Also by Ellen Hopkins

Crank

Burned

Impulse

Glass

Identical

Tricks

Margaret K. McElderry Books

MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Ellen Hopkins

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Book edited by Emma D. Dryden

Book design by Mike Rosamilia

The text for this book is set in Trade Gothic Condensed No. 18.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hopkins, Ellen.

Fallout / Ellen Hopkins.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Written in free verse, explores how three teenagers try to cope with the consequences of their mother’s addiction to crystal meth and its effects on their lives.

ISBN 978-1-4169-5009-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4424-0945-3 (eBook)

[1. Novels in verse. 2. Drug abuse—Fiction. 3. Emotional problems—Fiction.
4. Family problems—Fiction. 5. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 6. Mothers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.5.H67Fal 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009048408

For Orion, Jade, Heaven, Clyde, Eli, and Kalob, always in my heart. For Jason, Cristal, and Kelly, always my children, wherever they are. For John, always my own forever love. And with sincerest love and respect for my editor, Emma Dryden, who enriches my books with her wisdom and enriches my life with her friendship.

With a special nod to Jude Mandell, whose keen insight allowed me to see the direction I needed to go with this book. Many, many thanks, Jude!

RENO GAZETTE-JOURNAL

RENO—Local author Marie Haskins’s fifteenth novel, Submission, debuted at the number one spot on the New York Times bestseller list. But this time, Haskins writes about a different kind of monster.

“This is a complete departure from my previous books,” Haskins said. “I have finally fulfilled a very old dream and taken the plunge into horror.”

It remains to be seen whether or not her fans will take the plunge with her, as the poems go beyond free verse, into the realm of formal poetry, specifically sonnets. Fortunately for Haskins, a number of words rhyme with “suck.”

“I have long wanted to write about vampires, but chose to wait until the subject was no longer a staple of every publisher’s list,” Haskins said. “My vampires are sophisticated and totally sexy, but set in a future world. Sort of like Dracula meets Star Trek.”

We Hear

That life was good

before she

met

the monster,

but those page flips

went down before

our collective

cognition. Kristina

wrote

that chapter of her

history before we

were even whispers

in her womb.

The monster shaped

our

lives, without our ever

touching it. Read on

if you dare. This

memoir

isn’t pretty.

Hunter Seth Haskins
SO YOU WANT TO KNOW

All about her. Who

she

really is. (Was?) Why

she swerved off

the high road. Hard

left

to nowhere,

recklessly

indifferent to

me,

Hunter Seth Haskins,

her firstborn

son. I’ve been

choking

that down for

nineteen years.

Why did she go

on

her mindless way,

leaving me spinning

in a whirlwind of

her dust?

IF YOU DON’T KNOW

Her story, I’ll try

my best to enlighten

you, though I’m not sure

of every word of it myself.

I suppose I should know

more. I mean, it has been

recorded for eternity—

a bestselling fictionalization,

so the world wouldn’t see

precisely who we are—

my mixed-up, messed-

up family, a convoluted

collection of mostly regular

people, somehow strengthened

by indissoluble love, despite

an ever-present undercurrent

of pain. The saga started here:

FOREWORD

Kristina Georgia Snow

gave me life in her seventeenth

year. She’s my mother,

but never bothered to be

my mom. That job fell

to her mother, my grandmother,

Marie, whose unfailing love

made her Mom even before

she and Dad (Kristina’s stepfather,

Scott) adopted me. That was

really your decision, Mom claims.

You were three when you started

calling us Mama and Papa.

The other kids in your playgroup

had them. You wanted them too.

We became an official

legal family when I was four.

My memory of that day is hazy

at best, but if I reach way,

way back, I can almost see

the lady judge, perched

like an eagle, way high above

little me. I think she was

sniffling. Crying, maybe?

Her voice was gentle. I want

to thank you, Mr. and Mrs.

Haskins, for loving this child

as he deserves to be loved.

Please accept this small gift,

which represents that love.

I don’t really remember all

those words, but Mom repeats

them sometimes, usually

when she stares at the crystal

heart, catching morning sun

through the kitchen window.

That part of Kristina’s story

always makes Mom sad.

Here’s a little more of the saga.

CHAPTER ONE

It started with a court-ordered

summer visit to Kristina’s

druggie dad. Genetically,

that makes him my grandfather,

not that he takes much interest

in the role. Supposedly he stopped

by once or twice when I was still

bopping around in diapers.

Mom says he wandered in late

to my baptism, dragging

Kristina along, both of them

wearing the stench of monster

sweat. Monster, meaning crystal

meth. They’d been up all night,

catching a monstrous buzz.

It wasn’t the first time

they’d partied together. That

was in Albuquerque, where dear

old Gramps lives, and where

Kristina met the guy who popped

her just-say-no-to-drugs cherry.

Our lives were never the same

again, Mom often says. That

was the beginning of six years

of hell. I’m not sure how we all

survived it. Thank God you were

born safe and sound….

All my fingers, toes, and a fully

functional brain. Yadda, yadda …

Well, I am glad about the brain.

Except when Mom gives me

the old, What is up with you?

You’re a brilliant kid. Why do

you refuse to perform like one?

A C-plus in English? If you would

just apply yourself …

Yeah, yeah. Heard it before.

Apply myself? To what?

And what the hell for?

I KIND OF ENJOY

My underachiever status.

I’ve found the harder you

work, the more people expect

of you. I’d much rather fly

way low under the radar.

That was one of Kristina’s

biggest mistakes, I think—

insisting on being right-up-

in-your-face irresponsible.

Anyway, your first couple years

of college are supposed to be

about having fun, not about

deciding what you want to do

with the rest of your life. Plenty

of time for all that whenever.

I decided on UNR—University

of Nevada, Reno—not so much

because it was always a goal,

but because Mom and Dad

did this prepaid tuition thing,

and I never had Ivy League

ambitions or the need to venture

too far from home. School is school.

I’ll get my BA in communications,

then figure out what to do with it.

I’ve got a part-time radio gig at

the X, an allowance for incidentals,

and I live at home. What more

could a guy need? Especially

when he’s got a girl like Nikki.

PICTURE THE IDEAL GIRL

And you’ve got Nikki.

She’s sweet. Smart. Cute. Oh,

yes, and then there’s her body.

I’m not sure what perfect

measurements are, but

Nikki’s got them,

all wrapped up in skin

like wheat-colored suede.

Delicious, from lips to ankles,

and she’s mine. Mine to touch,

mine to hold. Mine to kiss

all over her flawless

deliciousness. Plus,

she’s got her own place,

a sweet little house near campus,

where I can do all that kissing—not

to mention what comes after

the kissing—in private.

I’m done with classes

for the day and on my way

to Nikki’s, with a little extra fun

tucked inside my pocket. Yeah, I

know getting high isn’t so

smart. Ask me if I care.

I AM GENETICALLY PREDISPOSED

To addiction. At least that’s what

they tell me, over and over.

The theory has been hammered

into my head since before I could

even define the word “addiction.”

Your grandfather is an addict and

your mother is an addict, so it’s

likely you will become an addict

too, unless you basically “just say

no.” Much easier said than done,

especially when you’re predisposed

to saying, “Hell, yeah!” Anyway,

I’m more of a dabbler than a dedicated

fuckup. A little weed, a little coke.

Never tried meth. Don’t think I ought

to take a chance on that monster.

Catching a buzz is one thing. Yanking

the devil’s tail is just plain stupid.

NIKKI ISN’T HOME YET

I let myself in with the key

she leaves stashed under the plastic

rock by the door. Good thing

she doesn’t own much in the way

of expensive stuff, something

I’m sure the neighbors are well

aware of. This isn’t a bad street,

but it’s heavily stocked with students,

many of whom have forgotten

the Golden Rule, if they ever knew

it to begin with. Inside, the window

shades are cracked enough so light

filters through. A thin beam

splashes against the hallway mirror,

lures my attention. When I turn

to find it, the eyes reflected

in the glass are completely unique.

“Piebald,” Mom calls them.

Green-dappled gray. Definitely

not Kristina’s eyes. What I want

to know now, as always, is whose?

I’VE ASKED THE QUESTION BEFORE

“If Kristina is my biological

mother, who fathered me?”

Who

was her man of the month?

I’ve been told she slept

with more than a few,

but which

was

the one whose lucky

sperm connected with

the proper egg? Whose

genes sculpted the relief of

my

cheekbones, the stack

of my shoulders, the stretch

of my legs? Do the eyes staring

back at me now belong to my

father?

IN MOM’S BOOK

The story goes Kristina was

date-raped by some low-life

druggie lifeguard dealer.

When I asked if that was true,

Mom would only say that

the book is fiction, based on

fact, and that they aren’t one

hundred percent sure about

my paternity. But I think she

was trying to spare my feelings.

Who wants to believe they

were conceived of a rape, even

if the rape might have been

somehow solicited? What kind

of guy keeps going when

a girl says no way? And if a guy

like that really is my father,

could I have inherited a rape gene?

NOT THAT I’VE EVER ONCE

Insisted “yes” when a girl said no.

I’m not that kind of guy.

I’m smart.

(Except when loaded.

Then I can be kind of stupid.

At least till the buzz wears off.)

I’m witty.

(Except when I don’t get

enough sleep, which is often.

Then I lose my sense of humor.)

I’m compassionate.

(Except when someone

acts like a complete idiot.

Especially in my face.)

I’m understanding.

(Except when it means I can’t

have my way, so I try to avoid

people who won’t let me have it.)

I’m kind.

(Except for those days

when, for no apparent reason,

I hate pretty much everyone.)

I’VE GOT A LITTLE PROBLEM

And I’m not really sure

how to fix it. Not really sure

I need to. Not really sure I could.

Life is pretty good. But once

in a while, uninvited and

uninitiated, anger invades me.

It starts, a tiny gnaw

at the back of my brain. Like

a migraine, except without pain.

They say headaches

blossom, but this isn’t so

much a blooming as a bleeding.

Irritation bleeds into

rage, seethes into fury.

An ulcer, emptying hatred

inside me. And I don’t

know why. Life is pretty good.

So, what the hell?

AS I PONDER THE QUESTION

A key turns uselessly in the lock—

uselessly because I neglected

to secure the door behind me.

Nikki peeks cautiously around

it, jumps back like she’s been

bitten. Guess she didn’t expect

to find some guy standing here.

“Hey,” I yell, “it’s only me.”

Nikki slams back across

the threshold, almost knocks

me over. Hunter! You scared

the heebie-jeebies out of me!

Heebie-jeebies. She’s totally

cute. I pull her into my arms,

happy to concentrate on her slate

blue eyes, instead of the green ones

in the mirror. “Sorry,” I say,

meaning it. And to prove

just how much, I give her one

of my world-famous kisses.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of

an exaggeration, but I have been

told I’m an exceptional kisser.

I give it my all, and Nikki responds.

Her kiss is like a sudden fever—

white-hot, unplanned, contagious.

Too quickly, she cools, pulls away.

Apology accepted. But no smile,

and she never doesn’t smile. I study

her face harder, find anger, concrete

in the set of her jaw, but eiderdown

sorrow in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She slumps against me, takes

refuge as her sadness flows, wet,

in steady tears. My dad walked out

on my mom. He wants a divorce.

THAT’S IT?

I’d like to feel sorry for her, console

her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.

But what I really want to say

is, “Big effin’ deal. Divorce?

At least they were together

while you were growing up.

At least you’ll get to see him

almost as much as you do now.

At least you know just who

in the bloody hell your father is!”

But that would take Nikki-Complete.

What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.

So I take her hand, lead her

into the kitchen, sit her at the table.

“I brought a little something

that will make you feel better.”

I twist one up, half expecting her

to say no. She only smokes weed

on special occasions. Apparently

this occasion qualifies, however.

She takes a big drag, fights not

to cough. Fails, and that makes

the tears fall harder. He—hack—

is such a prick. I ca-can’t—hack—

believe he could just up and leave

Mom. N-not—hack—f-f-for … her!

“Who?” None of my business,

of course. But, hey, she brought it up.

His goddamn boss! You know,

the bitch who owns the company?

She’s old. Rich, yeah, but old …

Her voice is tinged with hysteria.

After almost twenty-five years,

he leaves Mom for … for her?

“Here.” I pass her the J. “Take

another hit. A little one this time.”

She doesn’t cough, but she does ask,

You’d never cheat on me, would you?

I BITE DOWN HARD

On the impending lie.

Fact is, I’ve already

cheated on Nikki,

though I’m not sure

why. It was an awful

mistake, and it only

happened once, post-

football-game beer

binge. God, that girl—

a Vegas Rebels fan,

and so a rival meant

to be jeered at, not laid—

was a real piece of work.

Anorexic as hell, but

high-horsepower motor,

revved to the max …

Nikki stares at me,

waiting for an answer.

Say something quick,

idiot. I reach across

the table, take possession

of her hand, look into

the depths of her tear-

glittered eyes. “You

are my one and only.”

AS THE WORDS

Slide out of my mouth,

I wish I could mean them.

She is so beautiful, just there.

A fairy seeking wings, and

when she finds them, I know

she’ll fly far, far away.

Love is like that.

Suddenly I want her more

than anything. Like some

conceit-driven Grimm

Brothers king, I need to

capture my sprite with

trembling hands. Except

I could crush her.

Wonder how many small

things of beauty—flowers,

seashells, dragonflies—

have met such a demise.

Wonder how much fragile

love has collapsed

beneath the weight of confession.

ENOUGH ALREADY

One too many lit classes,

I guess. A little too much poetry,

dredged up at all the wrong times.

Thanks so much for that, Mom.

You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told

me once. And an old soul at that.

Whatever that means. I don’t feel

so old, for the most part. I do like

words, but this is not the time

for them, nor is it the time for

confessions. There is invitation

in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.

THE WOOD

In her room is cherry—deep

reddish brown. Elegant.

The sheets on her bed are black

satin. Slick beneath desire-

dampened skin. Her hair is like

a sunburst against the onyx-

colored pillowcase. Its perfume

spices the air with ginger

and some exotic bloom.

The scent fuels my hunger

for her body. I want to own

it, merge with it, become part

of her. Hurry, she urges. But

the tease is almost the best

part of the game, so I bring her

close and closer with my hands

and mouth and finally I am inside

her. I can’t get enough, so we go

and go until the only thing left

is to finish. And still I want more.

Autumn Rose Shepherd
SOMETIMES I SEE FACES

Somehow familiar,

but I don’t know why.

I cannot label them,

no matter how intently

I try. They are nameless.

And yet not strangers.

Like Alamo ghosts, they

emerge from deep

of night, materialize

from darkness, deny

my sleep. I would call them

dreams. But that’s too easy.

I SUSPECT

One of those faces belongs

to my mother. It is young, not

much older than mine, but weary,

with cheeks like stark coastal

cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed

with drifts of mink-colored hair.

I don’t look very much like her.

My hair curls, auburn, around

a full, heart-shaped face, and

my eyes are brown. Or, to be

more creative, burnt umber. Nothing

like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken

about her identity. Is she my mother?

Is she the one who christened me

Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty

name. Wish I could live up to it.

AUNT CORA INSISTS

I am pretty. But Aunt Cora

is a one-woman cheering section.

Thank goodness the grandstands

aren’t completely empty.

I’m kind of a lone wolf, except

for Cherie, and she’s what you

might call a part-time friend.

We hang out sometimes, but

only if she’s got nothing better

going on. Meaning no ballet recitals

or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day

to distract her from those.

But Aunt Cora is always there,

someone I can count on, through

chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.

Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”

GENERALLY

Things feel

about the consistency

of milky oatmeal.

With honey.

Raisins.

Nuts.

Most days,

I wake up relatively

happy. Eat breakfast.

Go to school.

Come home.

Dinner.

Homework.

Bed.

Blah, blah, blah.

But sometimes,

for no reason beyond

a loud noise or leather

cleaner smell, I am afraid.

It’s like yanking myself

from a nightmare only,

even wide awake,

I can’t unstick myself

from the fear of the dream.

I don’t want to

leave my room.

CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT

Of people staring, I’m sure

they will. Sure they’ll know.

Sure they’ll think I’m crazy.

The only person I can talk to

is Aunt Cora. I can go to her

all freaked out. Can scream,

“What’s the matter with me?”

And she’ll open her arms, let me

cry and rant, and never once

has she called me crazy. One

time she said, Things happened

when you were little. Things you

don’t remember now, and don’t want

to. But they need to escape,

need to worm their way out

of that dark place in your brain

where you keep them stashed.

THAT FELT RIGHT

And now, when that

unexplained dread

boxes me in, I take

deep breaths, try to

free those bad things,

whatever they are. It

doesn’t always work.

But sometimes it does.

And always, always,

I thank Aunt Cora for

giving me some smidgen

of understanding about

who I am and what

surprises life might

have in store for me.

I swear, without her

I probably would

have jumped off

a bridge the first

time I got my period.

Yeah, we’d had the basic

You’re a Woman Now

video and discussion

in sixth grade. But

textbook “birds

and bees” cannot

even prepare you for

what that really means.

I HATE WHEN I BLEED

Can’t tell my period when to start,

how many hours to make me

miserable. Can’t tell it not to come

at all. I have zero control over

any of that, and that really,

really bothers me. See, I’ve got

a little thing called OCD.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder

is something people make fun of.

But when it’s something

you’ve got, there’s nothing

funny about it. First off,

you know you have it, know

some little piece of your brain

is totally out of whack. Nothing

you can do about that, either.

Not without therapy, and that

means telling someone you know

you’re just a tiny bit crazy.

How do you admit that without

giving up every bit of power

you have finally managed to grasp?

Some people have it worse than I do,

I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands

seventeen times a day or count

every step I take, then take a couple

more until the exact number from

here to there is divisible by three.

My compulsion is simply order.

Everything in its place, and spaced

exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,

between hairbrush and comb. Two

inches, no more, no less, between pairs

of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,

upper left corner of my top right dresser

drawer; white socks in the lower right.

I doubt Grandfather has even noticed

how every can in the cupboards is

organized alphabetically, labels out,

or that cleaning supplies beneath

the sink are arranged by color.

But Aunt Cora definitely has.

SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

She thinks it’s funny, and funnier

still to mess with my mind by moving

my shoes                      farther apart

or puttingmycombinsidemybrush

or arranging a can of

yams

in front

of the

applesauce.

She says I should lighten up, quit

beating myself up mentally. I know

she only wants what’s best for me,

but sometimes she makes me mad.

If it were easy to throw

my

clothes

into

a heap

on the floor,

of course I’d rather do that than

spend hours

folding them

precisely

right. Right?

I AM IN THE DEN

Arranging Grandfather’s

eclectic collection of

paperbacks alphabetically

by author—Graham, Billy;

Grey, Zane; Grisham, John—

when the telephone rings.

I’ve got it! Grandfather

yells from the kitchen.

I peek at the caller ID.

NV St Prsn—Nevada

State Prison. The collect

calls from Trey come once

in a while. Usually, to listen

to Grandfather’s raves,

when his prison account

needs a cash recharge.

Little SOB wants me

to pay for his cigarettes

and soap? Does he think

I’m made of money?

Still, he always sends it.

Three times convicted

felon or not, Trey will

always be his son. His son.

And my convict father.

I SLIP QUIETLY

Along the linoleum. Grandfather

does not appreciate me listening in.

But for some reason, my radar

is blipping. There’s something

different about this call. Maybe

it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice

tipping me off. It’s not exactly

hard to hear him. He’s yelling.

But despite the high volume, a tremor

makes him sound downright old.

I don’t give a damn what you want.

You are not welcome in this house.

I told you that when you went away,

and I haven’t changed my mind.

“Went away,” meaning he was locked up

by the State of Nevada. Again. That was

eight years ago. I remember he called to

share the news while we were planning

my ninth birthday party. I had no

idea what “five to fifteen” meant.

But it sure seemed to take all the fun

out of talking about balloons and cake.

Apparently it’s working out to “more

than five, less than fifteen.” At least,

that’s what I’m hearing from the kitchen.

You may have paid your debt to society,

but you haven’t paid your debt to me.

Not to mention to your daughter. She

doesn’t even know who you are, and

neither do I. Car thief? Drug addict?

You just stay the hell away from here.

I don’t need that kind of worry.

This call is costing an arm and a leg.

I’m going to hang up now.

AND HE DOES

The phone slams against the table,

loud enough for me to hear it

from here. I scoot away from

the door, down the hall, just as

Grandfather exits the kitchen.

He looks at me, anger smoking,

black, in his already dark eyes.

I suppose you heard all that.

I hate talking ill about your father,

but that boy is doomed to go

straight on down to the devil

when he dies. He moves toward

me, trembling slightly. I should’a

beat that boy more. He never

did have an ounce of respect

or caring for anyone except for

himself. Not even for your mama,

I’m guessing. I told Maureen

he was gonna end up badly

if she didn’t … never mind.

GRANDFATHER IS STERN

To put it too mildly. I love him,

of course. How could I not

love someone who gathered me

in, offered a home and his unique

brand of love? It’s hard for him

to love, I think. He has been divorced.

Remarried. Widowed. Left to live

mostly alone until Aunt Cora

reappeared, with little toddler me

tucked haphazardly under one arm.

I do love him. But sometimes he’s harsh.

“Mean” might be more accurate.

He reminds me of a cop walking

the beat too long, in a bad part

of the city—creased and bitter-

eyed and too early gray. He yells.

Rants. Every once in a while,

he leaves a bruise, no apology.

For my own good, he says, So you

don’t end up like your father.

More than once I’ve heard him try to

blame Trey’s mom for her son turning

out bad. Maureen never understood

that kids need discipline, or they’ll ride

roughshod over you. A good switching

by a loving hand never hurt no one.

Quoted directly from his own father

would be my guess, and the oxymoronic

bite of the statement slipped

his notice completely, right along

with the bigger issue he insists

on ignoring: Maureen left him because

of his own drug habit and the reasons

behind it. The pills he pops like Tic Tacs

are legal. Prescribed to moderate

sleep problems and anger problems

and mood problems that swing him

from suicidal to crazy happy in

the space of a few hours. All I can

say is thank God for modern medicine.

SOMETIMES, WHEN IT’S JUST

Grandfather and me, if he’s downed

the exact right combination

of pills and brew, he’ll talk

about growing up in a little

backwater town maybe

six hours north of here.

Sweetwater may not be so

very far from San Antonio,

but it’s a wide world apart.

We were possum poor and not

exactly unhappy being that way.

’Course we didn’t know better.

My pa was a born-again Baptist,

and Sunday was the best day

of the week because Baptists

respect the Sabbath. Weren’t

no cotton rows hoed on Sunday,

that’s for sure. Not a single one.

His accent is honey-thick Texas.

But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.

She moved to California young,

when Maureen divorced Grandfather.

Still, she carries a hint of Good

Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.

Me? I’m fighting it, though it may

be a losing battle. Still, despite

living in Texas for most of my life,

somehow it isn’t Home. And

the really messed-up part of that

is, I have no clear idea where

Home might be. It’s not here

in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather

or Aunt Cora, though it really

should feel that way. Not with

Trey, wherever he might settle

down if they actually let him go.

No, Home is somewhere else.

I don’t know if it’s a place

I’ve already been, or one

I’ve yet to find. But I’m pretty

sure the answer is tangled up

in Where I Came From.

AND WHERE I CAME FROM

Is tangled up

in those faces

I see. At least,

I’m pretty sure

it is. No one here

will tell me much

about why I’m here.

Other than the jail

thing, which I get.

But I know I must

have more family

somewhere. Why

have they never

tried to get hold

of me? It’s all so

confusing, especially

when the people

I do have insist

on keeping secrets.

I HAVE MANAGED

To learn a handful

of assorted details

about the jigsaw

puzzle

that is my beginning.

Nothing what you’d

call solid. Bits and

pieces.

I know I was born

in Nevada. Reno,

I’m told. But I

don’t

know if my mother

still lives there.

When I ask, I

always

get the standard

answer: You don’t really

want to try and

connect

with her, do you?

Well, what if I do?

Do they

think if I found her,

I’d love them less?

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

I’m not sure if I want to connect

with her or not. And even if I do,

I have no idea where to start. Not

like Grandfather will share information.

Reno? Maybe. But it’s a big place,

and Nevada is bigger. And why

think she still lives there? Besides,

I don’t even know her name.

I wonder

if she

remembers mine.

Maybe she’s dead. Disabled.

Brain fried too crispy to even try

to stop by and say hello for fifteen

years. I was two when Aunt Cora

took custody of me, which was just

about the time the State of Nevada

took custody of my parents. Locked

them up that time for a couple of years.

Aunt Cora says

the monster

swallowed them.

THE MONSTER

Is what they called their crystal.

We learned about it in school.

How it messes up your brain.

Makes your teeth go rotten.

Blasts caustic chemicals

through arteries and veins.

How just a little spoonful

keeps you up for days,

no desire for food, high

until you crash. Nosedive.

How using once or twice

can hook you. Take your mind

captive. Agitate cerebral cells

until you wind up psychotic.

What they didn’t say is how

the monster chews up families.

MINE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE

But it’s the only one I’m qualified

to talk about. I don’t know if my parents

were ever in love, but for argument’s

sake, I’ll imagine they were.

So along comes the monster. Then what?

Sex, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.

Good sex? Bad sex? Group sex?

All of the above? I mean, why did any

of that have to change because they

decided to get high together? I don’t

understand. Did they both go gay in

lockup? Decide they liked same-sex

sex better than sex with each other?

Did they ever even try to put things

right with each other after they got out?

Did they ever even once think about me?

Summer Lily Kenwood
SCREAMING

I learned not to

scream

a long time ago.

Learned to

bite

down hard

against pain,

keep

my little mouth

wedged shut.

Fighting

back was useless,

anyway. I was

fragile

at three, and Zoe

was a hammer.

Girls

are stinkier than

boys when they

get

dirty, she’d say,

scrubbing until I

hurt.

And if I cried

out, I hurt

worse.

I’M FIFTEEN NOW

And though Zoe is no longer

Dad’s lay of the day, I’ll never

forget her or how he closed

his eyes to the ugly things

she did to me regularly.

He never said a word about

the swollen red places. Never

told her to stop. He had to know,

and if he didn’t, she must have

been one magical piece of ass.

Cynical? Me? Yeah, maybe

I am, but then, why wouldn’t

I be? Since the day I was born,

I’ve been passed around. Pushed

around. Drop-kicked around.

The most totally messed-up

part of that is the more it

happens, the less I care. Anyway,

as foster homes go, this one is

okay. Except for the screaming.

SCREAMING, AGAIN

It’s Darla’s favorite method

of communication, and not

really the best one for a foster

parent. I mean, aren’t they

supposed to guide us gently?

Her shrill falsetto saws through

the hollow-core bedroom door.

Ashante! How many times

do I have to tell you to make

your goddamn bed? It’s a rule!

Jeez, man. Ashante is only

seven, and she hasn’t even

been here a week. Darla

really should get an actual job,

leave the fostering to Phil,

who is patient and kind-eyed

and willing enough to smile.

Plus, he’s not bad-looking

for a guy in his late forties.

