Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  strike next or what will happen to me?

  IT’S ALL QUITE LOST

  On Aunt Cora, who thinks,

  because I’m her maid of honor,

  I must be honored. I should tell

  her how I feel, but I can’t bring

  myself to mute her vibrant aura.

  Even I, a total aura neophyte, can

  make out the shimmer. Do all

  brides wear an opalescent halo?

  Liam’s family expected

  a June wedding. (How cliché.)

  But Aunt Cora didn’t want to

  wait. What, did she think he’d

  vanish, or curdle like old milk?

  Or maybe she was worried

  he (or she) might have a change

  of heart? I don’t pretend to

  understand. All I know is they

  settled on a Saturday-before-

  Christmas wedding. So now

  she not only ruins the rest of my life,

  she ruins the Christmas before

  the rest of my life. Not to mention

  Thanksgiving. Holidays will never

  be the same again. Nothing, in

  fact, will ever be the same.

  No more Saturday-morning

  pancakes or Sundays filled

  with too many football games.

  No more late-night black-and-

  white movies or yoga exercises.

  No more easy laughter. Aunt

  Cora is Liam’s. And not mine.

  SHE DENIES THAT TOTALLY

  Whatever the future holds,

  I will always be here for you.

  I made that commitment a very

  long time ago, she claimed.

  We were shopping for her wedding

  gown. Waiting for the sales-

  lady to bring out another dress

  to view. Size six. Off the shoulder.

  I could have picked out the dress

  she eventually chose without her

  even being there. I know her. Too

  well. Will I know her next year?

  Nothing will really change

  that much, she promised. Except

  I’ll be living with Liam, and

  I’m kind of doing that now.

  True. Other than wedding stuff,

  I hardly see her at all. Which gives

  me much too much time alone,

  thinking about my own future.

  ABSORBED BY STATUS QUO

  I never really thought very far

  beyond the day-to-day. Next year

  I’ll graduate high school. Then what?

  University? Doubtful. Community

  college? Maybe. But I still have no

  idea what I want to be. Teacher?

  I can’t imagine spending my days

  trying to keep kids in line, let alone

  trying to teach them something.

  Astronomer? I actually love scouring

  the heavens, imagining what might be

  out there somewhere. But how do you

  make money doing that? Doctor?

  Blood makes me sick. Stockbroker?

  Yeah, right. Some tedious job seems

  the likely road, and routine might work

  best for me. But will it bring happiness?

  Fulfillment? I don’t even know if that matters.

  Beyond “what will I do,” where will I live?

  I can see Grandfather failing, though

  he’d never admit it in a million years,

  especially not to himself. If he gets sick,

  I’ll take care of him, like he’s taken

  care of me. But if he dies … what?

  My fingers begin to tingle. I’m alone

  now, as I’ll be alone then, swallowed

  by silence. I rasp razor-edged air.

  On my own. Don’t want to be there.

  Can’t breathe. On my own. Must.

  Breathe. On my own …

  SUDDEN FOCUS

  Buzz. Silence. Buzz. Silence.

  What? Doorbell. My head clears

  with a deep breath. Doorbell?

  Bryce. “Just a second,” I call

  loudly. Don’t leave! I’m here.

  And now he is here with me.

  I go to the door, trying not to

  look as pasty faced as I feel.

  An exercise in futility.

  Are you okay? are the first

  words out of Bryce’s mouth.

  You don’t look so good.

  “I’m fine now you’re here.” I pull

  him over the threshold, close

  the door quickly, so the neighbors

  don’t notice I have a visitor. I want

  it to be our luscious little secret.

  Grandfather and Aunt Cora

  are in Austin, scouting Baptist

  churches that might be available

  for an hour or so on short notice.

  With dozens in the phone book,

  odds are they’ll be gone all day.

  Hours, anyway, providing the perfect

  opportunity to spend some quality

  one-on-one time with Bryce.

  We’ve never been quite so alone

  together. His arms surround me,

  and I sink into him, grateful for

  his warmth. “I love you.”

  And I love you. His mouth covers

  mine. His lips are soft, and his tongue

  tastes of cinnamon. My heart rockets.

  This kiss is somehow different than

  all the others. It builds in intensity,

  and with no one around to take

  notice, I have no reason to slow

  the swell. Bryce’s apple-rain scent

  envelopes me. I gulp it in. Devour it.

  Want to devour him. What sorceress

  has possessed me, infusing every

  nerve ending with intense desire?

  SORCERY OR HORMONES

  Something has possessed me,

  and whatever it is, it stops

  kissing Bryce. But only long

  enough to say, “Come on.”

