a homeless guy going through boot camp.

  I am, in turn, sorry for them and pissed

  as hell that they have no idea how

  to take care of my stuff—the stuff

  I had to leave behind when I moved

  in with Nikki. I knew I could talk

  her into it. I’m a born politician.

  THE NIGHT SHE THOUGHT

  She kicked me out, I sat in the dark on

  her porch, waiting for her to come

  home. It was a long, cold wait. But

  I wasn’t about to let us flame out

  because of a little fight.

  Especially not

  one about my

  previous mom.

  So I zipped up

  my jacket and

  waited her out. When she

  finally showed, I stowed

  all trace of ego, begged

  her to take me back.

  My apology

  was sincere.

  But then, when

  I threw in the

  part about my

  little brothers

  needing my

  room, and the

  reasons why,

  Nikki couldn’t

  say no. Even so, ORGIVENESS hasn’t come easy.

  THE FIRST FEW NIGHTS

  She made me sleep on the couch.

  Refused to touch me. Barely

  spoke in complete sentences.

  I wormed my way back into

  her good graces like any guy

  with half a brain might—flowers.

  Supermarket flowers, true,

  but I half filled the house

  with them. She came home

  from work to find sunflowers

  in the kitchen. Lilies, tulips,

  carnations, and phlox on end

  tables and windowsills. African

  violets in the bathroom. Roses

  (what else?) in the bedroom.

  The place smelled like a florist

  shop (or funeral, depending

  on where your head is at).

  She was completely stunned,

  and helpless against my kiss.

  When she kissed me back,

  I delivered the coup de grâce,

  making love to her on a bed

  blanketed thickly with petals.

  OUR TRUCE

  Has been an uneasy one, exacerbated

  by, of all things, Thanksgiving

  tomorrow. Never let a woman

  watch the cooking channel.

  Especially not as the holiday

  season approaches. After one

  Saturday marathon, Nikki got

  it in her head that she was going

  to make a turducken. Not only

  that, but she wanted to host the day

  for her dad (who, I’m pretty sure,

  would much rather spend it boinking

  his boss), her mom (whose method

  of drowning out that soap opera

  is a pricey bottle of scotch), and me.

  Now even if I wanted to deal with all

  of the above, which I soooo don’t,

  my mom expects my presence at

  her dinner table. It’s like being married,

  only worse because I’m not married,

  but have to act like I am anyway.

  THE COMPROMISE?

  Woo-hoo. Oh, yeah. Get this.

  Mom invited Nikki to roast

  her turducken at our house.

  Mom’s doing side dishes, pies,

  and a prime rib (just in case!).

  Best of all, with the probable

  exception of Nikki’s dad’s girlfriend,

  the entire extended family plans

  to come. No wonder I feel married.

  Which explains why, fifteen hours

  until total insanity, I’m well on

  my way to a major buzz, here at

  my buddy Jason’s. We’re talking

  Jäger, Heineken, and some fat

  blunts. It’s one hell of a party.

  Nikki’s at work, so I’m basically

  on my own, surrounded by stoners

  smoking weed. And, in a big bowl

  on the coffee table, are assorted meds,

  confiscated from who-knows-where.

  It’s a regular designer potpourri of sleep

  inducers, mood enhancers, pain reducers,

  and, for all I know, laxatives. Everyone

  is welcome to play the pharm game. Only

  one rule applies: You have to take three.


  I TRIED TO RESIST

  Really I did. For one thing,

  I’m supposed to pull a morning

  air shift tomorrow. Another change:

  I’ve been promoted. Still

  working weekends, and assorted

  holidays, when the so-called

  stars would rather sleep in.

  But no more late nights. I’ve

  moved to the six to eleven a.m. slot.

  Yeah, it’s a little more money.

  But it also means I have to be

  up at five a.m. to get to the station

  on time, wide-awake and

  prepared to help listeners

  “Start your day, the X way.”

  I entertain myself for a while,

  watching other people’s various

  stages of inebriation and half

  listening to the argument

  in my head—the smart side

  of my brain saying, “Leave

  the damn bowl alone,” while

  the dimwit half asks, “What harm

  could three little pills do?”

  To pharm or not to pharm? Ah,

  what the hell? I close my eyes,

  reach into the capsule stew,

  grab three anonymous pills.

  But before I can pop them into

  my mouth, my cell buzzes.

  Nikki texts: Can u pick me up?

  Car won’t start. Dead batt.

  So much for pharming. At least

  for tonight. I reach into my

  pocket, fish around for

  something paper, find a receipt to

  wrap the still unidentified pills

  in. Who knows when I might

  need them? I text back: On my way,

  chug my beer. Why waste

  good brew? “Gotta go,” I say.

  As if anyone really cares.

  THE ALARM BLARES

  Five a.m. Five? Oh, crap. I knew

  working mornings was going to

  suck. It’s still dark outside, for

  cripe’s sake. Dark, and the bed

  is warm. Warm with Nikki.

  Might as well wake her up too.

  She comes out of her dreams,

  into my arms, and I already know

  waking her will be the very best

  part of this day. “I love you,”

  I tell her, once and again, as

  a hint of pale morning appears.

  Nikki stays in bed as I go to

  shower, turn the water hot to fight

  the house’s chill. I’m shivering

  into a towel when she calls,

  Hey. What about my car?

  As she waits for an answer,

  anger blossoms. Not her fault,