And I’ve yet to hear him scream.

DARLA IS A DIFFERENT STORY

Here it comes, directed at me.

Summer! Is your homework finished?

Hours ago, but I call, “Almost.”

Well, hurry it up, for God’s sake.

Like God needs to be involved. “Okay.”

I need some help with dinner.

Three other girls live here too.

And turn down that stupid music.

The music belongs to one of them.

I can barely hear myself think.

She thinks? “It’s Erica’s music.”

Well, tell her to turn it down, please.

Whatever. At least she said please.

And would you please stop yelling?

GAWD!

My neck flares, collarbone

to earlobes. Like Erica

couldn’t hear her scream?

I fling myself off the bed,

cross my room and the hall

just beyond in mere seconds.

“Erica!” (Shit, I am yelling.)

“Can’t you …?” But when

I push through the door,

the music on the other side

slams into me hard. No

way could she have heard

the commotion. “Great

song, but Darla wants you

to turn it down. What is it?”

Erica reaches for the volume.

“Bad Girlfriend.” By Theory of a Dead-

man. I just downloaded it today.

She looks at me, and her eyes

repeat a too-familiar story.

Erica is wired. Treed, in fact.

I TOTALLY KNOW TREED

In sixth grade, the D.A.R.E.

dorks came in, spouting stats

to scare us into staying straight.

But by then, I knew more than

they did about the monster

because of my dad and his women,

including my so-called mom.

Her ex, too, and his sister and cousin.

Plus a whole network of stoners

connecting them all. The funny

thing is, none of them have a fricking

clue that I am so enlightened.

Tweakers always think no one

knows. Just like Erica right now.

“Shit, girl. You go to dinner lit

like that, you’re so busted.

Darla may be a bitch. But she’s

not stupid, and neither is Phil.”

Here comes the denial.

Her shoulders go stiff and

her head starts twisting

side to side. But she doesn’t

dare let her eyes meet mine.

What are you talking about?

“Hey, no prob. I’m not a spy,

and it’s all your life anyway.

I’m just saying you might

as well be wearing a sign

that says ‘I Like Ice.’ If

I were you, I’d skip dinner.”

I turn, start for the door,

and Erica’s voice stops me.

It’s just so hard to feel good,

you know? I do know. And

more than that, it’s just

so incredibly hard to feel.

MAYBE THAT’S WHY

I have also felt the gnawing desire to try

crystal, despite knowing what it did

to

Barely There Dad

to

Rarely Here Mom.

Maybe they were just trying to feel

something too. Something besides

heat

for each other

hate

for each other.

It’s too bad they hooked up at all. Because

the only things they have in common

are

giving me life

and

tearing my life apart.

MY MOTHER

Gifts me with a visit once, maybe

twice, a year. Our conversations

seesaw between inane and trite:

How’s school?

“Okay, I guess.”

Still running track?

“Not for a while.”

Extracurricular stuff?

“Not really, no.”

How they should go is like this:

How’s school?

“Better than could be

expected, considering

I only have foster parents

to make sure I’m there

on time, with breakfast in my

belly, encouraging my rather

outstanding performance,

despite the fact that no

one really gives a shit.”

Still running track?

“Not since the day a wind

sprint almost sent me to

the hospital because my

asthma (which can no doubt

be attributed to your

tweaking during the first

trimester you were pregnant

with me, and smoking the entire

nine months) kicked in so

hard I could barely suck

enough air to keep my

face from turning blue.”

Extracurricular stuff?

“Sure, because I’ve been

encouraged so regularly

to explore my unique set

of talents, huh? And, like,

I’ve got parents who’d

come watch me perform

even if I could sing or act

or dance or whatever.

No, Mother. My only

extracurricular stuff has

to do with making out.”

I COULDN’T SAY THAT, THOUGH

Because then she’d feel validated

about her other regular line of inquiry:

Boyfriends? No?

Girlfriends, then?

Either way, it’s all

good with me.

I hate that she thinks sex

is the only thing on my mind.

The last time she went there,

she was taking me back to Darla

and Phil’s, after a long weekend

of not-quite-bonding at her tacky

Vegas apartment. Any news on

the boyfriend front? Getting a little?

Like I’d confide in her if I was.

“Who do you think I am? You?”

Sometimes, I guess, I’m snappish.

But doesn’t she deserve snap?

Her comeback was immediate,

not to mention completely lame.

Summer Lily Kenwood!

Why are you so angry?

“Let’s start with my name.

Like my life is so full of sunshine,

and like you didn’t know how

crappy it would be the day you

named me. And then there’s

you, who chose to go ahead

and have me, even though

you didn’t want me….”

She jerked her piece-of-crap car

over against the curb. Lit a new

cigarette off the one already

irritating my asthma. Shut your

mouth. I did want you. Still want you.

I just don’t have enough resources….

“God, Mother. You sound like

an investment banker instead of

a total loser tweaker. Resources?

What you don’t have is enough love.”

IT WAS NASTY

Mean.

In your face.

Designed for

overt reaction.

And it got zero.

She pulled away

from the curb, exhaling

nicotine poison, regardless

of my little brothers, chilling

in the backseat. Drove me home,

dropped me off without a single word.

I don’t know

if she was stunned

into silence, or if her

meth-mangled brain couldn’t

grasp what I said. Either way, we

haven’t spoken

in months. I’m pretty

sure she was straight that

day. Pretty sure she’s been

straight every time I’ve seen her.

Always, she’s chain-

smoking anxious. Often,

she’s angry. I’ve never seen

her happy. Was she ever happy?

Was she ever happy when not using?

GODDAMN METH

Has ruined

so many lives.

Her life.

Dad’s life.

My life.

Friends’ lives,

because they use

or because people

they love use.

They don’t call it

the monster for

nothing. It chews

people up, spits ’em

out, often unsalvageable.

So why have I been even

a little tempted to take

a spin with the monster?

IT’S NOT HARD TO FIND

Here in Bakersfield. In fact,

California’s central valleys

are fertile ground for more

than pistachios and wheat.

They are, in fact, a sort

of monster lair. Bikers

have busily built labs

in the area for many years.

And while law enforcement

has been busy too, there’s

a lot of “nothing” out here.

They can’t be everywhere.

I know all this because

my boyfriend’s Gramps

was an original Hells

Angel manufacturer.

He’s in prison too. Not for

cooking it or transporting

it, but for stabbing a guy

in a bar fight while high on it.

That’s not something Matt

is proud of. In fact, he hates

meth, and what it’s done

to his family. If he knew

the idea of trying it had

even crossed my mind,

he would not be happy.

And if he had the slightest

notion that his best friend,

Kyle, is the one who keeps

offering it, Matt might end

up just like his grandfather.

SO FAR

I’ve refused.

Refused the meth.

Refused the scene.

Refused Kyle’s kiss.

Well, sort of.

Once he cornered me.

Once he held me close.

Once our lips connected.

Matt was gone.

Away from school.

Away from town.

Away from me.

I almost gave in.

Almost relented.

Almost submitted.

Almost said okay.

But I remembered.

Kyle is a stoner.

Kyle is a player.

Kyle is Matt’s best friend.

I THINK OF THEM BOTH

As I lie in bed, body

asking for sleep

while my brain insists on

flashing

cerebral photographs.

Phffft. Matt and me,

last summer, making

out

like there was no tomorrow.

Love that phrase. Because

without tomorrow,

what’s wrong with

some

spectacular today? Phffft.

Kyle, touching me,

in a totally different

kind

of way than Matt could

even imagine. Phffft.

Matt, a solid dream

of a

guy telling me, I love

you, as we lie together

in a tall field of wheat.

Warning!

The next photo is X-rated.

And when I wake, I am still

warm from the night before.

MAYBE WHAT I NEED TO DO

Is make us a threesome.

If I belonged to some weird

religious sect, that’s what

I’d do. Except don’t all those

weird religious sects expect

two girls to a guy, instead of

the obviously better way to go?

What is wrong with women,

anyway? Two dudes. One you.

Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m

talking about. It’s stupid

as hell to think that way,

but WTF? It’s my effing

daydream, isn’t it? I keep

dreaming it right through

breakfast. On the short bus

ride to school. But then, as

I pace the sidewalk, waiting,

a sudden realization hits. Two

guys. One girl. Can’t do that.

If I did, I would be my mother.

I WATCH THE PAIR

Of them now, coming up the walk, cutting

through the herd trying to make first bell.

Matt is two inches taller. So why does Kyle

loom larger? Why should that matter at all?

Kyle spots me first, waves. There is much

in his smile that Matt can’t see. But I can.

Matt says something to Kyle, slaps his shoulder,

turns away from him, heads toward me.

I love the confidence in his stride,

goal in sight, no hint of hesitation

until he reaches it. Reaches me. Hey.

Not exactly eloquent, but that’s okay.

Lips have better uses. The kiss they bring

is autumn rain—wet, warm, wished for.

Matt bracelets me with strong arms.

He smells clean, but not perfumed,

like Tide detergent and Ivory soap.

I am safe here against his chest,

where his heart thumps desire.

This is all any girl could want.

So why do my open eyes stray over

his shoulders? And why am I satisfied

to see Kyle staring back at me?

He gives a little shrug, continues

inside, just as the first bell blares.

Matt pulls away reluctantly. Guess

that’s our cue, huh? He gives me

another quick kiss, slides his arm

around my waist, hustles me toward

the door and the long row of lockers

just beyond. At the far end, Sierra

Freeman has cornered Kyle. Only

his body language loudly says he’s

not exactly frantic to get away.

MATT WALKS ME

To my first-period class—

AP English. Thank God

for advanced placement.

The regular curriculum

would drive me bonkers.

I taught myself to read

before kindergarten.

I lived with Grandma Jean

and Grandpa Carl then,

and books were everywhere.

Grandpa helped me learn

to count. After that, math

was easy. Two grandparents,

take away one (goddamn

cigarettes got him too young)

leaves one. And when that

one goes just a little crazy

having lost her husband

of thirty-nine years,

two grandparents take away

one equals zero. Anyway,

words and numbers have

always been easy for me.

And even without people

who care, my grades rock.

Matt, who is clueless

about much more than

my relatively curvy

exterior, likes to tease

me. Who knew a brainiac

could be so much fun?

is one of his favorite

lines. “Fun,” meaning

I let him cop regular

feels of those curves.

He knows I take all AP

classes, but somehow

has no real idea just

how brainy I am. Okay

by me. It’s an advantage.

Hunter
SATURDAY

The alarm blares again.

Second snooze cycle?

Third? Behind my eyelids,

morning is bright. Eightish?

I roll over and open one eye.

Almost nine. Damn. Up I go.

I’ve got to land an earlier

air shift, at least if I have

to keep doing remotes.

Live broadcasts are fun.

But it’s not good to do them

with bags under your eyes.

Not if you want to look

like a radio star. Okay,

maybe I haven’t reached

“star” status. The stars do

morning or afternoon

drives. I pull ten p.m. to two

a.m. twice a week. But

they are weekend nights,

so at least a few people

are up late, listening.

I even have groupies.

Hey, maybe I am a star.

THE REMOTE

Is at the football game.

The UNR Wolf Pack versus

the Boise State Broncos.

Boise is a powerhouse

team and generally cleans

our clock, but UNR has got

one radical quarterback

this season, plus an all-state

running back. Never know.

We just might take ’em.

Wolf Pack fans are ready to howl.

The game should be packed.

Which means I’d better

get a move on. Traffic

will be a bitch. A glance

out the window confirms

it’s a crystal-edged October

day. Perfect football weather.

I shave. Shower. No time

for breakfast, a quick brush

to excise morning mouth.

Jeans. Long-sleeved blue tee

sporting the X logo. It’s a little

wrinkled, but the black leather

bomber will camouflage that.

Socks. Socks? My sock drawer

is empty. Oh, well. Yesterday’s

shouldn’t be too bad. Mom’s always

griping about my dirty laundry.

All you have to do is get it from

your room to the laundry room.

Twenty-five steps total. How hard

could that be? The word isn’t “hard.”

It’s “organized.” Not my best thing.

Yesterday’s socks it is. New pair

of Nikes, barely scuffed at all.

Out the door in twenty minutes.

If I’m lucky, I won’t be late.

IT’S A HALF-HOUR DRIVE

To the station. Another forty

minutes to load the remote

broadcasting equipment

into the company van.

Just about the time

I’m ready to roll,

a beater Pontiac burps

into the parking lot.

Oh, no. It’s Montana.

Her real name is Corrine,

but she wanted her air

name to play off

Hannah Montana.

Don’t ask me why.

Morning, she breathes,

in her best “I’m trying

not to sound like

the dingbat I am” voice.

(Not that it works.)

Awesome day, huh?

“Uh, yeah.” I load

the last speaker. “Well,

I’m about ready. As soon

as Rick gets here …”

Montana’s head swings

side to side. Didn’t you

get the message? Rick

has a major flu bug.

She moves closer. Too

close. Her lips are four

inches from mine when

she says, It’s me and you.

No, no, no! It’s bad

enough working a remote

with Rick the Brick Denio,

whose “I’m God’s gift

to the world” attitude

has thirty years in radio

to back it up. Montana’s

“hey, I’m the shit” pose

comes from bottled

blond hair and way-

too-round-to-be-real

36DDs. And, fake or

no, those babies were

designed for Montana

Disney (no lie!) to steal

the show wherever she goes.

ESPECIALLY FOOTBALL GAMES

Especially with those DDs

encased in a gray angora sweater,

and her equally impressive ass

advertised by a short, tight navy

skirt. Wolf Pack colors are silver

and blue. She’s a one-of-a-kind fan,

one every guy walking by can’t help

but notice. It’s irritating, but what

really pisses me off is how she just

stands there, flaunting fuzzy silver

and tight navy blue, while I do all

the work, setting up the X tailgate

party. Even Rick would have helped.

At least we have a designated

parking spot in the alumni lot. People

are parked down the hill, a half mile

or more away. By the time they reach

us, they’re huffing and puffing.

Montana sympathizes. Long walk?

Well, come on over here and have

a hot dog and soda, on the X.

MOST OF THEM

Are already drinking beer.

But they take the dog, if only

for the chance to stand that

close to those amazing ta-tas.

I have to admit, Montana

is great advertising, if a mediocre

on-air personality. She knows

jack about music. She’ll probably

go on to fame and fortune as

a spokesmodel or something.

Anyway, I watch her work

the mostly male crowd until,

finally, a couple of cute girls

wiggle up to me. Are you Hunter

Haskins? says the curvy redhead.

’Cause I really love your show!

Yeah, agrees the slender brunette.

I listen every weekend. You’re good.

My turn to flirt. “Sweetheart,

I am so much better than good.”

Then I remember, “Hey, are you

interested in a hot dog?”

The girls dissolve into laughter,

and I realize how that sounded.

I flush, hot despite the nip in the air.

“Uh, I meant a Polish sausage.”

That makes Red laugh even

harder. Is Haskins a Polish name?

The brunette’s eyes are watering.

And just how big is that sausage?

Wow. Obnoxious. So why does

the thought of a threesome

cross my perverted mind?

“I’ve never had a complaint,

if that’s what you mean.” A gasp

behind me makes me turn….

AND THERE IS NIKKI

And not only that,

but there is Nikki with

her parents, UNR alumni

and rabid Pack fans.

But not exactly fans

of Hunter Haskins.

Surely they realize this

is part of the radio

personality game?

“Oh, hey!” I reach for

Nikki, who shrinks

back a little. “Great

to see you all here.

How about a …”

Shit. If I say hot dog,

my groupies are gonna

howl. I turn my back

on them completely.

“Want some lunch?”

I gesture toward

the gathered X fans

all happily munching

Polish sausages. Nikki,

red-faced, shakes her head.

Her mom, all stuck-up,

slides her arm around

Nikki’s shoulder. No.

Her dad looks slightly

amused, but his voice

is stiff. We already ate.

“Oh. Okay.” How do

I make this right? “Nik,

can I talk to you a sec?”

She starts to say no,

but if I don’t fix this

now, it might be unfixable.

“Please?” I take her

arm, pull her away

from her mother’s grasp

and off to one side. “Hey.

Those girls are listeners.

You are the one I love.”

I NOTICE HER MOM AND DAD

Watching us. Standing

a couple of feet apart,

as if they want nothing

to do with each other.

And I remember. “So,

are your parents back

together?” I know her

answer before she says,

Not really. He claims

he wants to come home,

but he still wants to work

with … with her.

His boss. And maybe

the woman he loves

more than he loves

his wife and daughter.

There’s a big alumni

party today. They only

came together to keep up

appearances. She starts

to tear up again, and

I pull her into my arms.

Kiss her forehead softly.

“It will all work out. I promise.”

WHY DO I PROMISE

Shit like that?

Then again, it

will

all work out.

Just not necessarily

the way she wants

it

to. I look at her

mom, rigid as iron,

suspicion written

all

over her face. And

why not? Her husband

has blatantly

come out

about falling for

someone else. Why

would she want him

back, anyway?

In the

final analysis, their

marriage will forever

be stained. In the long

run, stay or go, it’s a

wash.

IN MY ARMS

Nikki sways, relaxes

just the slightest bit.

I take the opportunity

to repeat, “I love you.”

Love you, too. Her whisper

is shaky, like aspen leaves

in a bold autumn breeze.

They’re waiting for me.

“I know. But I’ll see you later,

right?” Her answer is slow

coming. Finally she gives

me a lukewarm, I guess so.

We turn back toward the X

lunch line. My groupies, thank

God, have wandered off.

Nikki’s mom watches us

with relentless eyes, unlike

her dad, who is focused on Montana.

That fact does not escape

Nikki. God. He’s such a dog.

HE DOES KIND OF LOOK

Like one—a basset hound,

maybe, or a cocker spaniel.

A dog with dopey eyes.

Nikki pulls away from me,

pushes between her parents,

forms a three-link chain.

They start toward the gate

just as the cannon fires,

signaling first kickoff.

Hot dogs in hand, the X fans

disperse, leaving Montana

and me to watch the stragglers.

After a while, Montana turns

to me. Pretty girlfriend, she says.

You two serious, or what?

Without my telling them to,

my shoulders hunch into a shrug.

“We’re not, like, getting married

or anything. But I like her a lot.”

Her question was out of left field,

my answer bordering on evasive.

Looked more like love to me.

Meaning, I guess, that she was looking.

Mind if I give you a little advice?

Advice? Who does she think

she is? Dr. Phil in drag? But

what the hell. “Uh, guess not.”

Radio is entertainment, or should

be, anyway. Your jock persona

should feel real to your listeners.

But never forget that it’s fabricated,

created in the name of entertainment.

Once you start thinking it’s real,

start taking the fake you too seriously,

the truly important things in your

life will vanish. Believe me, I know.

I do believe her. But why?

Montana is schlock to the n th

degree. “Do you want to elaborate?”

Her smile, sad, makes her pretty.

Maybe someday. For now, I’ll

just say I used to be married.

MARRIED?

Hard to believe.

Divorced?

Even harder.

She’s either

older

than she looks,

or she’s lived

faster

than most.

Probably the latter.

But why do I think

that? To be

honest,

I don’t know her at all.

She could be PhD

smart,

might trump Rick Denio

when it comes to being

witty.

If I dug deep enough

beneath the facade,

who

would I find? Is Corrine

standing beside me? Or

is she

really Montana?

AS I PACK UP THE VAN

I think back to when

I was a kid, trying too

hard to be “just like

everyone else,” when

I felt totally different.

Not an outcast, exactly.

Just different. I tried

so hard to look normal

that everybody noticed.

And bullies pounced.

I entered public school

late to the game, after

a couple of years

of parochial torture.

So I didn’t start third

grade with solid buddies

to back me up. When

someone picked on me,

I crumbled at first. Then,

when I got tired of it,

I learned to push back.

Being about the biggest

kid in my class helped.

But I never wanted to

fight. I wanted friends.

MAYBE CORRINE

Just wanted friends,

and that’s why she turned

into Montana. Maybe she

wanted revenge. Wonder

why her marriage sank.

Stupid question. No way

were people meant to be

monogamous. Not human

behavior. Human behavior

of the nonmonogamous

type is all around me here.

Guys smooching on girls,

obviously “their” girls, yet

checking out other girls

walking by. Girls aren’t

a whole lot better, and this

is only the “checking” out

stuff. The actually “doing”

stuff behind each other’s

backs is almost as bad.

FOR EXAMPLE

In the distance, a couple arrives

very late to the game. Not long

ago, the cannon boomed the start

of the second quarter. The man walks

quickly, two steps in front of the woman,

up the steep hill from the east parking lot.

His near lope and the solid set

of his shoulders tell me he’s pissed,

or at least determined to reach

the gate before she does. She, on

the other hand, seems just as resolute

to continue at her own measured speed.

Way to go, lady. Don’t let him stress

you out. Whoa. Wait. As the man

crowns the hill, stomps into view,

his silhouette becomes very familiar.

I know him. Know him well, in fact.

It’s my dad. And she, I assume, is my mom.

THAT DETAIL IS CONFIRMED

As they get closer, as is another

assumption I made earlier. Dad

is definitely not happy. His scowl

creases his face, makes him look

a decade older than his fifty-seven

years. I wave to draw his attention.

When he sees me, his expression

softens, but only a modicum.

Like from “ready to kick someone’s

ass” to “maybe I’ll just mess him up

a little.” I’d like to say I’ve never

seen him like this before, but why

lie? Dad possesses a temper,

and patience isn’t his best thing.

Mom says I take after him that way.

I have no idea what she means.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls even.

“What’s going on?” Mom chugs

up after him, and I add, “Hi, Mom.

Sorry I missed breakfast.”

On Saturdays, if Mom is home

instead of book touring, she tries

to make breakfast special. There

was a time when I wouldn’t miss one.

Mom smiles, and in kind of a polar

opposite way to Dad, the crinkles

around her eyes plump up. No prob.

Sometimes sleep trumps food.

Dad snorts impatiently. We’re

late. “Circumstances beyond

our control” and all. Can we talk

at dinner? Still pissy. Poor Mom.

He starts off, leaving Mom

standing here. Once his back

is solidly pointed at me,

I whisper, “What’s wrong?”

She shrugs. Nothing you need

to worry about. Kristina’s latest

scheme is all. She not-quite-hugs

me. I’d better catch up. TTFN.

KRISTINA, SCHEME QUEEN

That could be her epitaph.

And her obit could contain

the following resume:

Job Title:

Drug manufacturer and trafficker.

Job Description:

Make easy money cooking meth and moving it, Point A to Point B. (Caveat: Ingredients are volatile.)

Job Title:

Prison inmate.

Job Description:

Get paid thirty-six cents per hour painting murals on cafeteria walls. (Caveat: Goes toward restitution.)

Job Title:

Boy toy.

Job Description:

Low pay, but all the sex you can ask for. Just lay back and spread your legs. (Caveat: Unprotected sex equals babies.)

Job Title:

Newspaper saleslady.

Job Description:

Pyramid possibilities if you form a crew of loser teenagers. (Caveat: High school dropouts are lazy.)

Job Title:

Used car saleslady.

Job Description:

No salary, but decent commission for offing overpriced lemons. (Caveat: Lots of used car lots; few suckers.)

Job Title:

Rap video extra.

Job Description:

Major bucks for slinking around on set, pretending to fawn over rap star. (Caveat: Some rap stars are phonies.)

Job Title:

Stage mother.

Job Description:

Shuttle your kid from casting call to casting call, hoping he’ll get paid something someday. (Caveat: You and thousands of stage mothers.)

Job Title:

Mail-order minister.

Job Description:

Perform cheap outdoor weddings for tips because you can’t afford to own a chapel. (Caveat: Most couples prefer a hokey chapel.)

Job Title:

Golf tournament caddie.

Job Description:

Great tips for wearing short shorts and lugging older men’s heavy clubs hole to hole. (Caveat: Not always talking golf clubs.)

Job Title:

Part-time limo driver.

Job Description:

Long hours on call, unless you’re ballsy enough to work the airport and dredge up biz. (Caveat: Might as well drive a taxi.)

Job Title:

Mother.

Job Description:

Not really sure what that is.

CYNICAL?

You bet. But the truth

is, for Kristina, the next

“amazing opportunity”

is always within sight.

Why can’t she ever

get things right?

Dad believes she came

into the world hungry

to break rules, argue.

Instigate a fight.

She has a short fuse

too easy to ignite.

Mom, who is gentler,

and carried her for nine

months, thinks of Kristina

in a different light.

She was a special child.

Beautiful. Talented. Bright.

I mostly only see her on

holidays. She has a truck-

driver mouth. Smokes too

much, is wound too tight.

Like a hummingbird,

denied the freedom of flight.

Autumn
CHANGE IS COMING

The surety of that has augered

its way into my brain, stirring up

all those buried childhood fears. I

deal with the uncertainty of tomorrow

by über-controlling today.

Which means getting up an hour

early to make double sure

my room is spotless—fresh

sheets and pillowcase; no

dirty clothes in the hamper;

trash emptied; furniture

dusted; carpet vacuumed—

before I even think about

heading out the door to school.

This morning is in perfect order.

We’ll see what evening brings.

AUNT CORA

Doesn’t seem to notice

the scent of change in the air.

She sings as she busies herself

in the kitchen, making breakfast.

Usually we all just settle for cereal,

but today I smell a hot griddle.

Pancakes? Something is definitely

going on. The domestic goddess

thing so isn’t her. “Morning.”

Her back is to me, and she jumps

a little before turning, red-faced.

You scared me half to death!

But she’s laughing, and I can’t

help but laugh too. “Kind of

an overstatement, don’t you think?

And what’s up with the pancakes?

Going Rachael Ray on us, or what?”

I watch her ladle thick, lumpy batter.

Rachael Ray? Ha-ha. Don’t think

so. Still, it never hurts to brush

up on your culinary skills, does it?

She flips a hotcake like a pro.

The weird thing is, I can only

remember her ever making them

maybe two or three times in

the past. “So what’s really going

on with you? Something to do

with all the late nights out the past

few weeks?” She’s been gone a lot

lately, and I’m pretty sure there’s more

to it than her working part-time at

Olé Tex-Mex and going to school

three days a week to learn massage

therapy. Better late than never,

she told Grandfather and me when

she embarked on her new career path.

I don’t want to wait tables forever.

What she didn’t say was she doesn’t

want to stay single forever either.

SHE DOESN’T SAY THAT NOW

But she does say, Well, you never

know. I just might want to make

pancakes for someone special

someday. Uh … not that you’re

not special. I mean … If her face

was red before, it’s pickled

beet purple now. The look

on my own face must communicate

something loud and clear, because

her shoulders slump slightly. Okay,

might as well confess. I met this

guy. He’s my teacher, actually,

and he is incredible. She spits

out a list of attributes: tall,

gorgeous, smart, professional.

Then, a major ding: divorced.

Divorced? Like with alimony

and child support? How old

is the guy, anyway? Might as

well ask. “How old is he, anyway?”

I expect her to say forty-five,

maybe even fifty. So it comes

as a major surprise when she

answers, Thirty-one. I know it’s

kind of weird to think about

going out with someone

who’s younger. But stranger

things happen every day, right?