  It leads him down the hall,

  into my bedroom. I think

  I should stop it. Don’t know

  if I can. Don’t know if I want to.

  Autumn (me?) has no control

  as it invites Bryce onto my bed.

  He pushes me back against

  my pillow. Peels away his shirt.

  Unbuttons mine. Stares down

  at me with love (lust) harbored

  in his eyes. Wow, he says, before

  kissing me again. Only this time,

  his lips move across my neck,

  down over my collarbone. To

  the soft mounds beneath. I want

  to say, “Wait.” But it won’t let me.

  I can barely catch my breath, but

  this time for all the right (wrong!)

  reasons. My heart jackhammers

  in my chest. Bryce must hear!

  His lips stop traveling my torso,

  long enough to encourage me

  out of my jeans. His come off too,

  and I might stop to fold everything

  correctly, but it insists I just leave

  our clothes heaped together

  and take a good long look at Bryce.

  Except for sex ed pictures, I’ve never

  seen a penis before. But I’m def

  seeing one now. “No,” I want

  to say. But it reaches out. Touches

  Bryce there. Likes how the skin

  feels. Likes the heat. “Stop,”

  I want to say, but it makes Autumn

  (me?) do things she doesn’t know

  how to do. I realize suddenly that

  it means to make her go all the way.

  This is like watching a movie, only

  I can’t find the remote. No way

  to pause
. No way to reverse.

  Off go my panties. Now everything

  moves slow motion. Finally I find

  my voice. “Wait. I’m not sure …”

  It doesn’t let me push him away,

  but it does let me say, “I’m a virgin.”

  THAT SLOWS HIM DOWN

  But he doesn’t want to stop.

  Instead he becomes gentle.

  You want to, don’t you?

  I want to say, “Maybe not,”

  but it maintains control,

  kisses him. “Yes. I want to.”

  I won’t hurt you, he promises.

  Let me make you ready.

  He touches that place.

  Kisses that place. It moans.

  No, Autumn moans. No, I moan.

  And I see that it is really me.

  REALLY ME

  Here with Bryce,

  wanting to give

  him all of me.

  I’m scared.

  But he has made me ready.

  “I love you.”

  The words spill

  from my mouth

  just before

  a bright flash

  of pain.

  Breathe.

  He is in me when he promises again,

  And I love you.

  Did it hurt?

  Can I keep going?

  He waits

  for my answer.

  “Not too much.

  And yes.”

  He starts to move.

  Slowly at first.

  Rhythmically.

  I follow his lead and together

  we move faster.

  Into the tornado.

  Rocked by an

  apple-scented

  maelstrom,

  skin to skin

  with the person I love, every vestige

  of doubt vanishes

  in white-hot bolts

  of lightning.

  No pain now.

  No sense

  of wrong.

  Everything is perfect.

  WE LIE TOGETHER, SILENT

  For a while, legs knotted,

  his fingers twisted in my hair.

  A foreign scent lifts from our

  skin. After-sex perfume.

  Not altogether unpleasant.

  Eventually he says, We should

  probably clean up. Ever

  showered with a guy before?

  For some crazy reason,

  embarrassment attacks.

  I’ve just gone all the way. And

  suddenly I’m worried about him

  seeing my naked body? “Never.”

  Whether it’s the tone of my

  voice or the look on my face,

  he grins. First time for everything.

  The sheets are a mess, and I

  am compelled to strip them

  immediately. Hope OxyClean

  can handle it. Meanwhile,

  Bryce has started the shower.

  By the time I get there,

  the bathroom is rain-forest

  steamy. We step into the shower

  together. Hot water streams

  over my bruised, used body.

  Bryce picks up the soap.

  You wash my back and I’ll

  wash yours. He washes more

  than my back. And I do

  the same for him. It’s all so

  decadent, all so someone

  other than me. I’d call it fairy-tale,

  but it’s more like pornography.

  Would you look at that! It’s

  ready for more already.

  You are some kind of magician.

  I’m not sure how long it usually

  takes for it to get ready again,

  but it definitely is. I don’t think

  magic has anything to do with

  it. Just a good lather rub. And me.

  THE SECOND TIME

  Is better than the first. Does

  it just keep getting better?

  This is probably not the time

  to try and find out. Peaks of

  afternoon have worn down toward

  soft hills of evening. “Guess you’d

  better go soon,” I say, wishing

  he could stay here forever.

  Bryce finishes dressing. Okay.

  I’ll go. But only under protest.

  He always says the right thing.

  “Can we get together tomorrow?”

  He smiles. Can’t get enough

  of me? Well, the feeling is mutual.

  Promise infuses the day’s last kiss.