She said think about going

out with … So … “Does

that mean you aren’t going

out with him yet, or what?”

Not sure why the idea of her

dating this guy bothers me so

much. He’s not like her first

or anything. But something seems

different. No … yes … uh …

Not like real dates. No movies

or dancing or anything. Just

coffee and stuff. But I hope …

SHE PAUSES

At the thump … th-thump

of Grandfather lumbering

like an old bear up the hall.

His question precedes him

through the doorway. What is that

I’m smelling? A hot breakfast?

Aunt Cora puts a finger to her lips,

but it is the uneasiness in her eyes

that swears me to secrecy.

Yep, she says. I must have dreamed

about pancakes, because I woke

up half-desperate for them.

Thump … th-thump … thump.

Slower than usual. He must

have had a toss-n-turn night.

Pull up a chair, instructs Aunt

Cora. They’re just about ready.

Apple butter or maple syrup?

The only answer is both. I watch

Grandfather ease into a chair.

Aunt Cora sets a heaping plate

in front him. He inhales buttery

steam, takes a big bite. Hope you

dream about breakfast more often.

He gives her a funny look, one

I can only interpret as sensing

something different about her.

She’s not about to fill him in.

If we had pancakes too often, you

wouldn’t appreciate them so much.

Grandfather downs a short stack,

then he says to me, I have to run

an errand. Want a ride to school?

Unusual. He hardly ever

goes anywhere. But what

else can I say? “Uh, sure.”

THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE

Seems to take an hour. Unlike Aunt Cora,

Grandfather is definitely fishing the same

tide of anxiety I find myself trolling.

He is taut as a tug-of-war rope. Impossible

to slacken, despite the fact that lately he’s been

downing bourbon instead of beer, along

with bigger and bigger doses of meds. He falls

asleep in his chair every night around eight.

Even now, with coffee rather than booze

chasing his mood fixers, his voice is muddy

when he finally cracks the wall of silence.

Your father is getting out next week.

Just the way he says it—all quivery

and ice-cold—sends shivers through me.

“I thought it might be soon. I heard

you on the phone the other day.”

He says he wants to see you. How

do you feel about that? He turns

a corner and the school pops into

view. Trey wants to see me? What for?

And how do I feel about seeing

him after eight years in prison,

eight more years of him being nothing

to me but sporadic collect calls?

“I don’t know,” I tell Grandfather

as he turns into the passenger drop-

off zone, pulls over against the curb.

“I’ll have to think about it.” I get out

of the car. What I said was a lie. I know

exactly how I think about it. I hate Trey

for leaving me. Wish I could love him,

but don’t have a clear idea how.

Do I want to see him? Part of me does.

The other part thinks he ought to take

a flying leap off a very short pier. Maybe

“I don’t know” wasn’t a lie after all.

I’LL NEVER FORGET

The last time Trey blew back

into my life. I was almost five,

and he was on parole after

serving two years for fraud.

It was not his first time in lockup.

When he came to the door, I had no

idea who he was. Grandfather and

Aunt Cora don’t keep many photos

of him, and the ones they do have

are from long before he ever

started messing around

with meth. He is handsome

in those pictures—tall and strong,

with dark hair and curious gray

eyes and a killer smile. The guy

who came to Grandfather’s door

looked like a derelict. I clung

to Aunt Cora’s skirt as if I were

sewn to the hem. It was a safe

place I knew all too well.

Hey, sis! Trey planted a big

not-brotherly kiss on her lips.

Then he spotted me. Autumn?

His voice held need, and his

eyes were steel. Come to Daddy.

Daddy? No. I didn’t have one

of those. A big ol’ twister

started up in my gut. I backed

behind Aunt Cora, burrowed

deeper. Trey reached for me.

“Noooo!” I screamed, and

turned to run. But not quick

enough. Bark-rough hands

clamped around my waist.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Here now, soothed Trey.

I would never hurt my little

girl. He petted me as he might

a nervous pup, but that did little

to quell the tornado inside me.

SOMEHOW HE DIDN’T GET

That, despite his probable

relationship to me,

I wasn’t his little girl.

Not

then and not now.

He has never even pretended

to play father to me.

With a little help from

my

grandfather, Aunt Cora raised

me, though she was only

seventeen when I was born.

What an amazing

cup

of blessing! She could

have just let me fall into

the system, instead

of

giving up her own party

years to take care of me.

Or she could have left

me to suffer Grandfather’s

poison

alone.

INSTEAD, SHE STAYED

Played the “mom” role, and played

it well. Thank God I’ve got a female

someone in my life. I’d like to say

I’ve got tons of girlfriends, but nope.

Not exactly sure why, but I have

never been what you could call

popular. Aunt Cora says it’s my aura.

I see them, you know. Yours is dark.

Sort of like black coffee, although

it fluctuates. Sometimes there are

little flecks of gold. If you could

make those coalesce, turn your

aura more toffee than coffee,

things would be different. Let me

give you some exercises….

Everyone needs a mystic aunt for a

surrogate mom. Sometimes it’s hard

to believe she’s only thirty-four.

I swear she must be reincarnated.

Some ancient witch, burned at the stake,

returned for a shot at redemption.

WHATEVER SHE IS

Witch or gypsy,

I don’t have time

to think about it

now. I summon as

many gold flecks

as I can, hope they

turn me toffee-er,

point myself toward

Ms. Carol’s room.

Cherie feels generous

today, or maybe

she’s got something

to brag on. She’s

waiting by her locker,

which is two down

from mine. I don’t

really want to talk

to her, or anyone.

So much for gold

flecks. I’m black coffee.

I SHOULDN’T HAVE WORRIED

About not feeling like talking.

Cherie can talk enough for

both of us. And she does.

Guess what? Billy Burke

asked me to Homecoming.

“Great,” I say, even though

I think Billy is disgusting.

Why would she want to go

out with that loser, anyway?

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.

Wanna help me shop for

my dress? I’m thinking blue,

or maybe green, but I’m not sure.

Is blue the wrong color for

fall? Because all I’m seeing

in magazines is, like, plum and

apricot and that custard yellow….

She goes on and on about

fashion, all the way to Ms. Carol’s

classroom. I nod and smile

and do my very best to

conjure up toffee.

WHEN WE WALK THROUGH THE DOOR

I really hope I’ve managed

to glom onto a few gold flecks

because there’s a new guy,

sitting across from my regular

seat. He’s not like model pretty

or anything, but he is extremely

cute in a boy-next-door sort

of way, with sun-streaked hair

and dark eyes and cheeks that

dimple when he smiles. Smiles.

At me. My face goes hot as I slide

into my chair, wishing I had the slightest

clue how to flirt. I don’t. Never tried

it. I can barely manage to smile back.

And when his grin widens at my obvious

discomfort and he whispers, Hi, I think

I might just curl up in a little ball,

roll away into a corner, and die.

IT’S NOT LIKE

I’ve never been attracted

to a guy before. I’m a normal,

healthy heterosexual girl.

Okay, not totally normal,

which is why guys aren’t exactly

fighting over me. Pretty much

everyone here knows my tale

of woe. Who wants to date a loser

who uses words like “woe,” and lives

with her grandfather because

her parents shuffle in and out

of jail, for cripes’ sake?

Aunt Cora says if I’d just carry

myself with more dignity, things

would be different. She claims

I overthink stuff, and maybe

I’m overthinking stuff right now.

Maybe the new guy is just

being nice because we have

to sit next to each other.

Maybe he is smiling at Cherie,

not me at all. Or maybe he is

only smiling because I blushed

like the idiot I am. Or maybe …

Suddenly I notice that the room

is silent, and everyone’s looking at

me. Ms. Carol is up front, taking roll.

Autumn? Are you here, or what?

Now everyone laughs, because

obviously I’m not here,

despite being present. Still, I lie,

“Um. Yes. Here.” I slump down into

my seat, but once everything goes

quiet, I chance a glance at the new

guy, too cute in a leather bomber.

He’s still smiling. Definitely at me.

TIME

Slows to a crawl, each grain of sand

in the hourglass suspended

midair before finally

dropping through.

American history

isn’t the most

exciting class

anyway, but there

is no way I can possibly

concentrate on the Industrial

Revolution. The boredom is crushing.

I feel like a vacuum is sucking the air

from my lungs. My heart races.

My wrists throb. There’s

a gushing in my ears.

I could die. Right

here. Right

now. I close my

eyes, breathe. Breathe

to fight the burgeoning panic.

No! Damn it. I won’t give in. Not

here. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

SO CLOSE

To feeling like

maybe, just maybe

I have a chance

at being okay.

So close

to feeling normal.

Regular. Not a misfit

at all, but someone

worthy of a friend,

and not only a friend,

but

a boyfriend. Breathe.

Deep. The threat of

suffocation recedes.

The all-encompassing

terror falls far,

far away.

I am, in fact, okay.

For the moment.

I HAVEN’T HAD

A panic attack in quite a while.

I had my first one when I started

middle school. I really thought

I was going to die that day.

My arms and legs went all tingly.

Then my heart beat so insanely

hard, I thought it would explode,

rip my chest wide open.

No one understood what was

happening, not even the school

nurse, who called paramedics.

It took a savvy ER tech to explain

that my heart didn’t have a problem.

My messed-up brain did. Okay,

he didn’t say it was messed up.

I figured out that part myself.

Since then, there have been

other attacks. Other days when

I felt like I didn’t dare leave

my room. I’ve done my homework.

I know anxiety causes them, just

like it causes my OCD. You can find

the easy fix in pharmacies, but

I don’t want to be like Grandfather.

Or worse, end up like my parents—

a slave to addiction, and legal drugs

are often as addictive as controlled

substances. (Shouldn’t those really be

called uncontrollable substances?)

I learned how to mostly cope without

medication, thanks to Aunt Cora,

yoga-meister, who showed me

how the right kind of breathing

can pull my brain out of the “how

now seems” into the “what really is.”

Score one more for Aunt Cora.

THE BELL RINGS

Ms. Carol shouts out

our homework assignment

as the mass exodus

begins. I gather my stuff,

look around for Cherie,

but the only person still

in the room is the new guy.

OMG. Is he waiting for me?

Hi, he says in an accent-free

voice. California smooth.

I’m Bryce. We just moved

here from—

“California.” My fingers

are tingling. No. No. No!

Breathe deep. Breathe.

He grins. Yeah. How did

you know? You psychic,

or something like that?

He is just so cute. Why

me? Whatever the reason,

I actually smile back at him.

“Nope. Not psychic. But

I know California when I

hear it.” How am I doing this?

We start walking. Together.

You ever been to California?

Through the door. Together.

“Yeah. My dad used to live

there. And my aunt. I live

with her now.” Too much info.

But he doesn’t ask for more.

Oh. Do you like San Antonio?

Down the hall. Together.

“It’s okay. It’s really all I

remember.” Too much, again.

“Someday I’ll go back.”

He knows what I mean. Me

too. You can take the kid out

of California, but …

I know what he means. At

least, I think I do. California.

Huh. “Exactly.” Still together.

Summer
ROUSED

From sleep.

Someone is …

crying somewhere

in the darkness

blanketing me.

“Who’s there?”

The voice is tiny,

frail as a promise

when it stutters, N-no

one. Just … m-me.

Not quite all

the way awake,

still I know who

it is. “Ashante?

What’s wrong?”

I reach for the lamp

beside my bed,

fumble for the switch….

AMBER LIGHT

Spills in a narrow

stream across my

bed to the floor

beyond. Ashante

crouches in the

corner by the door,

arms crossed tightly

against her chest.

She is a storm

cloud—puffs of

ebon skin fringing

her soiled white

cotton nightgown.

And the repulsion

glimmering cold in

her eyes is familiar

because it is some-

thing I have seen

staring back at me

from the glacier ice

of my mirror. I already

suspect the answer

when I ask, “What in

the hell happened?”

I OPEN MY ARMS

Her eyes grow wide, and she shakes

her head. Tears streak her cherub cheeks.

I slip out of my bed, move toward her,

and she shrinks back against the wall.

“It’s okay,” I soothe. “I won’t hurt you.”

I approach her as I would a cornered dog,

crazy wild with fear. I force my voice low

and calm. “Now tell me what happened.”

This time when I reach gently for her,

she tips forward into my arms. Sh-she

m-m-made me do something b-b-bad.

I told her n-no, but she said I h-had to.

She? Darla? What kind of bad?

“Who, honey? Did she hurt you?”

Ashante hesitates, trembling. I insist,

“What did she make you do?”

Finally she admits, It was Erica.

She made me touch her in bad places.

It didn’t hurt me, though. But she said

if I told, she’d make me be sorry.

A MEMORY SLAMS INTO ME

A different room.

A different house.

A different town.

I was young.

I was small.

I was afraid.

He was big.

He was strong.

He was supposed

to keep me safe.

No one saw when

he came to me,

put his hand over

my mouth, and said,

If you tell, I’ll make

you sorry. Understand?

He was all over me.

He was on top of me.

He was inside me.

I never told.

I never screamed.

I never healed.

A different night.

A different place.

A different girl.

I NEVER TOLD

I’d already been

pushed aside by

my mother

and my father.

I’d already lost

my Grandpa Carl

and Grandma Jean.

I’d already been

shuffled through

one foster home,

another, one more.

That was the fourth.

Why didn’t anyone want me?

What was wrong with me?

What if that place

was my last chance?

Was that what it took

for someone to care?

No, I never told.

Another girl did.

MY BODY

Healed quickly. But the wound

to my psyche was deep.

Wide. First aid, too little, too late,

left me hemorrhaging inside,

the blood unstaunched by psychological

bandage or love’s healing magic.

Eventually it scabbed over,

a thick, ugly welt of memory.

I work to conceal it, but no matter

how hard I try, once in a while

something makes me pick at it

until the scarring bleeds.

In my arms, Ashante cries,

innocence ripped apart

by circumstance. Bloodied by

inhuman will. Time will prove

a tourniquet. But she will always

be at risk of infection.

ANGER MUSHROOMS

Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,

every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to

the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.

“Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever

she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t

worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”

Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.

It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice

the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really

care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.

She’s wide awake when I storm through it,

into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”

SHE STARES AT ME

With meth-emptied eyes,

and when she smiles in silent

defiance, she is death, grinning.

I want to shake her. Want to

kick her ass. But what for?

She’s not even here. Still,

I can’t let it go. Girl. Man. Mostly

dead or no, a predator is a predator.

You can’t let it roam unshackled.

“What did you do to Ashante?”

I demand, stomping right up

in front of her and grabbing

her by her hair. I expect her

to jerk away, swing at me, or

something. But she just sits

there like a mannequin.

I didn’t do anything to her,

but she did plenty for me.

ZERO REMORSE

Zero guilt. Zero emotion.

She really is evil, or at

least what she smoked

this afternoon is. I can’t

take it. I want her to hurt.

I swing a stiff backhand,

slap her face. Hard.

She animates suddenly

and we are on the floor.

She is stronger than I thought.

Her right hand connects.

Fingernails bite into my

cheek, sink through my skin.

All the hate and pain and fear

I’ve ever felt in my life ball

up into one vicious biting,

scratching beast. “Fuck you,

bitch!” I scream. She is Zoe.

She is my mother. She is …

him. Stop. I have to stop. Can’t …

SUDDENLY, I AM JERKED

Into the air,

kicking,

swinging.

Strong bands

of muscle

encircle me,

pin my arms

against my side.

What in the hell

are you doing,

Summer?

It’s Phil. Of course.

Have you

totally flipped?

“No! It’s not me!”

“It’s her!” I yell,

nodding toward

Erica. “She did it,

not me!” But

even as the words

spit from my mouth,

I know I look like

the crazy one.

I MAKE MYSELF GO LIMP

What happens next

can go a number of ways,

I realize. Darla has pulled

Erica off to one side of the room.

Surely Darla notices the state of her high

or the stench of meth sweat.

Ashante stands in the doorway,

holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.

“Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what

she did to you.” Her eyes look like

they’ll pop right out of her face.

Suddenly I notice crimson

drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try

to reach up, find the source,

but Phil still has a death grip

on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”

His squeeze relaxes some.

Let me see. He spins me around,

draws in his breath. Uh, yeah.

You’d better clean that up. He lets

go of me. Come right back, okay?

THAT BAD, HUH?

I go to the bathroom,

flip on the light switch.

Aagh! No wonder

Ashante looked so

scared. This is ugly.

Striping the right side

of my face from eyebrow

to cheek is a long, narrow

gash. Not a scratch.

Too deep, carved by

something critically

sharp. A ring? Closer

inspection makes

me slightly queasy.

This will leave a scar.

Soap. Water, hot as

I can stand it. Pain

can be a good thing.

Sometimes it means

killing germs, and if this

gets infected … well,

I’m not sure exactly what,

but I’m positive I don’t want

that to happen. The bleeding

slows, but the wound puffs up.

The girl in the mirror

looks like a total freak,

with one side of her face

swollen. Ugly. Deformed.

She starts to cry. Shit!

No fair. No fucking

fair. It wasn’t even

any of my business

what Erica did. Was it?

And what if Ashante

won’t tell what she did?

Who will take the fall?

Erica? Or me? If I tell,

will they believe me?

And how much do I tell?

Everything could come

crashing to the ground.

It’s like trying to cross

a raging river on a rope

bridge—fairly stable until

you reach the middle,

and then it all starts

to sway, and you know

you shouldn’t look down.

But you can’t help yourself.

DARLA COMES INTO THE BATHROOM

She approaches slowly, warily,

as if she’s cornered a killer tiger

or something. I snort. “No worries.

One attack per day is my max.”

But her expression shows concern,

not fear, and I realize it’s my face

she’s worried about. That looks bad.

Maybe we should take you to the ER.

ER? They’ll want to know what

happened. Take a report. Send

it off to my caseworker. Bye-

bye, Darla and Phil. “No. I’m okay.”

That’s going to leave a nasty

scar, Summer. Unless … we

could try the Liquid Band-Aid

stuff. It stings like crazy, but …

“I can handle it.” I follow her

to the other bathroom, watch

her dig through her medicine

cabinet. Finally she finds the bottle.

This is a good antiseptic, too.

That’s why it stings so much.

The smell is almost enough

to knock me over. Hang on.

Sting? It’s liquid fire, welding

my skin together. “Holy crap!”

But it lasts only a few seconds.

And I’ve felt worse pain.

Darla looks at me with sympathetic

eyes. But then she says, Okay,

now that you’re going to live, will

you please tell me what happened?

IF I TELL

Things could go

from bad to worse.

It’s been stable here,

few real surprises. But

if I tell,

the status quo will be

ruptured. The system

isn’t famous for

equitable fixes.

Things could

go from worse to

unbearable. But if I don’t

tell, Erica will get away

with her disgusting act

and Ashante will

go

without the help

she needs right now.

If I don’t tell, things

could definitely go

straight to hell.

MY MOUTH OPENS

Like a floodgate,

cascading words

doubtless better left

dammed up inside.

But every ugly detail

comes splashing out.

As I talk, Darla’s eyes

grow wide. She didn’t

suspect a thing. How is

it possible to take care

of problem kids and not

maintain a semi-constant

vigil for problems? Is she lazy?

Ignorant? Or maybe she doesn’t

really care about anything

except the monthly stipends.

If that’s the case, too bad, so

sad. I’m betting one or more

of those is about to disappear.

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?

NEVADA APPEAL

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.

Cappelini was not available for comment.

Hunter
NEVADA DAY

Not sure how many

other states make a big deal

about the day they were admitted

to the Union. But God bless

the Silver State for Nevada Day.

Three-day weekends rock.

Especially when they mean

you can spend Friday morning

sleeping in late, then waking

the beautiful lady dozing next

to you for an extra-long go-round.

Ambitious sex totally rocks.

Especially when it leaves

her damp hair splayed in silk

cords across your chest,

and each of her breaths lifts

the cherry tips of perfect breasts.

Another go-round rocks exponentially.

WHEN WE FINISH

We’re pretty much wrecked.

Nikki slips out from between

the ruined sheets, heads toward

the bathroom and a hot shower.

But not before confirming,

I love you, Hunter.

“You too,” I say, mesmerized

by the sway of her narrow hips.

She leaves the door cracked open.

I hear water splash against tile,

and soon ginger-scented mist drifts

into the room. Heaven must be

a whole lot like this. A sigh escapes

as I roll onto my side, notice my cell

phone flashing. Good thing I had

it on “silent.” I punch voice mail.

The message is from Jude, the

X program director. Snagged

those David Cook tickets for you.

I’ll leave them in your mailbox.

MOM IS AN AMERICAN IDOL DEVOTEE

And a huge David Cook fan.

When he was on the show,

she bugged me every week

to call in and vote for him.

So when I heard the Brewery

Arts Center was bringing him

in for Halloween, I asked Jude

for tickets. The station gets them

for just about every concert.

I don’t ask for them often,

but Mom and Dad have been

totally stressed lately. Being

around them is like tiptoeing

on broken glass, razor-sharp

slivers aiming for the soles

of my feet. Sometimes

I wonder how their lives

would be if I had never

been born. It’s not like

they asked to start over.

Sometimes I wonder if I am

the reason they don’t hold

hands anymore, rarely kiss

in public. If I am to blame

for the emotional distance

between them, an expanding

rift that seems to grow wider

when I am home, near them.

Mom insists they’re still

best friends, and I guess

that’s true. She says it’s

normal for passion to cool.

Is all love so predictable

or is it, in fact, my fault?

I don’t mind so much when

Dad gets mad at me. I’m pretty

sure that’s a testosterone thing.

But I can’t stand it when Mom

goes all silent and frozen.

I hope David Cook can thaw her.

THIS MUST BE

How Santa feels on

Christmas Eve morning,

sleigh clean, reindeer

fed, presents wrapped,

loaded and ready to go.

It’s not like I’ve never

given Mom and Dad

gifts, and nice ones at

that. But this one feels

so special—practically

custom-made for Mom.

(Not to mention free!)

I punch the speed dial

on my phone, wait for

Mom to pick up at home.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

No one’s here to take

your call right now …

Hmmm. Mom said they

were staying home this

weekend. I try her cell.

No answer. Dad’s cell?

All he has to do is say

Hello for me to know …

SOMETHING’S WRONG

“Hey, Dad. Where are you

guys?” Something nasty

seethes in my gut, acid.

I just dropped your mom

off at the airport. His voice

trembles. Anger? Worry?

Kristina is in the hospital.

That bastard beat her up.

Like what else is new, huh?

“Who beat her up? Ron?”

An ex-boyfriend, in and out

of her life because he is (or

believes he is) the father

of her two youngest kids.

“I thought he was locked up.”

Those places don’t keep ’em

forever. Not cost effective.

Like it’s cheaper in the long

run to turn them loose and

deal with the mayhem later.

You’d think they’d learn.

Ron has caused more than

his fair share of mayhem, mostly

when he’s off his meds and

the voices only he can hear

whisper evil in his ear. “Uh …

is Kristina going to be okay?”

She has a couple of broken

ribs, and I guess he smashed

her face pretty good. They’re

taking her in for X-rays and

an MRI…. He pauses. Tsks.

She’ll never be okay.

Sadness peppers his voice.

Usually when he talks about

her, it’s with anger. It hits me

like an unexpected wind

that he cares about her. In

fact, he might even love her.

THE REVELATION

Throws me, but I’m not

sure why. Dad came into

Kristina’s life when she

was only five. It was he

who picked her up,

put her on his shoulders

to “see the world from way

up high,” just like he later

did for me. It was he who

put her on her feet

when she took a spill

off her bicycle, not

Grandpa Who’s-it in

Albuquerque. The story

goes it was Mom who

told her to leave home,

because she had turned

all our lives inside out

and we wanted them right

again. It was Mom who

said a sad but firm good-bye.

So why has it always

seemed to me that it

was Dad who so firmly

and irrevocably

closed the door behind her?

I REALIZE SUDDENLY

That Dad is waiting for me

to say something. Why did

I call again? Oh, yeah. Tickets.

“How long will Mom be in Vegas?”

Not sure, he says. The kids

need someone to take care

of them. That’s why she had to

drop everything and go. Why?

“Uh …” Santa’s sleigh just

crashed. “Nothing. I thought

I might see you guys at the parade

tomorrow is all. I’ve got a remote.”

Not this year. Sorry. You know

how Nevada Day traffic is,

and I want to be available

in case your mom needs me.

“No prob, Dad. I understand.

Tell Mom I love her, okay?”

And, not quite an afterthought,

“Hey, Dad? Love you, too.”

A WARM GINGER FOG

Spills across the floor. Nikki

trails it into the blind-darkened

room, drying her long golden hair.

Backlit by the bathroom glow,

her silhouette belongs to an angel.

A Victoria’s Secret angel, but still …

Her voice holds a hint of incredulity.

Did you just tell your dad you love him?

My eyes burn, but I force a laugh.

“Why? Does that surprise you?”

Not the loving him part. The telling him

part. She sits on the bed. What’s wrong?

I don’t like to discuss the Kristina

crumbs of my life. Not even with Nikki.

“I scored some David Cook tickets for

tomorrow night. Mom is a fan. But she had

to go to Vegas, spur of the moment.”

Segue to … “So, you wanna go with me?”

To Vegas or David Cook? Okay, bad

segue. Either way, I can’t. I have to

work. Nevada Day weekend is Big Tip

Weekend at Bully’s, you know?

Especially for a cocktail waitress

with Nikki’s attributes. “Gotcha.”

She’s not done with me yet, though.

Why did your mom have to go to Vegas?

I could lie. Omit. Make a joke. Too

much work. “Why else? Kristina.”

She knows enough to know that’s not

good. Your mother’s in trouble again.

“Previous mother,” I correct. “Or

the uterus I once spent nine months in.”

Nikki smiles, but asks with concern,

Is your previous mother okay?

I shake my head, echo Dad’s earlier

words. “Kristina will never be okay.”

I’M SORT OF AMBIVALENT

About that. I should feel

bad, right? I mean, some

jerk beat her bloody. No

one deserves that, right?

So why, when Nikki asks,

What happened to her?

do I shrug and say, “Guess

she walked into her ex’s

fist,” with pretty much

zero emotion attached?

And why, when she says,

Oh, no! That’s terrible!

do I respond, “Her fault, really.

The only guys she ever invites

into her life are felons, failed

AAers, and other assorted losers”?

And why, when she says, But

no woman deserves to be hit,

do I dare voice my opinion

that, “Not true. Some women

damn well beg for it”? I bite

down on the copper taste of anger.

Nikki takes a step back,

as if I might think she had

damn well begged for it.

But I could never hurt her.

So why, oh why, when she

asks, How can you be so cold?

do I walk toward Nikki, flexing

my fingers? “Look. If Kristina

doesn’t kill herself, some guy

will probably do it for her.”

And why, when she says,

You are just plain mean,

do I let loose a tsunami? “And

you know what? If something

bad did happen to Kristina,

I’m not sure I would care.”

Disbelief floods her eyes.

You can’t feel that way.

Rage-fueled words froth

from my mouth. “That’s

exactly how I feel, and if

you don’t like it, fuck you.”

NIKKI’S EYES

Go wide, and I realize what

I just said. “I’m sorry,” I try.

I reach for her, but she slaps

my hand away. She stands,

goes to the closet for clothes.

Her voice is dead calm

when she says, You never tell

me how you feel about anything,

Hunter. You never communicate

at all. In fact, you might want

to rethink your major. And while

you’re doing that, you’d better rethink

you and me. If we can’t talk about

things like your “previous mother,”

we don’t have much of a future together.

I don’t know what to say.

All this because of Kristina?

I watch Nikki slip into jeans,

a curve-hugging jade green

sweater. For the millionth time,

I think how beautiful she is.

But what is it with women

and talking? Some things were

meant to stay private, right?

She comes over to me, touches

my cheek. Still nothing to say?

Goddamn it, I hate when you just

stare at me like that. Her hand

jerks away and her eyes harden,

morgue-cold with anger. Fine.

Fuck you too, then. Take your shit,

get out, and don’t come back.

I can’t deal with this anymore.

She storms from the room, slams

the door so hard a picture rocks

off the dresser, falls to the floor.

WHAT, EXACTLY, DID I DO?

I mean, yeah, I told her, “Fuck you.”

But that was heat of the moment,

and I said I was sorry. I can’t

believe she has such a short fuse.

She’ll cool off and it will all be

fine, right? First things first.

I need a shower. The bathroom

is so Nikki—green and yellow

and messy and smelling of ginger.

The water heater is old and Nikki’s

shampoo-condition-and-shave

routine pretty well emptied it.

I am barely rinsed by the time

the H_2O fades from lukewarm

to frigid. Any other day, I’d be

mad. Today, all I can do is laugh.

I towel off giant goose bumps,

borrow a couple of swipes

of Nikki’s deodorant, use

her brush to spike my hair.

The face in the mirror is mine.

Yet somehow I feel disconnected

from the person wearing it. Nikki’s

words come back to me: I don’t know

who you are. So I ask Mirror

Man, “Who are you?” But he

just stares stupidly back at me.

Who am I? Don’t have a clue.

But I don’t have to figure

that out right now. I’m cold.

I have my own drawer in

Nikki’s dresser, where I keep

a few things for sleepovers.

I choose boxers. Wranglers.

A red long-sleeved tee. Take

your shit. No way. She’ll change

her mind. I leave the rest in

place, retrieve the fallen photo—

Nikki and me boarding at Mt. Rose.

Great day. There have to be more.

MIGHT AS WELL

Go home for a few hours,

I guess. It’s a twenty-five-

minute ride, so I twist one

up and by the time I pull

into the driveway, I feel

a whole helluva lot better.

At least until I go inside,

only to overhear Dad on

the phone. You can’t be

serious, Marie. We’ve

discussed this a dozen

times. … Stop yelling at

me, please. Of course I

understand. I’m not stupid….

See? The minute I walk in

the door, they’re arguing.

There goes my nice little

buzz. I sneak past Dad’s

office into the kitchen. Sex

and stress—not to mention

weed—make a guy hungry.

And thirsty. I consider

snagging a beer, but Dad’s

already in a snit. Better stick

with a sandwich and root beer.

GOOD PLAN

Dad comes into the kitchen

while I’m still slopping

mayonnaise on the bread.

Hunter! Didn’t hear you

come in. He reaches into

the fridge for one of the three

remaining Miller Lights.

“You were on the phone.

So what’s up in Vegas?”

He shakes his head. A lot.

None of it good. In addition

to the ribs, Kristina’s jaw

is fractured. And the MRI

showed something unusual

in her brain. They have to do

more tests. Plus, the cops

went to her apartment, looking

for Ron. The manager

let them in. They didn’t find

Ron, but they did find

three grams of crystal meth,

sitting right out in the open

on top of her dresser. Kristina

claims it must be Ron’s,

but it was in her apartment

and he wasn’t. She could be

in some serious trouble.

Uh, yeah. A twice-convicted

felon in possession of

a substantial amount of ice?

Even if she’s telling the truth,

who’s going to believe her?

The question now arises,

“What about Donald and

David?” Kristina’s youngest

kids, ages eleven and seven.

Well, there is a major problem,

isn’t there? If they catch Ron,

he’s going away. This is felony

assault, on top of his record.

Kristina may be going away

too, and even if she isn’t, it will

be weeks before she’ll be

in a position to play mother

to those kids. So it basically

comes down to foster care,

or … His jaw clenches, and

every discernable muscle tenses.

“Or you and Mom take them

in.” No wonder they were

arguing. Impossible situation.

He nods. Marie wants to bring

them home. It makes me so angry!

We both swore we’d never do it

again—not that we resent having

you, but we’re too old to be parents

of young children. The only alternative

I can think of is Jake and Misty.

But after what happened last time,

it’s not really fair to ask them.

THERE’S AN UNDERSTATEMENT

Uncle Jake owns a bigger heart

than any man should, because

hearts are too easily broken.

He gave a big chunk of his heart

to me, playing babysitter while

most of his buddies were focused

on trying to score girls. The rest

of his heart (minus what belongs

to Mom and Dad) went to Misty

in high school. They married soon

after graduation, even though

everyone said they were too young.

So far, they’ve proved everyone

wrong. School. Work. Paying bills.

They’ve waded through, together.

Then, when Kristina got pregnant

with David and decided she

couldn’t put up with four-year-old

Donald’s hardcore behavior

problems, Jake volunteered to

take him in. He and Misty dealt

patiently with biting. Head

banging. Scream-punctuated

tantrums. Purposeful destruction.

Not his fault, Jake claimed.

She never taught him better.

Truth is, he was wild as a bobcat.

With nurturing and love, Jake

and Misty tamed him. Taught

him the meaning of “no,” how

to say “please” and “thank you.”

Then, of course, Kristina wanted

him back. Sort of like sending

your puppy out to be house-

broken, was Dad’s comment.

Donald did return to Kristina,

better for the experience. But he

has regressed some over time.

Let’s just say there’s rarely

a dull moment when Kristina

and her brood come round

for holidays and family reunions.

AND NOW THE BROOD

Might be moving in? No

wonder Dad’s feeling

a little anxious.

A little pressured.

A little concerned

that his comfortable

retirement might become

decidedly uncomfortable.

Everything at home

has been relatively

stable for a long time.

The drama for the most

part has remained

housed in Las Vegas.

Kristina has kept semi-

steadily employed,

and maintained a couple

of semi-steady relationships.

Of course, Ron was always

lurking in the shadows,

ready to pounce,

ready to maim,

ready to bring her down.

And Kristina never

played smart, never

played the game like

it was for real.

Easier to play victim.

SPEAKING OF PLAYING

The last time Donald came

to visit, he fried my brand-new

Xbox. “Uh … So where are

the demon kids going to sleep?”

Apparently Dad hasn’t bothered

much with the minutiae. I don’t

know. Haven’t really thought

about it. The guest room?

I snort. “Mom’s white on white

with white trim guest room?

You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

He thinks it over for a second,

has to laugh, too. We could

give them permanent markers

to decorate the walls, I suppose.

Or there’s always …

I was afraid of that. Hmm.

Well, if I take everything of value

with me, “Maybe I could stay

with Nik.” Then I remember.

Take your shit, get out,

and don’t come back.

Ah, no worries. Surely

she’s cooled off by now.

I STASH ANY RESIDUAL WORRY

In a dark closet inside my brain

while I do my air shift.

Can’t let my listeners know

I’ve just been kicked out

of my bedroom, not to mention

maybe out of my girlfriend’s bed.

Celebrities don’t get kicked

out of places, right? I slip into

Biggest Little City radio star mode.

“What’s up, Reno? If your

Nevada Day was anything like

mine, I know what was up

this morning. Hope your

evening rocks just as hard. Coming

up, White Tie Affair and

Sugarcult. But let’s get things

started with Three Days Grace.”

Cool as ice cream.

A LITTLE AFTER MIDNIGHT

One of my groupies calls and I offer

her the David Cook tickets, which, as

promised, were in my in-box. For

real? What can I give you for them?

I get her meaning, but pretend

innocence. “Nothing but love,

honey, nothing but love. Track me

down at the parade tomorrow.”

The pimply overnight geek comes

in ten minutes late. I don’t say a word

as I vacate the booth. The night

squeezes me with icy fingers, chills

me all the way through. When I get

to Nikki’s, the house is dark.

Her car is gone. All the stuff I left

is in two paper bags on the porch.

I reach beneath the fake rock. But I

already know the key isn’t there.

Autumn
A COLD RAIN

Is falling this morning.

Not unusual for October.

It rains a lot in San Antonio.

Warm

rain. Cool rain. Steamy

hot rain in the summer.

That part of my life, at least,

has stayed constant. Not

like

the rest of it has. Aunt

Cora, who has fallen out

of her senses in love,

is absent much too often.

I’ve

met Liam and understand

why she wants to spend

time with him. But I need

to talk, and I could

never

ask Grandfather the kind

of stuff I need to know.

I recently entered unfamiliar

territory. A place I’ve never

been before.

AN OLD MAXIM GOES

Love is in the        air. Seems like

the October        air was heavy

with it. Aunt   Cora inhaled a

big whiff. And somewhat

incredibly, so did I.

It’s totally crazy.

I’m scared.

I don’t know            enough about

being in love        to insist that I

really am. But I definitely feel

something for Bryce, and

I’m almost positive he

feels something

for me.

But how do I               know for sure

if what I feel is           anything more

than gratitude       for him paying

attention to me? And how can

I tell if he feels anything

more than sorry

for me?

CHERIE SAYS

Don’t overthink things.

Go with the flow, see

where it takes you. Love

is unpredictable, you know.

Not that I listen much

to what Cherie has to say,

and not that I’ve really

discussed my feelings

with her, except to half

answer her nosy questions.

He’s really cute, isn’t he?

You really like him, huh?

Well, duh and duh. But I say,

“Yeah, he is. And wouldn’t you?”

Did he ask you out yet?

Did he kiss you yet?

“No and no.” Just thinking

about kissing him makes me

nervous. All I know about kissing

is what I’ve seen in the movies.

Still, I have to admit the idea

does intrigue me more than a little.

I try to look nonchalant about

how I feel. But it must be obvious

to anyone with eyes how

I can’t keep my own eyes

off Bryce. It’s like my irises

are made of iron and

he’s a head-to-toe magnet.

That’s not hard to understand.

He’s adorable. Smart. Funny.

What I really don’t get

at all, though, is why

the attraction is mutual.

Bryce is caviar. I am

more like canned sardines.

MAYBE I’M WRONG

About the attraction

being mutual after all.

As always lately, when I get

to school, I immediately

scan the halls for Bryce,

and when I finally spot him,

he is nose to nose with

Tiffany Garcia. My cheeks

flame. Is everybody looking?

Tick-tick-tick-tick goes

my heart. Fast. Faster.

My fingers start to tingle.

No. Not now. Everybody

is looking, and if I freak

out, I’m completely ruined.

As I take deep and deeper

breaths, a voice falls over

my shoulder. What’s up with that?

Cherie. Just perfect. Inhale.

“I really don’t know.” It’s all

I can find enough air to say.

I JERK MY LOCKER OPEN

Hard. Too Hard.

The neat stacks spill

into each other, onto

the floor. Now everyone

is gawking my way for sure.

Are you okay?

Cherie’s question

is laced with concern.

I must look ready to pass

out or die or something.

And maybe I am.

“Yes … No. Uh-uh-

uh …” Great. Let’s

add stuttering to my list.

“I don’t know. I mean …”

I’d be mad too.

Tiffany is a total

slut. Almost every guy

here has gone all the way

around the world with her!

Okay, it’s a slight

exaggeration, but

I’m in no mood to

disagree. “It doesn’t

matter. Not like I own him.”

The truth of that

stings. My eyes tear

up, and I wish Cherie

would just go away, let me

wallow alone in my misery pit.

As if reading,

my mind, she says,

There’s Billy. I need to

ask him something. I’ll be

back in a few minutes, okay?

“I’m fine, Cherie.

Go on.” At least

my locker door is

between me and Bryce.

Except there, on the ugly

brown linoleum,

my history book and

chemistry notebook

huddle, open-covered.

I’ll have to pull my face

out from behind

the rusting metal

to get hold of them.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!

Blood whooshes in my ears.

WITH MY BACK TOWARD

The disturbing melodrama,

I squat, reach for my mess.

Now a different voice

settles like fog around me.

Here. Let me help you.

I know without looking

who’s speaking. The stupid

thing is, I somehow feel grateful

Bryce is talking to me at all.

Still, I protest, “No, thanks.

I’ve got it.” My tone is not

Christmas fudge sweet.

He holds out a hand, which

I ignore. What’s wrong?

What is wrong? Not like

I can confess what I’m feeling.

“Uh, nothing. Something

happened at home is all.”

He watches me reorganize

my stacks. You never talk

much about home. Why not?

Don’t you trust me?

I shut my locker, turn to

look him in the eye. “Not

a whole lot to talk about,

really.” I leave the rest hanging.

Over his shoulder, I notice

Tiffany, now nose to nose

with Billy Burke. Cherie would

flip! “What’s up with her today?”

The question slips out, slick

as Quaker State. Bryce rotates

on one heel. Who? Tiffany?

She got new green contacts.

I guess she’s showing them

off to anyone who’ll notice.

MORTIFIED

That pretty much sums up

how I feel right this minute.

Mortified and relieved.

“Oh,” is all I can manage.

I finish lining up my spare

pens and pencils by color,

just as the bell rings.

Do you like football?

Bryce falls in step at my shoulder.

He’s warm and clean scented,

like rain and fresh-cut apples.

“Playing or watching?”

Dumb thing to say! Of

course he didn’t mean

playing. Tick-tick-tick.

You like to play football?

He sounds really pleased.

Actually, I meant watching.

There’s a game tomorrow?

“I … uh … love football.”

It’s a slight exaggeration.

Aunt Cora loves football,

so I tolerate it. Hours of it.

Bryce grins. Want to go with me?

He’s asking me to the game?

Like a “sit next to him in the stands,

knee touching knee” kind of date?

Tick-tick. Stay cool. “Sure.”

Suddenly I’m acutely aware

of his body, pressed up against

mine. It feels proprietary. I like it.

Cool. I’ll see you at lunch.

Before he turns away, he leans

into me, and his lips brush

the pulse just below my ear.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-TICK!

I THINK

I just might go ahead and die

right here, right now. How

could anything be better than

the way I’m feeling this moment?

Ms. Dzumba blathers on

and on about amoebas, and all

I can think about is Bryce’s

kiss. It was a kiss, wasn’t it?

God, what if it was just an

accident? Was I supposed

to respond? What if that’s

the only kiss I ever get?

Worse, what if it’s not?

What if we go to the game

and he wants to kiss for real?

Like lips, with me kissing back?

What if I try to kiss back

and I totally blow it? Like

bump teeth or bite tongue?

Wait. Tongue? What about that?

What if I freak out completely?

Oh my God. Why did I say

okay? I can’t. I’m just not

a “go to the game” kind of girl.

HOW DO I BACK OUT GRACEFULLY?

Think, Autumn. Excuses

aren’t that hard to come by.

I’m sick.

Too close to the truth.

I broke my leg.

Too easy to disprove.

I have a toothache.

The dentist? On Saturday?

Work called me in.

When did you get a job?

I need to study.

There’s always Sunday.

I’m going in for

green contacts.

There’s a novel idea.

Grandfather won’t

let me go.

The biggest kicker of all.

What if he won’t?

BY THE TIME

The bell rings for lunch, I still

haven’t figured out what to say.

Then I see Bryce. Every ounce

of doubt melts away beneath

the warmth of his smile.

By the time I have stashed

my books, he is at my side.

Almost unbelievably, I feel

his arm slide around my waist.

Hungry? Come on. Let’s go.

I am not even a little bit hungry.

At least, not for food. Usually

I grab a quick bite at the snack

bar, sit on the lawn or in the quad

to nibble and read. But not today.

Bryce guides me out the door,

along the damp sidewalk to

the parking lot. He stops beside

a pretty emerald green Acura,

opens the passenger door.

I’ve never ridden in some

random car before. I slip inside,

vaguely uncomfortable, as if

I’m doing something wrong.

I kind of like the feeling, though.

Bryce takes the driver’s seat, glances

my way. Penny for your thoughts.

My brain stutter must show.

How not to sound like a total

dweeb? “I was just checking out

your stereo.” True enough.

It’s a Bose. Cost a pretty penny.

Nice, huh? My brother gave it to

me for Christmas. He starts the car

and the CD player kicks in. Incubus.

Interesting information. He has

a brother. A brother with money.

I realize suddenly that I know as little

about Bryce as he does about me.

Who has the biggest surprises in store?

SURPRISE NUMBER ONE

I expect him to drive to McDonald’s

or Burger King. Instead he high-

tails it several blocks away, pulls

into a strip mall parking lot.

Esperanza’s is a great little taqueria,

one of Aunt Cora’s favorite “hidden

hot spots.” Apparently it’s one

of Bryce’s favorites too.

He pulls up in front. They have

killer burritos here. Oh, hey,

you do like Mexican food, don’t

you? Wow, this place is rocking.

“Well, yeah. It is lunchtime.

And yes, I do, in fact, like Mexican

food. We’d better hurry, though,

or we’ll be late back to school.”

We go inside, squeeze our way

through the crowded tables

to the takeout counter. Bryce

orders his burrito. I ask for

a chicken soft taco before

I discover, “Oh, no. I didn’t

bring any money.” I must have

left it in yesterday’s jeans.

Bryce doesn’t miss a beat.

I’ve got it. I invited you to lunch,

remember? Surprise number two.

Some guys are still gentlemen.

We eat in the car, listening

to music I could never play

at home, at least not without

headphones, at least not

when Grandfather is around.

He isn’t big on metal. Bryce

downs his giant burrito faster

than I can finish my taco. I grin.

What? he says. But he knows

why I’m smiling. He shrugs.

Guess I was hungrier than

I thought. Must be hormones.

THAT MAKES ME LAUGH

Unfortunately, my mouth is full.

I lift my hand, barely in time

to save the windshield from

a spray of chicken taco.

Hey, now! he says, laughing too.

I just detailed this car, you know.

He starts the Acura, aims it toward

school. And anyway, what’s so funny?

Somehow, I manage to swallow what’s

left of my lunch. I shake my head.

“It’s just the hormone thing reminded

me of something Aunt Cora might say.”

Why do you live with your aunt?

The blunt question catches me

by surprise. “Uh … actually,

we both live with my grandfather….”

But that’s not what he wants to know.

What happened to your parents?

I SHOULD HAVE AN ANSWER READY

But I never expected

I’d need one. I pretty

much figured Bryce

would lose interest

in me long before

asking that question.

Chunks of truth thump

round in my brain like rocks

in a tumbler: They were

too young, clueless,

selfish. Hell-bent

to party, to fight,

to find trouble. Mired

heart-deep in love,

in pain, in addiction.

But I don’t want to talk

about the monster, don’t

have the courage to say

“prison.” These words

define me as a freak.

And so, as Bryce turns

into the designated

student parking lot,

pulls into a space, a lie

(at least I think it’s a lie)

leaks from my mouth.

“My parents are dead.”

TEARS POOL IN MY EYES

Bryce mistakes embarrassment

for sadness. He reaches for me,

pulls me against the comforting

beat of his heart. Oh, baby,

he whispers. I’m so sorry.

“I don’t … I just … never

talk about it.” That part is true.

You don’t have to talk about

it. Sorry I brought it up.

He kisses my forehead, down

my left temple, the corner of

my eye. Some weird instinct

I never knew I possessed turns

my face into his, and suddenly

we’re kissing a for-real, deadly

serious kiss. His lips are soft.

Warm. Yielding. His tongue,

when it comes, is gentle. Inviting.

My own tongue is accepting and …

SURPRISE NUMBER THREE

Some totally foreign parts

of my body awaken suddenly.

Oh my God. That’s what it’s all

about! We are kissing. Tongue

on tongue. I can’t believe it’s

so easy. So wondrously,

perfectly, impossibly me.

I am breathless, but I don’t

want to fight the sensation. For

once, not breathing feels right.

I am tingling, too. But in

all the right places.

I DARE

To open my eyes, only to find

Bryce staring at me.

Wow. You know the old saying,

“You’re beautiful when you cry”?

Well, you definitely are.

“I’m not cry—,” I start, but when

his hand brushes my cheekbone,

his fingers come away wet.

“I guess I am, huh? I’m sorry,

I … uh …” He stops me with

one tear-damp finger against

my lips. Shh. Nothing to be sorry

about. He kisses me again,

and this one is even sweeter,

despite a lingering essence

of Esperanza’s world-famous

salsa. Not to mention a spicy

taste in my own mouth. Guilt.

Summer
CRAZY

If I had to use one word

to sum up my life now,

that’s what it would be.

Insane,

pure and simple. Here

I try to do the right thing,

attempt to be one of the

heroes.

What does it get me?

A life tossed into turmoil,

any pretense of stability

shattered. It takes

super-

human strength to get

through the day when

evening might bring pain

or

worse, love, only to have

that love stolen away.

I hold tight to my heart,

otherwise

it might get broken into

tiny little pieces. Taking

a chance on that would

mean you definitely

have to be crazy.

THAT KIND OF DENIAL

Of course means

I must be in love.

Fighting that love

as best I can.

It’s a hopeless battle.

I’m already heart-deep.

Don’t want to be.

Love scares me.

Do want to be.

Love summons me.

Don’t want to be.

It’s an illusion.

Do want to be.

It’s pure magic.

Don’t want to be.

He will smother me.

Do want to be.

He takes my breath away.

WHETHER OR NOT

I want to love Kyle, I do. I have

been avoiding Matt, and he doesn’t

know why. He’s hurt and I should

confess, but I have no clue how

to say good-bye. All I know

is that the only splinter of happiness

I find in each day is when Kyle

is near me. Life is currently a vortex.

The incident with Erica exploded

completely. Human shrapnel

flew. Our mutual caseworker,

Mrs. Shreeveport, is still trying

to sort things out. She yanked

us both out of there immediately.

Ah, but just where to put us?

There was only one foster care

opening—so many messed-up kids,

so few places for them. Erica posed

the biggest risk right then. What to

do with a possible sexual offender?

Now, though, I hear they may send

her back to Darla and Phil’s.

Ashante is too scared to tell

what really happened. Poor little kid.

So begins the end of innocence.

AND ME?

Too bad, so sad. Nowhere else close

to send me, I ended up back with my dad,

at least for now. I can’t stand it here.

I mean, at least foster homes are required

to maintain a certain level of cleanliness.

Not like Dad’s deteriorating single-wide

on a dirt road near a dairy farm at the far

edge of town. Everything here is layered

in tobacco smoke and cow shit dust

and carries a lingering scent of human

piss because neither Dad nor his latest lay,

Kortni, knows how to use a toilet brush.

My first instinct upon arrival was to pick

up the litter on the floor, toss the food,

molding in the fridge. Then it struck me.

Why do any of that? If I do, they’ll expect it,

maybe think God returned me from foster

care to become their designated housekeeper.

I hope I’m not here long enough for the trash

to gross me out completely. Bad enough

I have to lay my head on the same old pillow

I used when Zoe still lived here with us.

It was clean then. Everything was—Zoe

reigned as scrub queen. Something to do

with the little bugs she imagined everywhere,

including under her skin. Meth addicts

pick those nonexistent bugs into sores.

Pretty sure Dad doesn’t do meth anymore.

You can’t eat like he does or wear such

a big belly while dancing with the monster.

He cleaned up when Grandma Jean

and Grandpa Carl took him to court over me.

Guess, win or lose, he decided to stay ice free.

Noticed I didn’t say bad habit free. He chugs

cheap beer, and the smell of weed

has become a daily welcome home

in the two weeks since I’ve been back.

He even asked if I wanted a hit once, but the idea

of smoking with my dad seemed messed up.

I hate that he made that offer to me. Hate

that he doesn’t think better of me.

Hate him for not really wanting me here.

ONE OKAY THING

About being here. Neither Dad

nor Kortni really cares about

when, if, or how I come or go.

They barely take notice at all.

Other than school, I’m free.

The main problem is transportation.

It’s a long way to civilization,

if you can call anything about

Bakersfield civilized. To find

something to do on this Sunday

morning, I need a ride into town.

Dad is still sleeping off too much

Saturday night fun. I should

call Matt. Have him come get

me, apologize for being so cold.

He’s such a nice guy, at least

for the most part. I mean, pretty

much every guy is about feeling

you up when he can, right?

But Matt’s never pushed me to go

all the way. Never once raised

his voice to me. Never once

made me feel less because

of where I came from. And

somehow that makes him boring.

SO INSTEAD

Of calling Matt, when I pick up

the phone, the numbers I punch

in add up to Kyle. B-r-r-r-n-g.

Why am I doing this? B-r-r-n-g.

He won’t be home anyway.

B-r-r-n-g. He’s out having fun—

H-hello? Definitely Kyle on

the other end. Was he sleeping?

“Oh, hey. It’s me. Did I wake you

up?” The long pause that follows makes

me wonder, “Do you know who this is?”

Of course. Wide awake now.

What’s up? Everything okay?

Nerves strike suddenly, try to

shut me up. “I-I’m fine. I just

have some free time today and …”

And what, Summer? “And thought

maybe you could pick me up….”

Bad choice of words. “Uh, come

get me. Maybe hang out for

a while? I’m at my dad’s, and

claustrophobia is making me insane.”

THERE, SAID IT

This time there is no hesitation.

Thought you’d never ask. Give

me about a half hour, okay?

Over and out. It’s a very long

thirty minutes, watching for dust

clouds blowing this direction.

Finally, though, a big puff of gray

signals Kyle’s F-250 is coming

this way. My pulse picks up speed.

I leave a note: Went into town

with a friend. Back before dark.

Not sure why I bother. Dad

and Kortni will probably

just be rousing around then.

Hey, maybe they’re vampires.

On the more likely chance that

they’re not, I grab my hoodie

and head out the door. No need

for verbal explanations when

a written one will do. Kyle skids

his truck to a stop in the gravel.

He slides across the seat,

opens the passenger door.

Get in, he says. Where to?

FAIR QUESTION

After all, this was my idea.

But I don’t have a destination

in mind. I shrug. “Anywhere.”

He grins. Anywhere it is.

He starts the truck, which

hums gently. Well-tuned.

We bump down the dirt

track, turn onto the blacktop

away from town, toward

the state park. The road

winds along the Kern River.

Ever rafted this section?

I shake my head. “Heard

it’s fast through here.” I don’t

mention my water paranoia.

I’ll take you in the spring.

It’s more than fast. It’s ball-

shrinking crazy. And cold.

I laugh. “I’ll take your word

for it.” I look over at him,

can’t help but stare at his

incredible physique. Only

problem is, he catches me.

What? Something wrong?

“No.” Is he kidding? Just

being here so close to him

makes everything, “Perfect.”

It’s close to an invitation.

Kyle takes the opportunity

to ask, So what got into you?