  That makes it the best one yet.

  I AM LOADING

  My sheets into the washer

  when a little voice nags,

  Uh. Hello? Nice time and

  all, but I think you forgot

  something kind of important.

  Something important, like

  protection. You know, birth

  control. You can get pregnant

  the first time, remember?

  Or maybe that’s what you want?

  Why on earth would I want

  to get pregnant? Maybe as

  a way to keep Bryce attached

  to you? A way to make sure

  you won’t be alone after all.

  But that might make him

  think you trapped him? Might

  drive him away? Nah. He’s

  the type to stay. Even without

  him, you wouldn’t be alone.

  THAT LITTLE VOICE

  Is crazy. I don’t want to get pregnant.

  (I don’t want to get pregnant, do I?)

  A baby would change my life forever.

  (Like my life is so perfect right now?)

  I’d have to quit school. Be a dropout.

  (You could finish up via the Web.)

  I’d get fat. Have morning sickness.

  (There are ways around those things.)

  Grandfather would disown me.

  (Grandfather doesn’t own me now.)

  Aunt Cora would be disappointed.

  (Aunt Cora has already moved on.)

  Marriage is nothing but a trap.

  (Who said anything about marriage?)

  A baby needs a mom and a dad.

  (Not like Bryce would disappear.)

  But what if he did disappear?

  (Then I’d still have a baby to love.)

  A NEW FANTASY

  This one can include Bryce and me

  in the kitchen, only with a baby,

  sleeping soundly in a pink nursery.

  A little girl.

  I feed Bryce breakfast, kiss him

  good-bye. He heads on out the door

  to work. The baby wakes.

  Wanting her mommy.

  I breastfeed her, change her,

  put her in a pretty, soft dress.

  Take her to the park in a stroller.

  Everyone wants to see her.

  She’s a model baby. Hardly

  ever cries. Has my red hair

  and Bryce’s hazel eyes.

  The perfect combo.

  AM I NUTS?

  I am all about order.

  Dryer buzzes.

  Remove sheets immediately.

  Fold, wrinkle-free, perfect corners.

  What is a baby?

  Dirty diapers.

  Messy high chairs.

  Sour spit-up on clothes.

  Babies need order too.

  Clean diapers.

  Clean clothes.

  Clean high chairs.

  Clean babies are happy babies.

  Smiling babies.

  Cooing babies.

  Cuddling babies.

  Cuddling babies fill you up.

  Fill you with happiness.

  Fill you with devotion.

  Fill you with love.

  I AM MAKING MY BED

  When Grandfather and Aunt Cora

  breeze through the door,
talking

  about details. Wedding talk is details.

  … people on the guest list.

  … people in the wedding party.

  … people the church can comfortably hold.

  Even all the way down the hall in

  my room, I can hear how Grandfather’s

  staid voice has bloated with enthusiasm.

  … flowers for the altar.

  … flowers for bouquets.

  … flowers for centerpieces.

  Grandfather discussing flowers?

  Surreal! They don’t even call my name,

  sure of the fact I’m here somewhere.

  … reception location.

  … reception music.

  … reception food.

  I don’t want to think about any

  of it. I only want to think about

  Bryce. Making love. And babies.

  I GO TO JOIN THEM ANYWAY

  Mostly because they’ll probably

  come looking sooner or later.

  Just as I reach the kitchen,

  I hear a cork pop. Loudly.

  Aunt Cora screeches. Ah!

  Where’s my glass? She turns,

  smiling, as I come into the room.

  Guess what? We found a church.

  I point to the champagne

  bottle, foaming merrily down

  its neck into a bubbly puddle

  on the counter. “I figured.”

  Want some? She glances quickly

  at Grandfather, who is scribbling

  notes at the table. He shrugs,

  so she pours three glasses,

  before I even say, “Guess so.”

  I’ve had champagne a couple

  of times. Always very small glasses.

  I’ve never, in fact, gotten drunk.

  Glasses raised all around,

  Grandfather offers the toast.

  To Cora and Liam, and to two

  lives together as one.

  Who knew he was a poet?

  As we clink-and-drink, I offer

  my own silent toast to Bryce,

  me, and new directions.

  The champagne goes down

  like a froth of hope. Aunt Cora

  refills our glasses, but I’m already

  feeling a bit on the “sparkly” side.

  My brain fuzzes with thoughts

  of the afternoon, and when I catch

  Grandfather talking about the relative

  merits of orchids versus roses,

  I laugh. Inappropriately. Aunt

  Cora looks at me. Really looks

  at me, head cocked like a pup

  at a whistle. Come here a minute.

  SHE PULLS ME INTO THE HALL