I understand the question,

but pretend I don’t. “What do

you mean? Got into me how?”

We’ve been traveling at

a good clip. He slows down

now. Why did you call me?

A direct question deserves

an equally direct answer.

“I wanted to be with you.”

Well, if that’s the case …

His hand finds my thigh,

pulls. Come over here.

I’VE BEEN THIS CLOSE

To Kyle before, but never with the same

intention. Not sure where he’ll decide

to park, but I do know when we get there

everything will be different between us.

We will no longer be two sides of a triangle.

We will be adjacent parallel lines.

My own hand travels the length of his leg,

from knee to groin, memorizing the cut

of his muscles. You’re driving me crazy,

he says breathlessly. But then you’ve

been driving me crazy for a while.

I just have to know: Why? Why now?

“I don’t know. I love Matt, really I do.

But more like a friend. Not like … this.”

At the mention of Matt, Kyle tenses.

Matt. Right. He’s going to be pissed.

I pull my hand away. Slide over a little.

“It’s not too late. We don’t have to …”

Yes, we do. He pulls me against him again.

Put your hand back where it belongs.

HE TURNS OFF THE MAIN ROAD

Onto a narrow strip of potholed

pavement. It leads to a small parking

area. River access, and this time

of year, there’s no one else here.

My heart beats against my chest

like eagle wings against heavy air.

Kyle throws the shifter into park,

pushes me over enough to slide

out from beneath the steering

wheel. In almost the same motion,

he yanks me into his lap and our

lips weld together. Heated. Urgent.

This is not a kiss of friendship.

This is a kiss born of lust, and I have

never known anything like it.

This is unstoppable, no holds

barred. This is beautiful.

Crazy. A beginning. Betrayal.

Addictive. Aggressive. Alive.

This is something to be afraid of.

I AM CERTAIN OF THAT

Yet even as my brain cries, “Slow down,”

my body insists, “Give me more.” Kyle’s

hands move over me and his touch

is nothing like Matt’s clumsy

investigation. Somehow, these

hands have intimate knowledge

of the heights and depths of my body.

Their skin is unimaginably soft.

But they are not gentle. “Easy …,”

I start, but as the word leaves

my mouth, I realize I don’t want

it easy. And Kyle knows it too.

Shush, he commands. Don’t tell me

what to do. I know what you want

and I’m going to give it to you.

His words bring a rush of fear

and, worse, excitement. He lifts

my shirt up over my head, kisses

down my neck to the deep V

between my breasts. Pauses.

You are incredible. Beautiful.

I look down into his upturned

eyes, and though he doesn’t say

so, I know he wants my permission.

In answer, I unclasp my bra, offer

myself to his mouth, his tongue,

his teeth. This is already more

than I’ve given Matt, or ever will.

Superego whispers, “How far are you

willing to go?” But I don’t have to

answer that question yet. I place

my hands on Kyle’s cheeks, lift

his face toward mine. He pulls

away reluctantly, like an infant

intent on dinner. But he lets me

kiss him softly, cool the inferno.

“I didn’t come here with you

because I want to have sex

with you.” I kiss him again,

feel the heat of his response

beneath me. Still, he asks reasonably,

Why did you come here with me?

A BATTLE BEGINS

Inside me. Head versus

heart. Logic versus emotion.

And every synaptic surge of

logic

is telling me not to let

my mouth spill

the words my heart

insists

are true. Any girl ever

stung in this common

manner would agree

it’s

a bad move to confess

such a strong emotion

so quickly. In fact, it’s

idiocy.

So okay. I’m stupid.

I don’t stop myself,

but rather rush

to say,

“I know I shouldn’t tell

you this, but I wanted to

be with you because …

I love you.”

I EXPECT HIM

To laugh. Snort. Push me

away. What I don’t expect

is for him to knit his fingers into

mine and say, I love you, too.

God, Summer, don’t you realize

how hard it’s been to feel like this

about my best friend’s girl? How

it hurts to see you with him?

It’s torture. I’ve wanted a day

like today for a long, long time.

One hand rises to touch my still

exposed right breast. This time

he is gentle. I close my eyes, give

myself to the dizzying sensation.

“So what are we going to do?

About Matt, I mean.” The hand

falls away. We tell him. Tomorrow.

You’re mine now. Nothing can

come between us, especially

not Matt. Understand?

SUDDENLY I’M UNCOMFORTABLE

But it’s not the tone of his voice—

inflexible, with jealous undertones—

that makes me that way. It’s how

I’ve been kneeling, legs spread

across his lap, for twenty minutes.

When I try to move, he stops

me. No. Not till you say you

understand. You and Matt

are finished, right? He sounds

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, but

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,

though. Car. What about her car?

It’s Thanksgiving. Everything

will be closed. No batteries,

and even if there were, I have

to be at the station. Really soon.

I could pick her up after work,

but I know she’s anxious to get

busy on the duckurken thing.

“Get dressed. You can drop me

off, then take my car. Just don’t

forget to pick me up later, okay?”

I swear, relationships are labor-

intensive. All about compromise.

Yada. Yada. But when Nikki

comes into the bathroom, all

mussed from sleep and our

early morning rendezvous,

she looks at me in the mirror,

and her eyes hold so much love

that every ounce of resentment

melts away like butter on a hot

griddle. I relinquish the sink,

go into the bedroom, slip into

the jeans lying on the floor.

They’re a little wrinkled, but

clean enough and worn to

the point of real comfort.

A whole lot like the bond

between Nikki and me.

FOR A REFRESHING CHANGE

The pimply overnight guy has to wait

for me. I’m through the door at six

oh three, which means he had to play

the station call. Damn. Hope he did it.

FCC rules demand it, and a station

can get fined if it doesn’t identify

itself close to top of the hour. Oh,

well. Not my problem now, I guess.

The dude comes skulking down the hall,

muttering mostly under his breath. Sure.

Promote the half-ass guy and keep me

doing nights. He slams on out the door.

Half-ass? Me? And just what

does that make him? A company

man? I head on into the booth,

just as the last spot of the break finishes.

Perfect timing, man. Half-ass?

I don’t think so. I punch up the next

song on the playlist, zero seconds

to spare. Yeah, I should have been

here earlier. Most morning guys

get in at least an hour before their

show begins, to dig up some witty

repartee and be solidly prepared.

Maybe tomorrow, right? Anyway,

I can do this gig with my eyes closed.

Witty is my middle name. And I know

the playlist inside out. Lenny Kravitz

finishes up. “Hey, Reno, happy

Thanksgiving. If you’re up this

early on a holiday, what’s wrong

with you, anyway? The turducken

can wait for an hour or two. Go

back to bed, say hi to your wife,

and get a little for me.” Okay,

that was a wee bit crude, but that’s

the name of the morning show

game: Crude. Rude. Ear-catching

entertainment. Rick the Brick

Denio ain’t got a thing on me.

I’M MOST OF THE WAY

Through my shift when the studio

telephone rings. “You got the X.”

Is this Hunter Haskins? The husky

voice is somehow familiar.

“Uh, yes it is. And who am I speaking

with?” I have almost placed her

when she says, You remember

me, right? You gave me those Dave

Cook tickets. It was a really great

show, you know. So thank you.

Oh, yeah. Red. Actually, Leah.

“No problem. Glad you liked it.”

I was just wondering if you’re on

mornings now or what. Cuz I think

you’re really good. And I was also

wondering when I can see you again.

Despite everything with Nikki

this morning, Leah’s breathy

innuendo holds immense appeal.

I allow myself a short fantasy—

me, popping buttons, exposing

soft white flesh … stop it, Hunter.

Rein it in. You will not be exposing

anything, unless it belongs to Nik.

“Uh. The next remote I’m scheduled

for is the Sparks Hometowne Christmas

Parade.” Two weeks, two days. “I’ll

be announcing with Montana.”

Oh. So long? Well, I guess I can wait.

I’ve got a little something for you.

The girl is persistent. “Nice. Hang

on …” I put her on hold, dig into

my brain for a little Bob Marley trivia,

pass it on to my listeners. “You still there?”

Doubtless. “Well, you have a good

Thanksgiving. See you in Sparks.”

I’M STILL MUSING

About “celebrity” perks when Big

Leon comes in to take over. “Hey,

dude,” I say. I’d ask his opinion

on the matter, but his air name

refers not so much to his height

as to his three-hundred-pound

girth. Pretty sure he’s never been

offered a fine little piece just by

virtue of his “not exactly a star”

status. I gather my stuff, head

out to the parking lot, look for

my Nissan. Not there. Damn.

I should have called Nikki to

remind her. But then I notice

Mom’s Jeep, with a familiar

face behind the windshield.

She gives me a major smile

as I climb into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Aunt Leigh. Great to see

you. Uh, my car’s okay, right?”

She laughs, reaches over to

give me a hug. It’s safe. Poor

Nikki is just up to her elbows

in three varieties of stuffing.

“Yeah, right. Hopefully one

is plain cornbread. Where’s

Katie? Didn’t she want to escape

the madcap feast preparations?”

Leigh’s smile vanishes. She sighs.

Katie and I broke up. Crap timing,

huh? Least she could have done

was wait until after the holidays.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” We drive home,

Leigh droning on about “different

backgrounds” and “different dreams.”

I truly am sorry. She and Katie have

been a thing for more than six years.

We all thought this was “the one,”

especially Leigh, who seemed so happy

when they were here last Christmas.

I look at her tightly sculpted face,

softened some by the shallow tendrils

at the corners of her eyes. Almost

forty, still beautiful. And single again.

WE GET TO THE HOUSE

A little before noon. Cars line up along

the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s

beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,

my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),

Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,

Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.

Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—

is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect

him to show this early, considering dinner

isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.

He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.

Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.

THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING

As soon as the front door opens.

If the chiduckey tastes even half

as good as it already smells,

Nikki is going to get an extra,

extra special thank-you tonight.

Maybe that cooking show paid

off after all. Dad and Jake are

in the living room, watching Big

Ten football and slurping brew.

I poke my head through

the archway, feign interest. “Hey,

honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”

Jake stands, offers his right

hand. All tied up, three-three.

Grab a beer and come sit down.

“Sure. Give me a few.” I follow

the drift of sage and rosemary

toward the kitchen, where

the women have gathered like

ravens to watch Mom crust

the prime rib with fresh ground

pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins

doesn’t need cooking shows.

Experience trumps experiments.

It’s a scene right out of a movie.

Five women, all beautiful

within their own stages of life,

talking and laughing and drinking

wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate

the granite countertops, leak

scented steam, hinting at their

anonymous fillings. Bread

dough rises in yeasty grandeur,

and a chorus line of foil-wrapped

potatoes await their own turn in

the oven. It’s a scene right out

of a movie, okay. Artificial.

Look into any of these ladies’

eyes, I guarantee you’ll find

some manner of hurt. Something

to deny feasting and celebration.

Something to deny Thanksgiving.

CALL ME A CYNIC

You wouldn’t be inaccurate.

Then, again, neither is my assessment.

Conspicuously absent is one female

member of this family. Kristina

should be here for her kids.

And speaking of the demonic duo,

wonder what manner of evil David

and Donald are perpetrating right now.

Upstairs. In my former room.

I’ll check it out in a few. Meanwhile,

I probably should be social. “Hello,

ladies. Need any help?”

Mom says, Don’t think so. But thanks.

Misty says, How sweet of you to offer.

Leigh snorts, knowing the offer was

mostly empty. Nikki’s mom

turns rheumy eyes at me. Whoa.

How much wine has she sloshed already?

Nikki, sweet Nikki, sidles over, clearly

wanting to kiss me. Except

her mom is standing there staring.

Like I care. I reach, pull her right

up against me. “Your turkey thing smells

really good.” Then I whisper,

“But not as good as you,” and

I give her a giant lip smack, despite four

pairs of eyes pointed directly at the two

of us. Voyeurs deserve what they see.

Nikki smiles, but extricates herself

from my grasp and goes to be one

of the girls. Guess that’s my cue

to go be one of the guys.

I grab a beer from the fridge.

“Well, call if you need anything,” I lie.

When I turn, I notice David outside

the window playing with …

A NEW PUPPY

“Hey. No one told me you got

a new pup.” It’s been a few

months since Moxie died, at the ripe

old age of fourteen. Downright

elderly for a German shepherd.

Too quiet around here without

a dog, Mom says. Besides, we

thought it might be good for

the boys to have something

to love and take care of.

Or to dislike and mutilate.

Cynically speaking, of course.

David actually seems

to be enjoying the pup’s

company. I was just a little

younger when Moxie came

to us, all wiggly and yappy.

She grew into a straight-up

incredible dog, and I took

a fair amount of credit for that.

This puppy—Sasha, I’m told—

may be just the thing to bring

David and Donald out of

their shells. Only Donald, like

his mother, is obviously elsewhere.

I AM ON MY WAY

To check on his whereabouts

when the telephone rings. No

one else bothers, so I answer.

Hello? Who the fuck is this?

The always pleasant Ron.

I want to talk to Kristina.

“Uh, this is Hunter.” Wonder

if he even knows who I am.

“And Kristina isn’t here.”

I swear I can almost hear anger

swelling, pewter, in the silence.

Well, where the fuck is she?

My own temper kindles.

“I don’t know where she is,

Ron. She’s not my prob—”

She’s out fucking around on

me, isn’t she? Who is she with?

I swear, I’ll kick her ass.

“You already did that, dude.

Look. She isn’t here. I haven’t

seen her since last Christmas.”

Don’t lie to me, you little shit,

or I’ll kick your ass too. His

voice is a cougar’s sharp hiss.

His threat doesn’t scare me,

but it does piss me off. “You’re

going back to jail, you know….”

Dad materializes beside me,

takes the phone, calmly says,

Kristina isn’t here, Ron.

If you can’t find her, that’s

too bad, but it’s really not

our concern. What does concern

me is your ruining our holiday.

I’m going to hang up now.

Don’t call back. Today or ever.

Dad follows through, hangs

up, and that might be that except

around here, nothing ever is.

A LOUD GASP

On the stairs makes Dad

and me wheel in unison. Donald.

Was that my dad? he shouts.

Why didn’t you let me talk to him?

My dad remains calm. Your father

didn’t ask to talk to you, Donald.

So? I wanted to talk to him.

You can’t keep me away from him.

Dad’s voice rises, ever so slightly.

No one’s trying to keep you away—

Yes, you are. I hate you. I hate

it here. I want to go home….

The poor kid totally breaks

down. Please. Let me go home.

Dad drops his voice a notch.

Look, son, you can’t go back there.

Liftoff again. Shut up. Shut up.

Yes, I can. Suddenly, something

flies by my face, barely clearing

my cheek before crashing into the wall.

“What the …?” I retrieve the now

useless thing, formerly my Wii controller.

Donald thumps up the stairs,

into his (my) room, slams the door.

Dad follows, and all of a sudden

a whole flock of women appears,

clucking like hens. We can all hear

Dad ask calmly, Please let me in.

Just another day (holiday) in

paradise, huh? Still holding most

of my beer, I go to join Jake,

cheer for no team in particular.

Upstairs, Dad’s plea becomes

a demand. Open this damn door!

In the hallway, the hens are

still clucking away. And …

“Hey,” I yell. “Is something

burning?” Cluck-cluck-cluck. Bwoik!

I’m thinking a serious buzz

is in order. Beer will not do.

WHAT MAY DO

Is the pill potpourri

still in my pocket.

Who knows what

they might really do,               if anything. I reach

for possible Nirvana,

swallow it down with

two gulps of beer. Wait.

I plop on the plush

leather sofa, fake cheer

when Wisconsin scores,

slug down more beer.    Wait. About the time

I think I must have

gagged down placebos,

my brain goes fuzzy

and my tongue thickens

in my mouth. Behind

my forehead, a zzzzzz

sound lifts, like bees               swarming, and my ears

feel like I’m diving

deep. Pressure. I close

my eyes, try to shut out

football. Shouting. Crying.

Clucking. Burnt butter

smell. Dinner should be

interesting. To say the least.

Autumn
WE’VE ALWAYS KEPT

Thanksgiving relatively low-key.

Grandfather. Aunt Cora. And me.

We spend the day cooking. Tasting.

Eating. Getting way too full. Just us.

But not this year. This year

we’re going to a big schmooze

at Liam’s parents’ house in Austin.

Aunt Cora wants to introduce us.

Not sure why she needed

to make the big intros today.

She knows how I feel about

breaking bread with total strangers.

Grandfather isn’t a whole

lot happier about it than I am.

But Aunt Cora can be pretty

convincing when she’s honey sweet.

It’s a skill I’m working hard on,

especially where Grandfather

is concerned. I’ve tried and tried

to get him to loosen my reins, at least

a little. It’s hard to maintain

a romance when most every

move is monitored. Grandfather

doesn’t trust me, which another time

I might find sort of funny. Me?

In need of watching? I mean,

considering his distrust took

root in a past defined by my father,

it’s not really fair to me.

Then again, considering

I’m not exactly anxious for

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?

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.

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

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.

So I can’t let myself love her

like a daughter should. To unlock

myself in such a way would simply

be an invitation to heartbreak.

ALMOST DONE

Feeling sorry for myself when

a little warning chimes in my head.

Mom is the queen of denial.

Not her meth? Maybe not, but

odds are

decent she’s using again.

Wouldn’t be the first time

she jumped off the wagon.

One time she came to visit so

high

that she didn’t realize the guy

she was putting the moves on

happened to be my caseworker.

Not like we all couldn’t tell

she

was lit. Her sweat-sequined skin

leaked a smell like tar remover.

When Darla asked if she wanted

to join us for dinner, Mom

lied,

claiming a bad case of fast-food

poisoning. And when the cute

clean-cut dude finally mentioned

his official relationship

to me,

she added disgusting details

about her fabricated illness,

used them to make a hasty

escape. Like anyone believed her.

MEMORY LANE

Is an ugly stroll. I’m working hard

to turn the corner when Dad finally

calls, Let’s go, girls. I can hear

a big ol’ burger mooing my name.

Does he have even the faintest

idea how stupid that sounded?

Maybe not. But evidently Kortni

does. Burgers don’t moo, idiot.

Idiot. Nice. This little outing should

go well. I settle into the rotting

backseat of Dad’s decrepit Chevy

Impala. Stinks like cigarette-

tainted armpit drip. Reminds

me again of Mom. How can

she ruin every holiday (even

the ones that don’t feel much

like holidays) without even being

there? Why can’t I just forget her?

BUT SHE’S ON MY MIND

As Dad weaves down the rutted

dirt toward the highway, Kortni

chattering like an irritated crow.

Unusual, considering the amount

of beer they’ve apparently consumed

since breakfast. The smell of cheap

brew, mixed with stale tobacco,

gags me slightly. “Uh, Dad.

You sure you’re good to drive?”

Damn straight. Why wouldn’t

I be? As if to prove he’s too

damn straight, he pulls out

a joint, hands it to Kortni.

Light that, would ya, babe?

Gotta keep my eyes on the road.

Just perfect. Can I get high

from secondhand pot smoke?

“Uh, Dad? My asthma?”

Kortni torches the blunt

anyway. We’ll just open all

the windows. You’ll be okay.

They’re smoking. I’m steaming,

despite the fact that it’s pretty

damn cold, moving freeway-speed

with all the windows dropped.

Whatever. Usually I don’t think

much about Kortni at all.

Right now I’m thinking how

much she resembles a Pekingese,

double-inhaling pot smoke

up her smashed-in nose, snorting

a little with each exhale. I bet

she’s one hellacious snorer.

As Dad’s girlfriends go, I guess

she isn’t the worst. Not that I’ve met

them all, or wanted to. A couple

were prettier on the outside, evil

ugly inside. Zoe tops that list. Not

sure exactly where that puts Mom.

Old pictures I’ve seen at Grandma

and Grandpa Haskins’s house prove

Kristina’s exterior was stunning once

upon a time, in a land before crystal

meth. Amazing how fast that drug

can age you. It’s a zombie, sucking

youth right out of you, lifeblood.

Then again, if she hadn’t fallen

into that lifestyle, she wouldn’t have

met Dad at all. And then there

wouldn’t be me. A perverse question

bubbles up. Perverse, because I know

it’s going to bug Kortni. Like wheezy

me cares. “So, Dad. How exactly

did you and Mom meet?” We’ve never

discussed it. And he doesn’t

really want to now. Um. Why?

You writing an autobiography?

Big word. Wrong word, but big.

“No. That would be your memoir,

not mine. I just want to know is all.”

Oh. Here’s our exit. We’ll talk

about it later, okay? Saved by

Carrows. Lucky Dad. For now.

HOLY CRAP

Can’t believe this place is so crowded.

Must have been a whole herd of mooing

Thanksgiving burgers. We have to wait

outside for almost a half hour.

Dad and Kortni smoke. Regular

cigarettes, thank God. I move upwind,

stand off to one side. Don’t want to

think any more about Mom right now.

So I’ll think about Kyle instead.

I’d rather be spending today with

him, think he probably wishes

the same. Poor guy. Dysfunction

pretty much defines his family

too. His mom died eight years

ago, a DUI fatality. “DUI” meaning

“diving under the influence” into

a fast-running but shallow section

of the Kern River. The coroner

ruled it an accident, but Kyle

believes the act was purposeful.

Sick of Dad’s shit, he called it.

The bitch went and left us alone

with him. Just goes to show

how little she cared about us.

“Us,” meaning him and his sister,

Sadie. Deserted by their mother.

Left with an alcoholic father

and his own string of girlfriends.

Probably why Kyle and I are

so good together. The old

saying, “takes one to know

one,” definitely applies to us.

I’ve got a saying of my own:

“Takes one to love one.” Mom

told me something like that once.

The topic of discussion was Ron,

who had just left bruises on

three-year-old Donald. I was

on a rant. “How come all the men

in your life have been losers?” I asked.

She barely reacted to the word

“loser.” I could never have

a relationship with someone

who didn’t understand addiction.

Nice phrasing. Translation:

She could never be with a guy

who wasn’t an addict himself.

No wonder she can’t stay clean.

THERE I GO AGAIN

Thinking about Mom. I have so

got to stop that! Think about Kyle.

Think about Kyle. Think about …

The door opens and a senior-

citizen-type hostess chirps,

Kenwood, party of three.

Not sure you could call us a party.

Then again, Dad is pretty much

a walking, talking party all by himself.

There it is, he says, opening

the menu. The Mile-High Burger.

My mouth is watering already.

He orders the cholesterol-

ridden nightmare, plus a beer.

Kortni dittoes. I go for the Mile-

High Turkey Stack. Hey, it’s got

the requisite (for me, anyway)

poultry, plus some vegetable matter,

on a flaky croissant. Homage

to the day! The beer arrives.

Disappears. A second round

comes before the waitress can

deliver our meal. Dad slams

that one too. By the time

our Mile-High feast hits the table,

he’s barely coherent enough to

order another one. “Dad,” I warn,

“I know we’re celebrating and

everything, but maybe you’d

better slow down a little.”

Before he can argue, Kortni

jumps to his defense. He’s fine.

And anyway, you’re not his mother.

If I were Kyle, I’d simply blow.

Being Summer, I’ll choose

a more covert route to revenge.

In silence, I pick at my sandwich,

watching Dad and Kortni wolf

theirs down and chase them

with even more beer. I wait until

their mouths are full, then venture,

“So, Dad. Tell me how you met Mom.”

HE MANAGES NOT TO CHOKE

But just barely. Kortni shoots

evil eye arrows. Touché, bitch.

Well, uh …, he beer-sputters.

You know how we met, right?

“Haven’t a clue. Neither of you

has ever really talked about it.”

Why does he need to discuss this

now? Kortni tries to interfere.

I look her dead in the eye. “This is not

your business. I want to know.”

S’all right, slurs Dad. Why not?

This is as good a time as any.

Remember I tol’ you ’bout my old

buddy Trey? Well, he was married

to your mom at the time, and they

had a little girl. Autumn. Pretty thing.

I used to take care of her while

Kristina worked. After Trey moved

out, of course. Always kind of felt

bad about her coming between us.

“Wait!” Hunter, me, Donald, David …

“Are you saying Mom has another daughter?

And what do you mean, ‘coming

between us’? Coming between who?”

Me and Trey. See, I was just

supposed to stay a few days.

But God. It was a bottomless

party, crystal 24-7. Hard to walk

away from that. And you know

the crystal scene. Shit makes you

horny as hell. Everyone screwing

everyone. Only when me and Kristina

hooked up, we had chemistry.

Thought for sure it was love, but

you think all kinds of crazy shit

when you’re tweaking. Trey came

home from a score and found us

mid-dirty. And that’s pretty much

how I met your mom and lost

my best friend. Now can I eat?

HE WOLFS

The rest of his burger, and since

I’m no longer hungry, I push

my plate across the table, watch

him finish my Thanksgiving dinner.

“Can we please go now?”

He doesn’t seem to understand

(or maybe just doesn’t care) how

this disclosure (yes, I asked for it)

has rocked me. Torpedoed me.

Can I please finish my beer first?

I don’t look at him or Kortni

as I consider what this means

to me. Why didn’t anyone ever

tell me I have a sister somewhere?

Mom never once mentioned her.

And then there’s the whole part

about how my dad pretty much

broke up her marriage. Yeah,

the drug scene didn’t help, but

how do you just waltz right in and …

Oh. My. God. Not only did Dad

waltz right in and break up a marriage,

but Mom waltzed away with him, broke

up a best friendship. I am my mother.

And that is something I just can’t be.

I WAIT IN THE CAR

While Dad pays the bill, sunk

very low in the not-plush seat,

digesting. Not food. Information.

Revelation.

Dad sways a bit. Kortni props

him, but she’s not in great shape

herself. They look like cartoon drunks.

Caricatures.

Neither of them should take the wheel.

But even if I knew how to drive,

Dad would not admit inebriation.

Impairment.

No one speaks as he starts the car,

backs up, barely missing the truck

behind him. In my belly, knots of worry.

Apprehension.

The knots clench as we weave toward

the on-ramp. Not far, the windows

swirl with red and blue lights.

Spotlights.

Hunter
DAMN COLD

For the first weekend in December

the temperature has trouble climbing

to thirty degrees, and the mountains

look like sugar donuts beneath early snow.

I’m up at first light and off to announce

the Sparks Hometowne Christmas Parade.

As I leave, I hear Nikki’s heavy breathing.

Fast asleep, despite my noise. You’ve seen

one parade, you’ve seen them all, she said

last night, when I asked her to come along.

Sleeping in sounds better. Anyway, you’ll

be the star. You won’t have time for me.

Okay, that part is mostly true. When you’re busy

playing celebrity, you don’t have much time

for your tag-along girlfriend. Still, I want her to

be there. I lie down beside her, kiss the warm

pulse at the hollow of her neck. It’s enough

to stir her from dreams. Enough to make me

wish I could stay. “Sure you won’t change

your mind?” I slide my hand beneath the ginger-

scented blankets, find the satin skin of her thigh,

seduce her into that perfect state of not-quite-all-

the-way-awake. “I want you to be there with

me. You’re my good-luck charm, you know.”

Nik smiles. Bet you say that to all the girls.

Now let me go back to sleep. Love you.

“Love you, too.” My hand doesn’t want

to go. But the rest of me has to, so it tags

along. “If you decide to come see Santa,

you know where to find me.” But her breathing

tells me she’s already most of the way back

to dreamland. Wonder who’s waiting for her there.

CHARMLESS

It takes forever to find parking,

despite the early hour. The main

drag is cordoned off, leaving

Victorian Avenue car-less except

for the ones soon to be parading.

I park in the Nugget Casino

garage, walk several blocks

to the corner where Montana

and I will announce equestrian

teams, bands, and local dignitaries,

shivering as they wave from

the decks of classic convertibles.

The Shriners will drive funny

little cars and unicycles. Civic

groups will flaunt tractor-pulled

floats. Scout troops will march

in formation, the university

cheerleaders will cartwheel,

clowns will throw candy. And,

bringing up the rear, Santa and

his missus will arrive in a horse-

pulled sleigh so the kids will

know Christmas is coming and

the malls will be open overtime.

Nikki’s right. Totally predictable.

PREDICTABLE OR NOT

I’ve always kind

of enjoyed the whole

“it’s beginning to look

a lot like Christmas”

spiel. The parade

serves as a kickoff

to a month of “loving

each other so Santa will

come” kind of feelings.

Christmas should be

all year. Only, then

we’d go broke. Never

mind. Actually, this year

I have a little spending

cash. Think I’ll get

Nikki something

really special. Jewelry,

maybe. Or better (for me),

lingerie. Maybe I’ll ask

Montana’s opinion.

There she is, setting up

the mics. Women who

aren’t afraid of work rock.

Especially when it would

be my work otherwise.

THE PARADE BEGINS

At ten on the dot. I’ve been

practicing my announcer banter.

“Here comes the Reed High School

Marching Band, Montana. As

Ambassadors of the city of Sparks,

the band has traveled throughout

the U.S., as well as to England and

Ireland.” Montana waits for the din

of the trumpets to dim before

saying, Speaking of Ambassadors,

Hunter, here comes the Reno Rodeo

Flag Girls Drill Team, which represents

Reno Rodeo year-round at events

and drill team competitions. Each year

some one hundred girls try out for fifteen …

And so it goes for well over an hour.

Despite the frigid temps, the bundled-

up crowd is as large as I’ve ever seen it.

The most amazing thing is that young,

old, or somewhere in between, when

I say something, they actually listen to

me.

SEE, WHEN I WAS A KID

I was not what you’d call

popular. The truth is, other

kids picked on me.

Bullied

me, to the point where

I started to defend myself

before the fact. I’m not

sure why they

harassed

me in such cruel fashion,

but it seemed my teachers

never saw the instigation,

only my sometimes

over-

the-top reaction. How

many recesses I stayed

inside, while the bullies

went out to play!

I don’t

remember exactly when

it stopped. Middle school,

I guess. Maybe eighth

grade. Doesn’t matter. All I

know

is that eventually some

of my mom’s fame

rubbed off on me.

MOM’S FAME

May not have been the most

valid way to gain friends

and win dates. But hey, whatever

works, right? I’ll never

forget this one girl. Tori. God,

she was a rabid Marie

Haskins fan. Stalker material.

When she found out

who I was, she threw herself

at my feet. Actually,

a more literal way to put that

is she threw herself on

her knees. Right in front of me.

It may have been my first

oral experience, but she for sure

had a fair bit of practice.

All she asked for in return was

a signed Marie Haskins

book. I told Mom it was for a sick

girl. Not far from the truth.

THE MEMORY

Elicits a lustful smile. Montana

can’t help but take notice.

Wow. Thinking about

Christmas presents just now?

“Not Christmas, but definitely

a gift worth remembering.”

The grin she returns is knowing,

even if she is only guessing.

Then she flips back into announcer

mode. Speaking of Christmas presents,

Hunter, look who’s coming down

the street right now! Anticipation

bloats the crowd. “You mean

that jolly old elf himself, Montana?”

That’s right. Here comes Santa,

and … has he been working out?

The kids all strain to see svelte

Santa. “I think you’re right. Who

would believe it? Santa and the missus

must have a membership at Gold’s Gym!”

Gold’s Gym, of course, is a sponsor.

Not to mention an X advertiser.

As buff Santa’s sleigh rolls off into

the distance, people begin to move

toward their cars or vendor booths.

I turn off my mic, begin to pack up.

A small pair of hands slides around

my waist from behind. Nikki must

have changed her mind, dragged

herself out of bed. “Nik?” But neither

voice nor hands are a match. Nope.

Not Nik. It’s just me. Hey, Hunter.

Equal parts disappointment

and exhilaration jab me. Not Nikki.

But not exactly bad, either.

“Leah. All on your own today?”

Well, yeah. Remember I told you

I had something for you?

SHE WINKS

Who knew

with such

a small

gesture

a girl

could look

like such

a letch?

Can a girl

even be

a letch?

Exactly

how is

“letch”

defined?

Suddenly

I’ve got

a good

idea of

what this

girl has on

her dirty

little

mind.

SHE WAITS IMPATIENTLY

While I help stow the gear.

Am I seriously considering

a stroll down Deviant Lane?

Montana notices Leah’s angsty

pace. You looking for trouble?

she asks in an underneath voice.

Hard to deny obvious truth.

“Probably. Although I didn’t

exactly go looking.”

She reassesses the redhead.

Shrugs. Okay, then you’re

pursuing serious trouble.

This is so not her business.

“What time is the talent show

again?” Montana and I are judges.

Go ahead. Change the subject.

See if I care. One o’clock, main

stage. And. Do. Not. Be. Late.

I check my watch. Just

about noon. “No worries.

This shouldn’t take long.”

I PURSUE SAID TROUBLE

Like a buzzard sniffing after

roadkill. “Okay, Leah. What do

you have for me?” It’s a loaded

question, and she’s quick to

react. She smiles, leans into me,

and I appreciate how beneath

her unzipped jacket, a low-cut

black sweater reveals truly

stunning cleavage. Let’s walk.

We go five blocks, silent.

Cut across a hectic parking lot.

Turn down a sleepy street.

Finally she tugs me to a stop.

I scored some amazing smoke.

Thought you might like a taste.

Smoke? Argh. Tempting.

I’ve been out for a while.

Oh, what the hell? “Okay.”

Just keep walking, she says,

lighting an already rolled J.

Pretend it’s a cigarette.

I do and she does and somehow

we get away with smoking weed

out in the open, on a city street.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t

lift my stomach, roller-coaster-

style. Definitely a thrill, getting

away with illicit behavior.

More of that is brewing, for sure.

Leah slips her hand into mine,

and my first thought is of Nikki.

I suspect where this is headed. So why

am I still going along with Leah’s

plan? Stunning cleavage or no,

Leah is not the right thing to do,

literally or figuratively, despite

how soft her hand is in mine,

or how the jasmine perfume of her

reminds me of a warm June evening.

Stop it, Hunter, stop it. You are

not just another guy, lusting after

an easy piece. You are not …

BUT APPARENTLY I AM

Leah turns her face up toward mine,

daring me to kiss her. God, she is

luscious, ripe fruit temptation,

serpent coiled in expectation.

I can hear Nik whisper, You’d never

cheat on me, would you, Hunter?

The snake strikes, and I pull back.

“Leah, I have a girlfriend, you know.”

Her hand falls out of mine, and

relief escapes in a long-drawn sigh.

But she will not so easily be dismissed.

Her fingers settle gentle on my inner

thigh, move slowly higher. Yeah. So?

I’m not asking for commitment, and

I don’t want to mess up your life. I just

want to give you a little piece of me.

She boosts up on tiptoes, looks

into my eyes as she kisses me.

I am pulled into the liquid emerald

of her eyes, the invitation—no, demand—

of her pillowed pout, her experienced

hands. And I’m helpless. Weak. Convinced.

She pulls me down a narrow alleyway,

backs me against a splintered garage door.

I pretend protest, but we both know

claiming I don’t want this would be a lie.

Shush, she pleads. Don’t say a word.

Just let me take care of you. She kisses

me again, encourages my hands

along the hilly contours of her body.

And in one long, sinuous movement,

she is on her knees. In total control.

I CLOSE MY EYES

But what materializes

out of the darkness there

are shadowbox photos of Nikki.

Those, and the snap of December

against uncovered skin

might be enough to make

me stop, but when Leah senses

my wavering, her urgent please

closes around me, pulls me

in. I look up at the froth

of clouds. Cappuccino sky.

The summer scent of jasmine

lifts from a tide of titian

hair, and there is no hesitation

now, no U-turn, no braking,

only relentless forward motion.

Propulsion. A kaleidoscope

of titian. Jasmine. Cappuccino

clouds. And every trace of Nikki

dissolves in Leah’s warm rain.

ONLY AFTER

We are finished,

clothes zipped up,

hair smoothed,

does the thought

cross my mind

that someone

might have seen.

Enjoyed watching.

Got off themselves,

maybe. My cheeks

burn. Can’t say why.

Only after we have

exited the alley,

started back along

the sleepy street,

toward the hectic

parking lot, does

it occur to me that

the fame that brought

me here belongs to

me, not to my mom.

I like how that feels.

WE WEAVE

Through the thinning crowd.

Some have taken their children

home, out of the crisp morning,

away from the threat of snow.

A stab of intuition makes me

survey the knot of people nearby.

Did Nik decide to come after

all? That could be very bad,

all things considered. But when

I assess faces, the one my eyes

grab hold of does not belong

to Nikki. I do not recognize

the man standing just there,

scanning the human sea. So why

do I think I know him? Someone

ducks in front of him, and I lose

momentary sight, but when his

eyes at last connect with mine,

they are green-dappled gray. Piebald.

He turns away suddenly, as if

whoever he was looking for

found him instead. He melts

into the tide of bodies. Faces.

One of them very much like mine.

ZAPPED

As if by a stun gun,

by the most unexpected

encounter, the entire

top of my head tingles.

I stand

trembling, unable to

totally comprehend

what seeing those eyes

might mean to me.

Awed.

Frozen in place. Heart

quickstepping. Breath,

a shallow draw.

I am pulverized

by

the weight of one fragile

moment. Denial descends,

a threadbare shroud. Maybe

I have it all wrong. But

simple

reasoning convinces me

otherwise. I don’t know why

I’ve never seen my father

before, but I reel in the

recognition

that I’ve seen him now.

I just want to know,

who is he?

A SHARP WHINE

Slices through the buzz

in my ears. What? Who?

Oh, yeah. Leah. Right.

She’s looking at me like

I’ve missed something very

important. So is that okay?

Freight train slam. “Uh …

Sorry. What did you say?”

Repeat, then go away.

I said I want to give you

my number, she says, only

a lot annoyed at my inattention.

What I want is to track

down the bastard-maker.

“Um … I’m not sure …”

I know you probably won’t

ever use it. But just in case.

Or you can give me yours.

“No, no.” The last thing

I need is her calling me.

“Give me yours.” I fumble

around in my pocket, finally

fish out my cell phone. Try

to punch in the numbers

she recites. But my mind

is in a whole other place

and I miss one or three.

Here. Let me do it, okay?

She extricates the phone from

my hand, programs the correct

sequence. As she returns my

cell, she slinks up against me.

Kisses me. Hope you had fun.

“Fun” isn’t exactly the word

I would use. “Yeah, sure.

Thanks a lot. I have to go, okay?”

She pouts at my abruptness,

but doesn’t argue. Okay. You

can call me any time, Hunter.

“Good to know. Bye now.”

I turn on my heel, hurry off,

fingers crossed she doesn’t follow.

ALMOST TALENT SHOW TIME

I make my way toward the main

stage, checking out every male

face I see. Some of those guys

probably think I’m gay. Sorry,

dudes. Not looking to get laid.

Already did that. Sort of, anyway.

I chug down guilt. Gallons

and gallons of guilt. Why did

I just do that? Not like I needed

it, couldn’t get that, and better,

from my Nikki. I’m a total

two-timing jerk. And why?

Okay, Leah would tempt most

any guy with a working pecker.

But you don’t have to give in

to temptation, not even bodacious-

breasted, fiery-haired, “won’t take

no for an answer” temptation.

I swear I will never do such

an idiotic thing again. Nikki

means too much to me. I stop,

dig out my cell phone, excise

Leah’s number from its memory

bank. All’s well that ends well.

SPARKS HAS TALENT

So much talent that the city now

hosts two of these imitation bad

reality TV shows every year, on

July Fourth and at Hometowne

Christmas. A group of hopeful

singers, dancers, and baton twirlers

paces on one side of the stage.

The audience is likely all friends

and family members, plus a few

curious onlookers and people

just trying to get inside, out of the cold.

Montana is across the room, in deep

conversation with some guy.

His back is to me, but his posture

tells me much. The guy thinks a lot

of himself. Montana sees me

and smiles. The guy turns his

head to see who she’s smiling at,

and before I can even discern

his eyes, I know they’re piebald.

The question becomes, what next?

COVERING THE SHORT DISTANCE

Across the room makes me

break out in a disagreeable

sweat, despite the chill in

the air. And in my heart.

Coward.

That’s what I am. Afraid

to face down my ghosts,

despite hating the way

they haunt my every day.

Idiot.

It strikes me suddenly

that I could be all wrong

about this guy. So what if

his eyes are sort of like mine?

Dimwad.

Totally. What are the odds

that this is my father, anyway?

Much too coincidental, right?

Yet when I close the gap, I’m sure.

Son of a bitch.

MONTANA, IT SEEMS

Knows him pretty well. They stand,

barely touching. Intimate. Casual.

I hate to interrupt. Hate to know.

Oh hey, Hunter, Montana says.

This is Brendan. Bam. The name.

Is it one I’ve heard somewhere?

Brendan looks at me, clueless.

Hey, kid, good to … He sees …

something. Enough to make him pause.

Montana doesn’t notice. Brendan

just moved back to Sparks. He recently

got out of the army. Four terms in Iraq.

Her voice is filled with pride and

what I think may be affection.

I notice his outstretched hand.

I know I should shake it, but my own

hand is trembling. Instinct tells me

to run. Far away. Don’t look back.

But I have to play this out for sanity’s

sake. So I clench my teeth, will

the quaking to stop. “Good to meet you.”

Autumn
PLANNING A WEDDING

Is supposed to be such a happy time.

Okay, Aunt Cora is not only happy.

She’s downright demented with

happiness. Crazy in love.

I wish I could share her

joy. But I am crushed

by fear. I’ve always lived

with seeds of dread, waiting

to burst forth fruit. Apricots, if

I’m lucky. Peaches, sometimes, or

maybe mangoes. But this time,

the fear seeds have grown into

watermelons. Thick-skinned.

Pithy-fleshed. Weighted

with blood-tinted juice.

I can barely breathe with

them swelled up inside me.

Afraid to go out. Afraid to stay

in. Who knows what uncertainty will

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

Thinks a second, then yanks me

all the way into her bedroom.

Okay, give. What’s up with you?

My throat goes thick and my fingers

numb. “What do you mean?”

Your aura. It’s like … ruby.

Oh my God. Freaking gypsy aunt.

“Um …” Can’t confess. “I, uh …”

You’re in love. Who is he?

She’s like a little kid at a pony ride.

Me too, on champagne. “B-Bryce.”

And why haven’t you mentioned him?

Now my brain buzzes anger. “You … uh …”

Go ahead, say it. “You’re never here.”

SHE DOESN’T DENY

She deflates. Like someone stuck

her with a pin and the champagne

bubbles escaped. You’re right. I’m sorry.

“It’s okay. I mean, you’re getting

married. It’s not like you should

be thinking about me, anyway.”

Her heads starts to shake. Getting

married doesn’t mean you’re not

important too. Tell me about Bryce.

We sit on her bed and I recite

the basic information, omitting

everything about today. And babies.

He s-sounds great, she sputters,

champagne kicking in. Do you

want to invite him to the wedding?

A member of the family already?

“Th-thanks. I’ll think about it.”

Sputtering a little myself, the first

time I’ve ever had alcohol go to

my head. Makes me laugh. Makes

me brave. Think I kind of like it.

Summer
STRADDLING A THIN WIRE

Three hundred feet in the air.

That’s how I feel.

Safe for the moment.

But not very.

December gray shrouds

the valley.

Nothing new. Except

colder than normal.

I was almost looking forward

to Christmas this year.

Thought maybe

it might be special.

Despite Dad and Kortni.

Because of Kyle.

But now I’m not even sure

where I’ll be.

The wire sways in the wind.

Half of me wants

to hold on for dear life.

Half wants to jump.

IT’S BEEN THIS WAY

Since Thanksgiving. The night

Dad got pulled over, less than

half a mile from Carrows.

When the red and blue carousel

started spinning behind us, we

all knew things didn’t look good.

Still, a guy has to give it his best

try. Dad rolled down the window.

Wussup, S … Off … cer?

The cop leaned to look in the car,

backed up at the smell. License

and registration. As if they were all

he was after. Flashlight illuminating

every move, Dad reached for

the glove box. Instinctively,

the cop’s hand slipped down

toward his hip, and the extremely

large pistol poised there. Slowly.

Dad rooted around for ten seconds

or so. ’S here somewhere. Hang on.

Finally he found the requisite paperwork.

Expired. All of it. But even if it

hadn’t been, Dad was going to jail

after breathing point one two.

A second cop arrived just in time

to help with the breathalyzer.

And, seeing as how Kortni was

also more than a little wobbly, he

ended up driving us home. They

called a tow truck for Dad’s car.

And since it was a holiday weekend,

both Dad and car stayed in lockup

for four days. Kortni slept for two

of them. Woke up, ate some cereal,

then jumped back on the beer train.

Kyle was in Fresno until Sunday.

His dad got pissed every time I called,

so I didn’t even have phone time for comfort.

I was stark, raving stir-crazy. Almost bored

enough by Saturday to get an early start

on my history essay. Almost enough by

Sunday to call Matt. Instead I called Mom.

CALLED FIRST

Around ten a.m.

No answer.

Left a voice mail.

Tried again

an hour later.

Same results.

Second voice mail.

The old saying

goes, “Third time’s

a charm.” Whoever said

it didn’t know Mom.

She never returned

my calls. But the fifth

time, I guess it was

sometime well after

two, she finally

picked up.

I SUSPECTED

She was using again, not only

because she was asleep (crashed)

at two p.m., but also because

she sounded spun. Her voice

was clipped. Staccato. Hello?

Summer? Is that you?

“Uh, yeah, Mom. How come

you were asleep?” Daring the lie.

It’s Sunday. I don’t work

Sunday. Don’t you ever sleep in?

“Not until two. Anyway, how

was your Thanksgiving?”

You called to ask that?

What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing. I’m fine. I mean,

well, Dad had a DUI….”

You don’t expect me to bail

him out, do you? Does he?

“Uh, no. I don’t … I didn’t

call about that, Mom….”

WHY DID I CALL?

It wasn’t just the boredom.

It was the question that had

been burning inside me for

three days. Mom prompted,

Okay, then. Why did you call?

And out it came, slick as

a baby pig. “Why didn’t you

ever tell me how you and Dad

met, and that I have a sister?”

Very long pause. Who told you?

Duh. “Who do you think, Mother?

Anyway, that doesn’t matter.

Don’t you think I have the right

to know something like that?”

Even longer pause. I guess so.

Anger seethed. “You guess

so? I know we don’t talk much,

and when we do, it’s usually

all about you, but—”

No pause. Now, wait a minute—

BUT I WAS ON A ROLL

“No, Mother. We usually do

only talk about you, and obviously

not about stuff that matters….”

My eyes stung, and the words

I wanted to say tried to stick

in my throat. I coughed them out.

“I have a sister. Where the hell

is she? What’s her name?

I already know who her father

is, and how you hooked up with

Dad and all. Have you always

been that way? Don’t you ever

feel bad? I mean, for God’s sake,

how can you just keep sleeping

around, piling one guy on top

of the next? How can you just

keep making babies, then tossing

them away? How can you …?”

Right about then I noticed

she had hung up the phone.

KORTNI BAILED DAD OUT

The next morning.

They might have

just booked him

and let him go,

except for a couple

of pertinent things.

One: Not his first DUI.

He had one less

than two years ago.

Blood alcohol level:

point zero nine.

Two: Weed under

the seat. Less than

an ounce, but not

only fineable, also

contributable to his

condition that night.

He’s looking at

thirty days’ jail time,

license suspension,

and a big chunk of

change, and if he

can’t pay it, more

jail time. He goes

to court this week.

HE’S PRETTY MISERABLE

And I almost feel sorry for him.

Not that I didn’t try to warn him.

And I almost want to comfort him.

Not that he’s often been worthy of that.

And I almost want to give him a hug.

Not that I want anyone but Kyle to hug me.

And I almost want to say it will all work out.

Not that I really believe it will, for him. Or me.

And I almost want to tell him I love him.

Not that I have, since I was a little girl.

And I almost think I should fix that.

Who knows when I might have another chance?

HE’S ON THE PORCH

Smoking and, of course, sucking

up suds. Who knows when he might

have another chance at a good buzz?

Kortni went to town for groceries.

(She still has her driver’s license.)

So there’s an empty chair. I sit.

“Hey, Dad. I just want you to know …”

Say it. Say it. Say it. Can’t. Not yet.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares

across the winter-bared fields.

Me too. Sometimes I’m plain stupid.

All the time. But I don’t tell him

I think so. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Ah, what the hell. “Love you, Dad.”

Now he looks at me, eyes drawing

slowly from the dirt, across dead

air, to my face. What did you say?

He didn’t hear? Didn’t believe

it? And now I have to repeat it?

“I said, uh … that I love you.”

I EXPECT

A reciprocal declaration—an “I love

you, too.” Or maybe condemnation—

a “Why don’t you say it more often?”

Anything, really, but what he does say:

Why?

“What do you mean, why? You’re my

dad, right?” Sounds lame, even to me.

So?

His one-word responses are pissing

me off. “Shouldn’t I love my father?”

Not necessarily.

Two words. Communication.

I realize, however, that he’s right.

Loving your parents is not required.

He inhales the last drag of his cigarette.

Get me a beer?

WHEN I RETURN

He is ready to talk, as if words

suddenly materialized in his brain.

First, a long drink of brew.

Then his mouth opens.

I’m sorry I’m such a shit-

for-brains. I thought I’d

be a better dad. Wanted

to be. Really, I did. But

then I let my bad habits

get the better of me.

I watch him pull another long

swallow. Light another cancer

stick. “It’s called addiction, Dad.”

I know. Can’t stop. And

to tell you the truth, even

if I could, I don’t want to.

You’re the only good thing

in my fucked-up life. And I

couldn’t even be thankful

enough to look after you

right. They took you away….

I want to shout, “No, you

shoved me away!” Instead

I say, “You’re selfish, Dad.”

He shakes his head, smoke

escaping side to side from

the corners of his mouth.

Not always. Nope. At first

it was all about your mother.

I loved her. God. Never love

someone that much, because

you’re sure to end up hurt.

I would have married her.

Would have raised up your

sister like my own. Would

have raised you better….

This is the most he’s ever

spoken to me at one time.

Ever. “So what happened?”

When she got pregnant with

you, I told her all that, begged

her to give up the crystal.

To be fair, she tried to clean

up. For you. Tried and mostly

failed. Meth is a mean mother

monster. But even if she could

have given it up, the fact is

she loved Trey more than she

ever loved me. Or anyone.

LEFT UNSAID:

Even me.

I always knew

she chose drugs

over me. Now I

find out she chose

some-guy-not-my-

father over me too.

Happy as I am

to have any new

information that

imparts insight re:

what made me, me,

and why I’m here,

I need more

answers. Now, while

he’s hopefully stuck

in verbal mode, is

the time to strike.

After we catch our

collective breath.

Understanding

my father is suddenly

important. Not sure

why. Understanding

my mother very well

might be impossible.

BUT I HAVE TO TRY

So here goes. “How did

I end up with you when

Mom went to prison?”

He looks at me like I’m

speaking Chinese. Hasn’t

anyone ever told you this

stuff? Not your mom? Not

my mom? Seriously?

“If someone had, I wouldn’t

be asking, Dad. Not like

I need to have stories

repeated. I’m not a little kid.”

He smiles tightly. Even when

you were little, you never

did want to hear the same

story twice. Buying books

for you was a waste of money,

not that we ever had a whole

lot to waste. So, okay, how

much, exactly, do you know?

“Only what you told me at

Thanksgiving. That she was

married to your old friend, Trey,

and that you broke them up.”

HE COCKS HIS HEAD

Reaching way back into his brain,

trying to locate that night.

I said that? Guess I was pretty

buzzed. Don’t remember it at all.

Yes, Trey and I were friends, and I was

passing through. Don’t remember

where to, but once I was there a few

days, I didn’t want to leave. Ever.

“Because of the dope or

because of Mom?”

Both. Oh my God. You can’t imagine

how much crystal they were moving.

And as for your mom, she was skinny

as hell, and a total tweaker bitch,

but I fell for her right off. Something

in those eyes, and she was wild in b—

Way TMI, Dad. Still, “Uh, it’s okay.

Obviously you guys had sex.”

It was more than that, at least

for me. I was flat in love with her.

Which was a fucked-up thing to be.

Trey wasn’t around much.

Working a little. Dealing a lot.

Kristina and I were tight for a while.

He stops. Lights another cig.

Stares at his empty beer can.

I should get him one. The deadly duo

seems to be fueling his storytelling.

I don’t think she ever really loved

me, though. She was crazy about

Trey. She liked making him jealous.

Which was dangerous for both of

us. He did have a temper! When

he found out about us, he freaked.

Dad looks longingly at the empty

again. This time I just go get one.

A very long swig and he begins

again. We got into it pretty good.

But even if I would have beat

the crap out of him, she wouldn’t

have chosen me. I got the picture

and left. Didn’t know she was pregnant….

PREGNANT WITH ME

Mom never did figure out the birth

control thing. I might be worried

about my paternity, except I look

almost exactly like Dad. Lucky me.

Like most mid-level dealers, they

smoked up the profits, and Denny’s tips

didn’t exactly cover what they owed

their supplier. Your mom got creative.

And she got busted. She and Trey

had already turned state’s evidence

once to get off a trafficking charge.

This time they were going away

for fraud. Check kiting. Identity theft.

They got two years in state prison.

Your mom delivered you the day

before they sent her away. Her mother

took you home from the hospital.

Kept you safe. Until she found me.

I’VE ALWAYS FELT

A strange connection

to Grandma Marie. Strange,

because we don’t see each other

all that often. Also a sort

of jealousy because

of Hunter. I mean, she

and Grandpa Scott adopted

him. When I was younger, and

in foster care, I wondered

why him and not me?

And I thought it was

because they didn’t have

enough love to go around. Semi-

irrational, I know. I mean, they

couldn’t reasonably

take in all of Mom’s

kids. And now, it seems,

they did take me in, at least for

a little while. But then, how

did I end up with Dad?

BACK TO THE ORIGINAL QUESTION

I wait for him to drop the butt

of his cigarette into the foam

at the bottom of the Pabst can.

Sssss! The sound is snakelike.

Don’t much like snakes.

“So did Grandma Marie know

you were my father or what?

Did you know each other?”

Dad chuckles. We had met once.

Let’s just say it didn’t go so well.

Your grandmother didn’t think much

of me, or of any of Kristina’s men.

Can’t really say I blame her.

Me either. Mom’s taste in men

is what you might call piss poor.

Kristina told her I was your father

and how to get hold of me.

The news came as a total shock.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d already

hooked up with Zoe by then.

ZOE

The name is like a punch

in the gut. Whoomf! There

goes my air. “So why did

you bring me home, then?”

Dad gives the smelly beer can

a wistful look. First of all, I wanted

you. You were part of Kristina

and me. The best part of both

of us, as it turns out. Convincing

Zoe of that was something else.

But your Grandma Jean and grandpa

made me see I had to try.

I know the rest of the story,

at least what happened after

that. One thing I still don’t know,

though. “So where is my sister?”

He shrugs. Trey’s sister, Cora,

took her when he and Kristina

went to prison. I don’t have

a clue where they are now.

Your mother might know, or

maybe your Grandma Marie.

But I don’t think so. Last I heard,

they’d dropped out of sight.

Dust in the distance signals

Kortni’s imminent return. As

the dirt cloud nears and the engine

rumble closes in, I ask one last

burning question. “Did you ever

think maybe you weren’t my father?”

No hesitation. Of course. Not

like your mom was exactly what

you could call faithful, especially

not with crystal involved. She swore

she’d only been with me, but once

a liar, always a liar. First thing we

did when we brought you home

was get us tested. You’re mine.

THAT’S A GOOD THING, RIGHT?

Better to know for sure where

you come from than to go

through life wondering, even

if you’re not really certain you

like where you come from. Right?

Something to ponder.

Along with everything Dad

just confessed. Kortni pulls up,

parks, starts unloading bags

of groceries. Dad goes to help,

and I should too.

But I want to talk to Kyle.

I go inside, start toward

the phone, see the answering

machine light is blinking.

Why didn’t we hear it ring?

Too absorbed in storytelling?

Whatever. I hit the play button.

It’s my caseworker. This is Alice

Shreeveport. We have been

informed of your unfortunate

incident. We need to discuss

Summer’s living situation. Please …

CALL HER

She wants Dad to call her.

To discuss my living situation.

I could erase the message.

Pretend we never got it.

But they’d only come looking.

Sooner or later they would.

New blow to my solar plexus.

This time my asthma kicks in.

I didn’t want to live here.

Breathe. Can’t. Find. Air.

So what if they take me away?

Breathe. Can’t. Find. Air.

Put me in another foster home?

Breathe. Can’t. Find. Air.

Send me to a different town?

Breathe. Can’t. Find. Air.

Away from Dad. Kortni. Kyle.

Breathe. Must. Find. Inhaler.

NEEDLE-SHARP AIR

Spikes my lungs.

Breathe, damn it.

This means nothing.

I crawl down the hall,

into my room. Dig

in my backpack.

Locate my inhaler.

One big pull. Capillary

expansion. Holy crow.

I hear Dad slam

through the front door.

He and Kortni must

be arguing. They’ve

done a lot of that

lately. I should tell

him about the message.

But he’ll find out

soon enough. Instead

I’ll go ahead and call

Kyle. Maybe he’ll

know what to do.

Associated Press

Miss Nevada, twenty-three-year-old Devon Shepherd, found herself embroiled in yet more controversy after she arrived in an inebriated state for a performance of The Nutcracker at the Pioneer Center in Reno.

“It was the anniversary of her sister’s death,” explained Shepherd’s mother and manager, Angela. “Devon and LaTreya were very close. She has had a difficult time coping.”

Casino showroom dancer LaTreya Shepherd was killed two years ago, when her fiancé, Robert Cole, shot her in a jealous rage. Shepherd’s father, Brad, was later convicted of attempted murder after paying a prison inmate to poison Cole, who survived.

Devon Shepherd previously served as Miss Teen Nevada, as did LaTreya, two years prior. Angela Shepherd has been accused of being the “classic overbearing stage mother,” something she strongly denies. “I supported my daughters and their dreams,” she said. “And I will continue to support Devon now.”

This is not the first time Miss Shepherd’s character has been questioned. Only three weeks after winning her Miss Nevada title, she publicly remarked, “This is a major stepping-stone to a career in film. Hopefully not pornography.”

She later said, “Obviously, I have poor taste in jokes.”

Hunter
SOME SECRETS

Are better left kept.

Sometimes you’re better

off thrashing around

on your own in the dark.

Sometimes those things

that percolate in your brain

brew into bitter coffee

once disturbed. Sometimes

it’s good to remember

not to go poking in woodpiles

where snakes like to hide

and red-bellied spiders crawl.

Unless you’re hoping to

get bit. Lusting for poison.

ALMOST A WEEK

Since I met Brendan.

Dad.

Biologically speaking.

I think.

Still not totally sure, mostly because

I didn’t have the balls to confront him.

Just couldn’t figure out a way to say,

Hey dude, did you once rape my mother?

Wasn’t the right venue.

Wrong place.

Wrong time. Too many

people around.

So instead, it’s eating me up from

the inside out. Sounds like a bad plot

thread. Only, instead of some vicious

little monster inside, all I’ve got is anger.

Anger and the need to know.

Even though

knowing won’t change

a single thing.

AFTER THE TALENT SHOW

Brendan and Montana left

right away. I don’t think he liked

her celebrity status. Didn’t like

the groupie need to say hello.

Usually I like it, even though

once in a while it leads to poor

behavior on my part. Witness

my earlier Leah rendezvous.

But that day I exited quickly

too. Needed to let the emotional

dust settle. Needed to work

through what my next move

should be. I called Mom from

my car. Explained the scenario.

Hoped she’d say no way.

Your imagination has run amok.

But she said, I was never

one hundred percent sure

that he was really your father.

I hoped he wasn’t. But I think

maybe your instincts are good.

I can’t tell you what to do

about it. Listen to your heart.

It generally says the right thing.

MY HEART SPOKE UP

Told me Brendan is a prick

and that, even more than our mutual

eye art, increases the likelihood

that he is, yes, my father.

Guilt seethed all the way

home. And there was no staunching

it when Nikki greeted me at the door

wearing a sexy red dress.

Like it? she demanded.

It’s for the station Christmas party.

“I love it. You’ll be the prettiest girl

there, that’s for sure.”

Without warning, chills

rattled my body. “Cold out today.”

See? I’m glad I didn’t go. Come on,

I’ll fix you some cocoa.

She pulled me off into

the kitchen, prattling on and on

about shopping and malls

and where we’ll spend Christmas Day.

Though my eyes couldn’t help but admire

her silk-sheathed frame,

my brain could not focus

on what she was saying, something

she finally took note of. Hey. Are

you getting sick or what?

She set the steaming cup

in front of me, and her cool hand felt

my forehead. Nope. No fever. That’s

good, anyway. So …

Her look was apologetic,

like she should have asked sooner.

How was your day? See some great

talent? Any randomness?

I sipped the rich chocolate.

“There were a couple of pretty

good singers. Lots of not-good singers.

Randomness? Some.”

NIKKI’S ADVICE

Was typical Nikki.

Maybe you should just

let it go. You’re not sure,

anyway, right?

I had to admit I wasn’t

sure. And also, “Not being

sure about him means

not being sure about me.”

She sidled up behind me,

slid her arms around

my neck. Doesn’t matter.

I’m sure about you.

That kind of trite remark

always irritates me. “Easy

for you to say. You know

who your parents are.”

Her arms fell away, and

I expected an angry retort,

but her voice carried only

hurt. Do what you have to.

SHE WAS MAD

But I was mad too. Not

at her, but that didn’t much

matter. Not right then.

In fact, I was mad enough

to let myself not feel too bad

about my little p.m. tryst.

But by bedtime, I felt emptied.

Nervous. Too, too alone.

I watched Nik come from

the shower, skin warm and

hair wet, and I wanted her

with every electron of my being.

Not just her body. All of her.

In bed with me, a piece of me.

No, all of me. Because without her,

I am nothing. I knew it then

and I know it now. And, thank

God, she allowed my hours

of self-pity, then showed me

again what it means to be

in love with an angel.

I WATCH HER NOW

My angel

getting ready for the Christmas

party. Perfuming her arms

and legs with ginger-steeped

lotion. Sliding sleek,

tawny

legs into gartered stockings.

Curling long ripples

into the honey lake of her

hair.

Enhancing already

impossible beauty with

a touch of blush against

flawless

skin. She slips into her

new dress—a seraph robed

in red. Then she turns to

face

me, the question in her eyes

as obvious as my answer:

“You are more than

beautiful. You are

perfection.”

BEST OF ALL

She is mine. I am acutely

aware of how other men stare

as we enter the ballroom.

They are not looking at me.

I love her on my arm,

an exquisite piece of jewelry.

A few of the women glare.

Nikki is the ruby

they wish they could

be. Their marble eyes follow

us to our table, leave us

there. I offer a chair

to Nikki. “Stay here.

I’ll go get us drinks.” The bar

is hosted, and no one

asks to see my ID,

so I order Chardonnay

for Nikki; Jack Daniels and

Coke for me. By the time

I get back to the table,

Rick Denio has closed

in. But star-striking Nikki

won’t be nearly as easy as

he expects it to be.

AMUSING TO WATCH, THOUGH

I circle the table, sipping my drink,

liking the whiskey burn. Rick is all

over Nikki, and she looks really

uncomfortable about it. He’s a jerk.

“Hey, Rick. Putting the moves

on my girl?” I hand Nik her wine.

Rick is in the game. Your girl?

Didn’t know you had such good taste.

“There’s a lot you don’t know

about me. Uh, where’s your wife

tonight?” The station buzz is she

ran off. With another woman.

Rick’s face flames, but he remains

calm. She had another party.

I can’t help but smile at the opening

he just gave me. “A girl party, huh?”

I haven’t had a spar-fest for a while.

This one could be fun, but Rick’s

done playing. Not sure who all’s

there. Excuse me. There’s Montana.

THERE, INDEED, IS MONTANA

In a bold, backless dress, sparkly

silver. And with her, all decked

out in a complementary gray

tux, is … “Brendan,” I whisper.

Nikki looks. Looks again.

Harder. Oh my God. You do

look like him. I can’t believe

it. Hey, you’re okay, right?

Okay enough to chug my drink.

“Yep. Fine and dandy. Except

I need a refill. You good for now?”

She’s barely touched her glass.

Good. I can only carry two

glasses, anyway. I order twin JDs.

Doubles. Tip the guy five bucks

so he doesn’t reconsider the ID.

When I turn around, I’m only

half-surprised to see who has

joined Nikki at our table. Poor

Nik looks positively green.

Goes well with her pretty red

Christmas dress. Ha. I crack

myself up. Too bad I’m spoiling

to be in a very unfunny mood.

BEFORE I CAN SIT DOWN

Nikki sees my double-fisted

whiskey and Cokes. She jumps

to her feet, extracts the drinks

gently from my hands, sets them

on the table. I’m starving. Let’s get

some food. It is not a request.

Anger starts to build, like wasps

daubing mud. But then when

I glance at Montana, her eyes

harbor anxiousness. She wants

the evening to go well. So all

I do for the moment is say,

“Hey, Montana. You look great

tonight.” I know I should say

something to Brendan, but all

I can manage is a small wave.

Then I let Nikki steer me

toward the seafood-heavy buffet.

When Montana asked if they

could join us, I didn’t know how

to say no, apologizes Nikki.

“Not your fault.” I concentrate

on loading my plate. Shrimp. Crab

legs. Oriental chicken salad.

Nikki’s plate makes mine look

greedy. “Aren’t you hungry?

I thought you were starving.”

I only said that because

I figured you should eat

before drinking all that booze.

The last thing you need to do,

all things considered, is get

blitzed. She cringes, as if hearing

the wasp daub. I will keep

my temper in check. But I also

plan on drinking whatever

I please. Free drinks don’t come

around every day. Still, I will

play her way. “I’ll be careful.”

I TRY, REALLY I DO

I eat everything on my plate.

(Chase every bite with a swig.)

Return for alcohol-absorbing pasta.

(Finish one drink; start second.)

Third trip is to the carving board.

(Polish off drink two. Back to bar.)

Finally, dessert. Chocolate cheesecake.

(Work on third—really fourth—JD.)

I think I’m doing pretty well.

(No way to converse when imbibing.)

And then Brendan starts talking.

(About how Sparks has grown. Swallow.)

Reminiscing about Wild Waters.

(His lifeguard days. Single-gulp glass drain.)

THE WASP BUZZ INTENSIFIES

Only Nikki seems to notice.

She shoots me a warning

glance. But it’s too late.

I stop Brendan midsentence.

“So … do y-you ’member

a girl name Kr-Kristina?” Damn

booze. Damn mud daubing.

I want to be coherent.

Brendan’s forehead wrinkles.

He thinks a minute, finally replies,

Kristina? Sounds familiar.

Why? Should I know her?

Nikki’s hand lights gently

on my arm. I swat it away,

one of those bees. “You might

have known her as Bree.”

Bam! Recognition floods

his eyes. Bree. Yes. I knew her.

Clearly, he doesn’t want to say

more. That was a long time ago.

Nikki is close to panic.

Uh, hon, would you get me

another glass of wine? Please?

She looks at me helplessly.

Buzz. Buzz. “Just a minute,

okay?” Buzzzzz. The entire

table is staring now. Good.

This deserves an audience.

“I don’t suppose you remember

a certain night, up on Mount Rose.

Just you and her and a little

crank …” Loud. Too loud.

But he definitely remembers.

Now, look. That was a long,

long time ago and—wait.

What do you know about it?

“Dude, the whole world—well,

a lot of it, anyway—knows

what you did to her that night.

I know because …” The rest

sticks like tar in my throat.

My face is hot and my eyes

sting and oh my God, I will

not cry. Nikki is on her feet.

Montana is too. Brendan just

stares stupidly, waiting for me

to finish. So here goes, “I know

because I’m her son and …”

CAN’T CONFESS EVERYTHING

I just can’t. But I can still

accuse. “She said you raped

her, you son of a bitch.”

My hands clench, but I’m not

going to hit him. Not now.

Not here. Instead I start across

the wide expanse of floor.

I expect Nikki to come, but it

is not her butterfly hand that lights

on my shoulder just as I exit

the big ballroom doors. Hold

on. I think we should talk.

I whip around, dislodging

myself from his grip. Buzz.

“What the fuck do you want?”

People stare. But Brendan

doesn’t care. Come on.

Let’s sit over there, okay?

He knows better than to

touch me again. For some

insane reason, I follow him.

The casino carpet is purple

with wavy green lines, and

it’s making me seasick.

I will myself not to puke,

and we sit in some eggplant-

colored chairs at the far end

of the foyer. I can’t look at him

as he launches his story. Yes,

I knew Bree … Kristina. We went

out a few times, and we did

a lot of crank together. All true.

That night—the one you mentioned—

we were messed up. Wasted, in

fact. Now, I don’t know …

Have you ever done meth?

I have no choice but to

look him straight in the eye.

I shake my head. “Never.”

Well, here’s the deal with meth.

You’re not always in control,

and that night everything got out

of hand. I’m not proud of what

happened, but the truth is,

she kind of asked for it….

Bzzzzzzz. My face flames.

“Is that what you wanted

to tell me? Because it’s not

good enough. You forced

yourself on her when she

said no and that’s rape.”

His turn to shake his head.

Like I said, I don’t take pride

in it, or in much of my life

at that time. I did drugs.

Did girls. Stole. Cheated.

Lied. The reason I joined

the army? A judge gave me

the choice—military or a long

time in jail. I’m glad now.

I got clean. Disciplined. Did

my time and went back, hoping

to maybe make up for before.

I WANT TO KEEP HATING HIM

But he sounds

reasonable

honest

apologetic.

I want to keep blaming him.

But somehow I

believe him

relate to him

almost forgive him.

I want to keep berating him.

But words don’t

make sense

seem wise

matter anyway.

I want to keep thinking he’s the enemy.

But suddenly he’s

just a man

not a monster

no longer a stranger.

My father.

THE BUZZ QUIETS

Blood pressure drops.

Anger dissipates, ghostlike.

But I’m still just this side

of wasted drunk. Enough

for me to open my mouth

and say, “Did you know

Kristina got pregnant that

night?” I think surprise

should surface in his eyes.

Instead he says, Actually, yes.

She sort of blackmailed

me into abortion money.

A half laugh stutters out.

“You still don’t get it, do you?

I’m that baby. And you, quite

probably, are my biological father.”

HIS JAW PLUMMETS

And that alone is almost worth

every emotion I’ve lately

sorted through. “Really.

I mean, hello. Have you

not noticed a resemblance?

Did it not cross your mind?”

His eyes—my eyes—scan

my face. It never occurred—

I mean, I saw her mom with a baby,

once. You, I guess. But I thought he—

you—she said—Oh my God.

Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?

“Why? What would you

have done? Married her and

played house for a while?

Look, I don’t expect anything

from you. My grandparents

adopted me, gave me a great

childhood. Better than you

or Kristina ever could have.

I just thought you ought to know.”

OUR EYES LOCK

Green-marbled gray

to green-marbled gray.

But really, there’s not

a whole lot more to say,

except, “Why did you

come back here?”

He shrugs. This is home.

My mom died two

years ago, but my dad

still lives in Fernley.

Blood is thick, you know?

He chokes on the sentence.

I have a grandfather

in Fernley. Maybe we’ll

meet one day. Maybe he

listens to me on the radio.

Oh. He’s old. Probably

not exactly an X listener.

Brendan gets to his feet,

and I notice that Montana

and Nikki are standing

a respectful distance away.

Uh, look. This is kind of

a lot to absorb and …

I stand too. “Like I said,

I don’t expect anything

at all from you. So no

worries about blood tests.

I’m an adult, and I can

take care of myself.”

We start toward the girls.

Montana looks wary.

Guess I have to tell

the story twice, huh?

Oh, well. Relationships

shouldn’t have secrets.

Suddenly I notice

Nikki’s stance. She’s

pissed. Maybe even

more than pissed.

Because of what just

happened? It’s all good.

EXCEPT IT’S NOT

Brendan shakes my hand,

takes Montana’s arm, and they

return to the party. I reach for

Nikki, but she yanks away.

She hands me my jacket,

which I left on a chair,

holds out my cell phone

between two fingers,

like it’s poison. Heard it

ring and thought it might

be important. By the time

I dug it out of your jacket

it had gone to voice mail.

Her own voice crackles.

Sorry, but I went ahead and

picked up the message.

She straightens, squares

her shoulders, and I know

I’m in trouble. It was from

some girl named Leah….

Autumn
ONE DAY

Until the wedding. One week

until Christmas, such as it will be.

School just let out for vacation.

And there’s so much to do.

Shopping. Manicure. Rehearsal

dinner tonight. More shopping.

Hair appointment. Studio

portrait. More shopping.

I wish I could be excited

about it. But all I want to do

is hole up in my room with a little

borrowed liquor and think

about ways to be with Bryce.

It wasn’t so hard when school

was still in. But this week

will offer many challenges

as far as spending time

together. Sneaking out

when Grandfather passes

out is the only way I know.

PILFERING BOOZE

Sneaking out.

Hooking up with

Bryce for sex.

I can’t believe this

is me I’m talking

about. It’s like I’m

on a runaway train.

I want to jump off

but it’s not slowing

down and taking

that leap would

kill me for sure.

And the wonderful

irony is I used to

think about dying.

Maybe even by my

own hand, if things

turned too, too bleak.

But now I want to

live. Want to love.

Want to be loved.

I have to keep on

riding this train

for that to happen.

TRAINS LIKE THIS

Generally wreck sooner or later.

So far so good, though.

Grandfather has not missed

the short pours of whiskey

I’ve indulged in lately. They say

liquor is quicker, and whiskey

is definitely quicker than champagne

when it comes to a good buzz.

A shot or two, nothing scares me,

nothing hurts me. I like how that feels.

The weird thing is, Grandfather’s

own drinking has waned. It’s as if

the wedding planning has reduced

his stress. I don’t understand why.

I do know I’ll have to find a way

to replace what I’ve taken from

the liquor cabinet before he swings

the other way again. Bound to happen

after tomorrow. Once the wedding

is over. The reception done,

and Aunt Cora and Liam go off

on their honeymoon, return

to their new house in Austin.

They decided to live there, near

his family instead of hers (mine), go

into business together. Massaging

the uptight of Austin. That thought

is good for another swallow. Hot

liquid amber down my throat. Better.

Almost good enough to deal

with lingerie shopping. Aunt Cora

should be here to pick me up

any time. Okay, just a quick nip and

then I’d better use some mouthwash.

The worst thing about whiskey

is the smell it leaves behind.

LISTERINE ROCKS

Aunt Cora doesn’t notice a thing

on the drive to the mall. I close

my eyes, lean back into the seat,

absorbing radio music and traffic

music and the music of Aunt Cora’s

voice. Something about dresses.

Something about the hotel where

you get to stay tonight. Something

about pick you up at eleven sharp.

And something that really grabs

my attention. So, okay. Are we going

to meet your Bryce tomorrow?

Just the name makes me smile.

“Last time we talked, he promised

he’d be there. On time, even.”

She laughs. You didn’t give him

a hard time, did you? I mean about

being punctual. No wedding starts

exactly when it’s supposed to.

There’s always some sort of delay.

Don’t know why that is, but it is.

“If you say so.” Not like I’d have

a clue. “I’ve never been to a wedding.”

Not like she doesn’t know that.

“Yours will be my first.” And hopefully

not my last. I want one of my own

before too very long. The amazing

thing is Bryce hasn’t even asked

about protection. Maybe he wants

me to get pregnant too.

“Are you going to have a baby?”

Her smile drops away. “I don’t

mean right now. But ever?”

She looks like she has something

she wants to tell me. But the mall

has suddenly reached our line

of sight. She perks up and says,

Who knows what the future might

bring? Let’s start with underwear.

UNDERWEAR SHOPPING

Is likewise something I’ve never

done. Well, I mean Wal-Mart undie

shopping is one thing. Upscale

bras and panties is all new.

And radical. There are even

salesladies who are trained to

fit you right, and tell you what kind

of bra will flatter you best. It’s kind

of embarrassing. If it wasn’t for

the whiskey, I’d be freaking out.

Only problem is, now that it’s

wearing off some, I’m getting

a headache. Hope it doesn’t

get worse. Anyway, Aunt Cora

and I take our fancy understuff

up to the counter. In her pile:

three stretch lace thongs, two gel

underwires, and a teeny purple teddy,

for the honeymoon. In my pile: red

velvet panties, matching push-up bra.

BOY, DOES THAT ADD UP

Almost one hundred fifty big

ones! “Uh, are you sure you can

afford that? I can wear my old—”

Aunt Cora stops me. This day

is only going to happen once.

Besides … She reaches into

her wallet, fishes out a shiny new

credit card. Liam’s mom gave me

this. Said to get anything my little

heart desired. She knows Daddy

doesn’t have a bottomless bank

account. I guess she does.

I think back to Thanksgiving and

the Cregan place. Big house.

Nice furniture. Pretty backyard.

Pricey (if unremarkable) neighborhood,

the same one where Aunt Cora

and Liam will live, thanks to a big

down payment wedding gift.

Aunt Cora will be well cared for.

Do I feel good about that?

THE QUESTION NAGS

The rest of the afternoon.

Through manicure.

Pedicure.

(And just who wants a job

dealing with scaly feet?)

Trousseau shopping.

Christmas shopping.

(And why does Aunt Cora

think Liam wants pj’s?)

Makeup shopping.

Window shopping.

(And by now I’m getting

totally sick of shopping.)

Stuffing the car with

packages. Gassing up.

(And I majorly wish I had

an ibuprofen in my purse.)

Driving the eighty

miles to Austin.

(And now the nagging

question really gets loud.)

Am I happy that Liam will

care well for Aunt Cora?

(And will she be happy when

Bryce is taking care of me?)

STUPID FANTASY, I KNOW

But at least Bryce is a real guy, not

a vampire or something. Fantasy

minus the fangs. Sounds good

to me, especially if there ever

is a baby involved in this story.

Meanwhile, we have arrived

at the hotel, and it is not

what you might call a dive.

“Wow. Pretty fancy. How can

we afford to stay here?”

Aunt Cora rattles her purse.

Credit card, remember?

Whatever my heart desires,

remember? I wanted this to

be a memorable experience.

The Mansion at Judges’ Hill

is quite impressive, with an

obvious history. Later I’ll find

out what it is. Right now, I just

want to check in and find ibuprofen.

I GET MY OWN ROOM

It isn’t huge, but it is beautiful,

all done up in restored antiques.

I get a couple of ibuprofens

from Aunt Cora, go looking

for something to wash them

down with. Score! Minibar.

Pricey water, soda, and yes,

liquor. Very pricey liquor.

But hey, the credit card

is buying, right? Three-dollar

Coke. Six-dollar miniature bottle

of Dewar’s. Never tried scotch

before. Ugh. Not great. But too

late to turn back now. Nine

dollars’ worth of refreshment

later, I lie down on the bed.

The headache fades and I close

my eyes to rest up before dinner.

NEXT THING I KNOW

A thumping brings me around.

No, not thumping. Knocking. Loudly.

On the door. I sit up, too quickly.

My head feels like a merry-go-round,

and I think maybe I have to throw up.

“Who is it? Hang on, I’m coming.”

It’s me. Aunt Cora, of course.

Are you about ready? Hurry up.

I’ll wait for you in the lobby.

Ready? What? I glance at the clock.

Almost five. How long did I sleep?

Bathroom. Quick. To throw up or not

to throw up? I give it the old college

try. Nothing. Not even a dry heave.

Guess I’m okay. No time for a shower,

I splash my face. Makeup? No time.

I make time for mouthwash, stay

in my rumpled clothes. Not trying

to impress anyone, anyway, right?

Room key in my pocket. Out the door.

Twenty-four hours, it will all be over.

THANKS TO ME

Aunt Cora and I get to the church

ten minutes late. Everyone else

is already there, waiting. Pacing.

Talk about nerves! Liam looks

green, although he’s trying to

hide it. He and the preacher

stand off to one side. Aunt

Cora goes to join them. Let

the rehearsal begin! The wedding

party gathers as the minister starts

a blessing. I bow my head, close

my eyes. Someone taps my shoulder.

Micah! Why didn’t I make time for

makeup? Suddenly, midst long-

winded prayer, my breathing goes

shallow and my hands tingle.

I haven’t done this in weeks.

Micah sees. Is it me? he whispers.

I need air. How do I get out

of here? But just as my feet start

to move, the amen stops them.

I suck in oxygen, concentrate

on a mental picture of Bryce so

Micah’s cool steel eyes don’t

pierce so hard. I can do this.

Okay, everyone, says the pastor.

Let’s get this over with. I’m hungry.

A half hour later, we’re all pretty

sure of our roles for tomorrow.

Through the entire instruction,

Micah managed to either be

very close to me or to let

me know most definitely that

he was watching me. If I didn’t

know better, I’d say he was hitting

on me. Impossible. No makeup.

BUT, MAKEUP OR NO

Micah finds a way to sit next to me

at dinner. His leg rests against mine,

and despite willing myself to think Bryce,

Bryce, Bryce, I don’t push it away.

I like how it feels. Warm. Protective.

Still, just to be fair, when the conversation

around us is loud enough to cover it,

I say, “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

Micah keeps chewing his chicken

Marsala. Finally he swallows. I would

have been surprised if you didn’t.

God, he is just so smooth.

Bryce would never say something

like that. My face flushes. At least

it will have a little color now.

Pop! goes a champagne cork.

Pop! And another. Pop! Three.

Around come glasses, and this time

I don’t hesitate to take one, despite

the way the preacher is looking at me.

Micah sees that too. He laughs.

You’re on the path to hell young,

he says. But he isn’t much older,

and he has a glass in his hand too.

No one else seems concerned as

the toasts begin. Plenty of wine

for all. Including me. I like the bubbly

stuff okay. But am starting to crave

something stronger. Something

to take my mind off losing Aunt

Cora tomorrow. Something to make

me forget all about Micah and how

his hand feels exploring my knee.

I like it. I do. But this time I summon

my courage, push it away. “Stop,”

I whisper hoarsely. “Please stop.”

He does. And that makes me want

another glass of champagne. And

I know that isn’t good. I’ll stop after

tomorrow. I’ll stop when I get pregnant.

WEDDING DAY DAWNS

Heavy with impending rain.

It’s going to storm crazy.

Wonder if it’s an omen.

Wonder if Aunt Cora’s

aura has gone all gray.

I want sun on my wedding

day. But in Texas, anything

goes, weather-wise, on any

given day. So an indoor

thing is the way to go.

Still, indoors or out,

a sense of foreboding

weighs me down. I want

to float in this soft bed,

with the curtains drawn.

At least I’ll get to see

Bryce. The thought buoys

me from under the covers.

Lots to do before then.

All in the name of beauty.

Shower. Makeup. Hair,

courtesy of the hotel’s

fancy stylist. Low-cut dress.

Flowers. Hope I can be

as pretty as the bride.

EVERYTHING ACCOMPLISHED

And as pretty as I’m going to get,

Aunt Cora and I arrive at the church.

It’s filling already. Most everyone,

of course, is either related to or

a friend of Liam. Our herd is much

smaller. I’m glad Bryce will be there

on the Shepherd side. There he is,

in fact, standing alone, in back.

Aunt Cora goes off to the dressing

room, gown hidden beneath a plastic

bag. “I’ll be right there,” I call. Then

I go over to Bryce. “Glad you made it.”

His eyes light up. You look great.

But I feel like a fish out of water.

I guess you can’t sit with me, huh?

“I have to stand up in front and hold

Aunt Cora’s bouquet. But I’ll sit

with you at the reception.” I should

introduce him to some people.

There’s Micah, too handsome

in his tux. No, not him. Not sure why.

IT’S AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY

First, I’m having a hard time

remembering everyone’s names.

And as I struggle to label faces,

Micah comes over to, uh … help?

First he gives me a major once-

over. Whoa now. Don’t you look

kind of amazing? He ignores

my intense blush, turns to Bryce.

Don’t believe we’ve met. You

must be a friend of the bride?

But before Bryce can respond

(and say what? Sort of? Not exactly?),

Grandfather’s semi-feeble

screech interrupts, Holy shit

on a shingle. Look who’s here.

Can’t believe they had the nerve.

Conversation skids to a halt

as everyone assesses the new

arrivals—a stately older woman,

dressed to the nines. Her face

is familiar, but I would struggle

to place it, if not for the younger

man beside her. I haven’t seen

him in years. But I know who he is.

And if he is Trey, she must be

his mom. I’ve seen Maureen in Aunt

Cora’s photo album, her face

less creased then, and her hair

the color of mine. It’s gray now.

They approach Grandfather warily.

The three pull away into a corner.

The room echoes angry drifts of

accusation. Explanation. Denial.

I should go mediate. I should go tell

Aunt Cora trouble’s brewing.

But what I really want to do is run.

RUN, FLEE, FLY

The attack is sudden.

I am a rabbit, surrounded

by starved coyotes.

And like the hare,

certain

death is near, my pulse

guns. Accelerates,

hot flame in my veins.

Nears the point

of misfire.

They say, when facing

the onslaught of tooth

and claw, a creature’s

heart can simply quit.

My heart

issues a warning, and

though I keep my feet,

my brain disconnects.

A black ghost swirls,

threatens

to suck me inside.

Voices. All around me.

Can’t see who they

belong to, but I want them

to stop.

Stop. Slow. Silence.

GENTLE SHAKING

I am swimming up.

Voices make me want

to dive back down.

… you all right? Bryce.

… coming out of it. Micah.

… be okay now. Grandfather.

… freaking weird. Anonymous.

I am making an awful

scene at Aunt Cora’s

wedding. Oh my God.

… family resemblance. Maureen?

Hell, yeah. Just like me. Trey.

Leave her be. Grandfather.

What’s going on here? Preacher.

I am lifted. Supported.

Directed to a chair.

Someone hands me water.

I am mortified.

I AM ALSO CLAUSTROPHOBIC

With all these people clustered

around me. I feel like a grape,

being squashed into juice.

“Could I please have some air?”

Everyone takes one step back.

I can’t help but stare at Trey.

His dark hair is shot through

with silver. More salt than pepper.

The skin on his face is deeply

etched with a web of lines.

His eyes—black walnut—

are familiar. They are Grandfather’s.

He takes my interest as an invitation

to move closer again. Bryce stops

him with a hand to the arm. Excuse

me, but she asked for a little room.

Trey shakes Bryce’s grip.

Excuse me, boy, but I haven’t

seen my daughter in a long time.

I’m just taking a little inventory.

Bryce looks at me with eyes

brimming confusion. Daughter?

Autumn, is he saying he’s your father?

Because you told me …

I told him my parents were dead.

Why did I ever say that? Because

I never believed I’d have to tell

him the truth. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just …”

Grandfather, who has no idea

who Bryce is, or what I said to him,

nevertheless attempts rescue.

He’s never been a father to her.

Trey steps toward Grandfather,

on a collision course. And you,

old man, were never a father to me.

THINGS ARE MOVING

Light-year speed toward implosion.

Guests are turning around in their seats,

wondering what the commotion is.

The ushers push closer, suspecting trouble.

The minister bobs this way and that,

unsure of what to do next. Grandfather

and Trey are close to blows, and

Maureen is clucking like an old hen.

Bryce and Micah are measuring each

other, and the situation. Liam sputters,

then runs off to tell Aunt Cora that things

are going to hell. “Stop it!” I plead.

“You’re ruining Aunt Cora’s day. Can’t

all this wait? Can’t we at least pretend

to be a family, for her sake?” Silence

swells. Fists unclench. People return

to their places. Still, as the organ

begins to play, anger looms louder.

Aunt Cora appears, beautiful despite

the worry stamped into her face.

Maureen and Trey give her hugs,

then allow Micah to usher them forward.

Grandfather takes Aunt Cora on his arm.

Liam follows his best man to the altar.

That is my cue. I turn to tell Bryce

I’ll see him after the ceremony, but

he is nowhere in sight. The wedding

march begins. No time to look for him

now. I play my maid of honor role

exactly as rehearsed. As the ceremony

progresses, I steal sideways glances

toward the guests, but cannot spy Bryce.

What did I expect? That he’d never

discover the truth? That the shadows

of my messed-up life would never

appear in the face of his sunshine?

Through the pounding surf in my ears,

a watery, You may now kiss the bride.

My eyes overflow. Tears of joy for Aunt

Cora. The usual kind of tears for me.

WEDDING RECEPTIONS

Are good for one thing specifically.

Liquor. Mostly champagne, usually,

but Liam’s parents kindly paid for

a hosted bar. Now I’m definitely not

old enough to fool the bartender.

But I’ve got the sympathy thing

going on. Micah has talked his older

siblings into providing us both

with stiff drinks. Just think if your

father showed up after eight years.

Wouldn’t you want a nip of stress

reliever too? Anyway, we’re celebrating.

Aunt Cora issued strict orders:

No matter what, there will be no

fights. No arguments. No name-

calling. Plenty of time to sort

this out tomorrow. Right? Yeah.

When she’s on her honeymoon.

Trey tried to make conversation.

So did Maureen. I asked for some

time to think things over. So far,

they’ve respected that. Makes me

happy. Or maybe it’s the mojitos.

Micah and I are sloshing them down.

THE MORE I THINK ABOUT BRYCE

And how he left without giving me

a chance to explain … how he left

without even saying good-bye …

the faster I slosh. By the time

Aunt Cora and Liam shove cake

in each other’s faces, I am completely,

amazingly, dizzyingly drunk. You

might even say I’m smashed.

I want to laugh. I want to cry.

Neither appropriate for where

I am right now. “I think I better

get some fresh air,” I tell Micah.

He is sitting very close to me,

leg hooked in front of mine.

Why didn’t I notice that before?

Good idea. I’ll come with you.

I’m a little unsteady on my feet.

Micah slips his hand under one

elbow, steers me toward the door.

No one notices our exit. Good.

The cool December air clears

my head a little. Also makes me

shiver. Micah slides an arm

around my shoulder, pulls me

against his warmth. Better?

Weird day, huh? Sorry ’bout

your boyfriend. What was up

with him, anyway? He stops walking,

waits for me to answer. Not

ready to talk about it. “He just …

was overwhelmed, I guess.”

He. Bryce. I should pull away.

But he isn’t here. He left me

behind. And I like how I feel

under Micah’s arm. This is messed

up. Oh God. I am going to cry.

Here, now, don’t do that. He kisses

the tears from the corners of

my eyes. His lips are soft as they

move over my cheeks. And suddenly …

WE ARE KISSING

And this is not like any first kiss.

There is no love here. Only want.

He wants me, but that’s not what

I want. Not now. Not with him.

And my head is spinning. And his

hands are all over me. “No. Wait …”

Ah, come on. You want this as much

as I do. And he pushes me against

a wall. Dark here. No lights.

I could … But I can’t. Bryce.

I love Bryce. “No. I don’t. Stop,

please.” But he doesn’t even slow

down. You little prick tease.

His breath is rum and his hands

are rough. And he is strong.

Too strong for my drunken struggle.

Just as I’m sure he’ll do exactly as

he pleases, a male voice interrupts.

Take your hands off her, you little

shit, or I’ll kick your lily-white ass.

It’s Trey. I never thought I’d

actually be happy to see him.

Micah acts like I’m burning him.

He lets go so fast, I sway without

his support. Uh. Okay. Sorry, man.

We’re just a little d-drunk here, a-a-and

I … guess we got our signals crossed.

Not looking for trouble. He whips

a U-turn, heads back toward

the party. “I, uh … Thank you.”

It’s all I can say to Trey before a half

pitcher of mojitos comes boiling

up my throat. Talk about burning!

I turn my head and let it fly.

Summer
CONDEMNED

One thing I’ve learned.

Life isn’t fair. Even when

you try to do the right thing,

someone else’s wrong

thing bites you in the ass.

Dad drives drunk. Stoned.

The judge throws the book

at him. Still, it’s me going

away. He’ll be out of jail

long before I escape foster

care. Maybe if I hadn’t

been such a smart-ass to

her, Kortni would have

agreed to keep me in

her care. Probably not.

The State of California

is concerned about your

welfare, Ms. Shreeveport

said when she delivered

the good news. I wish it

were possible to leave you

here, but your safety is our

prime concern. Drug use and

driving under the influence

cannot be tolerated. We’ve

found you a new placement.

Unfortunately, it’s in Fresno,

so you’ll have to change

schools. But at least you’ll

have the vacation to settle in.

New home. New foster

parents. New school. Just

when everything was going

kind of okay right here. Dad

and I were communicating.

Kortni and I were in truce

mode. I was getting good

grades. Excelling, in fact.

Will they even have AP

classes in my new school?

And what about Kyle? He

and I were hanging strong.

I don’t want to be without

him. My life will be a well,

drained to gravel and dust.

TELLING HIM

Was something like getting a cavity

filled. Without Novocain. Evil pain,

the words drilling through the roof

of my mouth to deep inside my brain.

It was raining that afternoon, the world cold

and gray. I haven’t yet shaken the chill.

Ms. Shreeveport gave me a three-day

reprieve, time for an early Christmas

celebration. So much to celebrate

and all. I didn’t tell Kyle when I called

him. Wanted to do that face-to-face.

We were actually belly-to-belly on

the seat of his truck when I started

to cry. “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”

I can’t hold you much tighter.

And you’re not going anywhere.

“Yes. I am. They’re taking me

to Fresno. To a new foster home.”

He looked down into my eyes.

When? How long have you known?

“Day after tomorrow. I just found

out yesterday. It’s because of Dad.”

He brushed the hair away from

my face. Dried my cheeks with

the back of his hand. Shook his

head. I can’t let you go. Not now.

You make life worth living.

If you leave, I have nothing.

I lifted my face. Kissed him.

“I don’t have a choice. It’s all set

up. I start school at Roosevelt

after vacation.” He slumped down

on me. Heavy. Weighted. Then

he started to cry. This is fucked up.

Which made me cry more too.

We cried together for a long time.

Finally I said, “Make love to me.

I need to remember how it feels.”

It felt rough. Like punishment.

Punishment for his own pain.

I REMEMBER HOW IT FELT

All the way to Fresno.

Ms. Shreeveport tries

to make conversation.

For about fifteen minutes.

I surround myself with

a silence-bricked wall.

Finally she gets it.

You’ve got a lot on your mind.

Well, yeah. Like not

knowing what’s coming

next. Like wondering why

my life can’t remain static.

Like thinking about

Kyle and me, on the seat

of his truck, learning

how much real love hurts.

Like remembering what

he said, when our tears

had dried. On the surface.

Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.

I WASN’T IN LOVE

With Bakersfield. (Only

with a guy who lives there.)

But I already hate Fresno.

It may be the gateway

to Yosemite’s stark glory,

but unlike the Sierra

sneaking up behind it,

the city of Fresno is an

ucking fugly collection of

east-leaning buildings,

blade-bare lawns, and

half-digested asphalt.

Cool enough now, almost

Christmas, but hotter than

Sahara sand in summer.

Really can’t wait to live here.

RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …

Do that a dozen or so times,

you end up in the broken-down

neighborhood I now call home.

The houses are fifties era. Built

around the time kids still did

duck-under-your-desk drills,

as if that could protect them

from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe

that’s what happened to this

neighborhood. Wonder if I should

worry about radiation. Maybe

wrap myself in aluminum foil.

At last (so soon?) we pull up

in front of a totally inconspicuous

place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”

Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”

Who paints a house like this?

Doesn’t matter how it looks

outside. It’s what’s inside that

counts. You’ll like the Clooneys.

SO SAYS SHE

What else would she say,

anyway? She opens

the trunk, and I

grab my

bag. Not much in it, but

only one thing matters—

my cell phone. My

lifeline

to the real world.

The one I’m about to

walk into is

pretend.

The uneven sidewalk

tries to trip me. The step

sags beneath my weight.

I don’t

want to see what’s

beyond the door, but

it opens at the bell. I

need it to

be nice inside.

I need something

solid to

hold on to.

CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE

But it isn’t horrible. My nose

says so. It smells of cinnamon

apple room freshener—fake

but not bad. You couldn’t call

the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.

Everything shrieks “seventies.”

Red/purple shag carpet. Thick

velour drapes. Linoleum in

the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen

and bathrooms). Dated. Used.

I notice all this without stepping

foot through the door. Too many

people in the way right now.

Ms. Shreeveport has to work

her way past a short, too-perky

blonde and a bear-sized, bear-

colored man. Brown hair.

Brown skin. Brooding brown

eyes. George Clooney,

he ain’t. Wonder who he is.

FINALLY, I’M IN

Introductions are passed round.

Blonde, with a loopy smile.

Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.

Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport

says, And this is Mr. Clooney.

Bear finally opens his curtain

of silence, corrects, Call me Walter.

I stand in wordless defiance.

Bear asks Shreeveport, She’s

not, like, a mute, right?

I am so loving him already.

Shreeveport says, Of course

not. Say something, Summer.

I use sign language: “Hi.”

Blonde (Tanya) takes the high road,

giggles. Ha. Hi to you, too.

Shreeveport does not find it

funny. Please don’t be difficult.

Bear (Walter) asserts control.

No such thing as difficult here.

I push back with a silent “Bet me.”

Tanya ignores my defiant look.

Come meet the other girls.

I shrug, start to follow her.

Shreeveport doesn’t quite drop

it. Cooperation is important.

I grab my bag, turn shadow.

Walter goes all syrupy.

There’s a good little girl.

I try not to notice the way my skin crawls.

I NOTICE THE WALLS

Are eerily bare. No photos. No

paintings. No cheap ceramics.

Apparently Tanya isn’t much into

the Martha Stewart school of

homey decor. Fine by me.

Even the Christmas tree, leaning

into one corner of the living

room, is noticeably bare.

I can’t not ask, “What, did

someone steal the ornaments?”

Tanya giggles (and I’m starting

the hate the grate of her laugh).

Oh, no. I’ve just been so busy

we haven’t put them up yet.

Maybe we’ll do that tonight.

Sorry I brought it up. The last

thing I want to do is hang gaudy

crap on a fake evergreen and

pretend like I’m part of a fake

family. Fake. Fake. Fake.

I pad along the fuchsia shag,

thinking about the tatters

of my real family. Dad in jail.

Kortni, happy not to have me

there. Mom. Mom. Where is she?

A RIPTIDE OF SADNESS

Pulls at me, but I will not cry.

Must not show weakness as

I meet my new fake sisters.

This is your room, Tanya says.

It is not much bigger than a closet.

Take that bed over there.

She points to a small twin under

the window. The matching bed against

the wall is currently unoccupied.

Tanya gestures toward it. You’ll

bunk with Simone. Not sure …

Simone? she calls. Come meet Summer.

A door (bathroom?) opens

somewhere and a wraith—

pale as death—appears suddenly,

followed by two darker-skinned

girls, probably sisters. Real sisters,

part of my new fake family.

Good, you’re all here, says Tanya.

Summer, this is Simone, Eliana,

and Rosa. Get acquainted.

SHE GOES TO SAY GOOD-BYE

To Shreeveport. I maintain silence,

cross the room in three steps, claim my bed.

I guess I should unpack my clothes.

Having been on both sides of the “get

to know your new foster sister” dynamic,

I choose the respectful route and turn

to Simone. “Are there empty drawers?”

All three girls drill me with their eyes,

and the air, hanging thick with unasked

questions, prods my temper. “What?”

Nothing, says Ghost-girl. Simone.

Lainie had the right side of the dresser.

Her voice is wimpy, and I’m not surprised.

She sounds like she looks—washed out.

I suspect the answer, but ask anyway, if only

to break the insufferable silence. “Who’s Lainie?”

Young Rosa (maybe ten?) rushes

to respond, She used to live here,

but she ran away. Walter says

good riddance, but Tanya …

Shh. You talk too much, scolds Eliana,

who is thirteen or fourteen and definitely

carries an air of older sibling. Lainie

had … issues. She spits the last word.

I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t we all?”

That shatters the iceberg, or at least

chips it heavily, as everyone contributes

to a chorus of giggles. We’re not exactly

friends, and trust will never happen

here, but at least we don’t hate one

another. And while the mood is halfway

relaxed, I might as well ask, “So what’s

with Walter?” Tanya is easy to read.

The communal amusement vanishes.

And though no one says a word,

I have all the answer I need.

WE CHANGE SUBJECTS

And within twenty minutes, I know

most everything there is to know about

Eliana and Rosa Garcia Famosa.

Their father came from Cuba to

the United States via Mexico, where

he met some very bad people who

he later went into business with.

In Texas, he fell in love (my take:

lust) with their mother, Irena, and

together they came to California,

where the girls were born. Irena

Famosa expected her husband to work

in the lush fields of the San Joaquin,

but Ignacio Garcia chose easy

riches, moving methamphetamine

for a Mexican cartel. One day

he went away and never came back.

Irena grieved for a time, but met

a new man. A very jealous man

who suspected her of things she

never did. He killed her anyway.

END OF STORY

Except for the fact

that this happens to be

the girls’ fourth foster home

in six years, and Rosa can’t

remember her mother’s

face. Sad, I suppose.

But “sad” is a main

ingredient in every foster

kid recipe. We must choose

to accept it, or go off the deep

end ourselves. I could

easily dive in

over my head right

now. The others wait for

my story, but this will not be

a straight exchange. “I’ve been

with my dad, but he just

went to jail for DUI.”

Familiar excuse. Nods

all around. And Mom? Why

is it always easier to talk about

Dad than her? “And my mother

has pretty much written me

off.” The truth bites.

I KEEP UNPACKING

As I talk. It doesn’t take long.

My history or unpacking. Everything

I own pretty much fits in three

drawers plus five coat hangers.

Too aware of the three pairs

of eyes, inventorying every article

of clothing and five favorite

books, I find a way to keep my

cell phone discreetly stashed.

Some things need to stay secret.

All I want to do at this moment,

though, is pull out the phone, dial

Kyle’s number, hear his satin

voice promise he’s waiting for me.

Is he waiting for me? Or has he

completely forgotten me already?

IMPOSSIBLE, I KNOW

But even considering it makes me

want to pace. My heart accelerates,

like something wild, snared. Caged.

I can’t let the others see it. As nice

as they seem, if they intuit weakness,

I have rewarded them with a weapon.

I deliberately plop down on the bed,

calm my arterial stutter. No pacing

now, damn it. Now or ever, not here.

Instead, like an imprisoned wildcat,

I lock eyes with the human just

beyond the bars. The one staring

at me with interest I cannot tolerate.

“What about you, Simone? Why are

you here?” Come on, Ghost-girl. Tell

me your story, although I’m half-afraid

to hear it. Half-afraid. Half dying to, because

the eyes mine are locked to are haunted.

ZERO RESPONSE

So I prod just a bit. “Come on.

I told you my sordid little tale.”

Nothing.

I look over at Eliana and Rosa.

Both are wide-eyed, silent.

Nada.

Hmm. This one must be good.

“Is your dad, like, a serial killer?”

Zilch.

She shoots a dry-ice glare.

“Okay, fine. I don’t care, anyway.”

Empty.

I wish I were rooming with las

cubanitas. Even three to a room.

Vacant.

THANKFULLY

Tanya calls from way down the hall,

Girls! I need some help. Hurry!

There is some sort of a muffled crash.

The tension in the room, god-awful

heavy just two seconds ago, falls

away, like shedding a heavy robe.

Eliana and Rosa rush out the door.

I start to follow and suddenly Simone

transmutes, phantom into flesh. Wait.

I can’t tell you, she whispers. Ever.

She is human after all. Real. As real

as the fear alive in her eyes.

I nod my head. “I know.” I know

because I never told either. Her

story is mine, only with a different “he.”

I understand as only someone who

has been there can understand. We

have something in common after all.

APPARENTLY I MADE TANYA FEEL GUILTY

Because by the time

Simone and I

reach the living room,

she and the girls are

elbow deep in red and

green and gold.

Rosa’s eyes are wide.

Ooh. Look. Can

I hang this pretty one?

Lights first, commands Walter,

untangling a long

strand. Then ornaments.

It all looks so normal—any

family anywhere—

it’s almost enough to

make you forget

how abnormal this “family”

really is. Two

artificial parents; two

orphans. One

total mystery. And me.

LIGHTS, GARLAND, AND ORNAMENTS HUNG

The tree still looks sad to me.

It’s not that the decorations

are old (and they are). It’s that

they were all arranged without love.

This isn’t the first loveless Christmas

I’ve spent. Foster homes, however

solid, are all barren of that emotion.

You don’t dare care about someone

you probably won’t know in a year.

But I’ve had beautiful holidays

with both sets of grandparents—

Carl and Jean. Scott and Marie.

The ones with Grandma Marie

were especially special because

Hunter was there too. My brother.

The one I hardly ever get to see.

But when I do, he’s always pretty

much amazing to me. Because

he gets to be with his sister (me).

The one he hardly ever gets to see.

Those Christmases I understand

the power of family. My three

brothers will be there this year.

I so wish I could be there too.

THE ONLY PLACE

I’d rather be is with Kyle. He’s all I can

think about as I help make dinner,

Tanya chattering away about how much

you’ll love Roosevelt and church on Sunday.

All I can think about at the table, Walter

griping about the goddamn power bill.

All I can think about as Simone and I

load the dishwasher in total silence.

Wonder what he’s doing, as I brush

my teeth, get ready for bed. Wonder

if he’s thinking about me, too, as Eliana

borrows one of my well-loved books.

Wonder if I’ll ever see him again as Rosa

practices for her Sunday School pageant.

Wonder if he’s written me off already

as I crawl between the scratchy sheets.

IT IS WALTER

Who comes to handle the lights-out

bed check. He knocks, but doesn’t

wait for an invitation to enter.

Simone, in a short, gauzy nightgown,

barely covers her long legs, and Walter

is all eyes. I swear, he starts to salivate.

No. No way. Not her. And not me.

Good night, ladies. He flips off the lights,

closes the door. Did Simone notice

the demon-wolf in his eyes? Her voice

drifts toward me on dark wings of night.

I hate him. He reminds me of my brother.

Without telling me, she has shared

her secret. A half-dozen questions

pop into my head. Real brother? Step?

When? How? Who told? Why did

that mean she ended up here? But in

the long run, the answers don’t matter.

BEFORE TOO VERY LONG

Simone’s breathing falls shallow.

Rhythmic. She’s wandering deep

within some sort of dream. A good

dream, I guess. She laughs softly

in her sleep. Do I ever find happiness

in my dreams? I rarely remember

them. Sleep will not come easily

for me tonight. Not in an unfamiliar

bed, in an unfamiliar room. The night

itself is a different shade of dark.

Loneliness strikes suddenly,

a cobra sinking its fangs into my

heart, venom pumping. My eyes

spill into the strange, lumpy,

bleach-perfumed pillow. Salt soak.

I should be used to this by now.

Should expect the slow opening,

the hollow place inside. I am oddly

not afraid, though I recognize

the thirst in Walter. Who knows

how he might try to quench it?

I swear I will never let him, or

anyone, take a long swallow of me

unless it is my choice. And I only

choose to be water for Kyle.

HOW LONG WILL IT BE

Before living here

becomes unbearable?

How long before the

Bear pays a call on me?

How long before I have

to find a way to flee?

Sometime before dawn

my eyes finally close.

And though I’m not quite

asleep, I feel myself drift.

Float toward that hole

behind the bridge of my nose.

If I can just fall in,

I think I might find Kyle.

If I can just reach in,

I know I’ll touch his face.

If I can just take his hand,

will we leave together?

FOR THREE DAYS

I try to settle in, try to feel

like part of this not-family,

to ignore my gut feeling.

Three days of

listening to Eliana and

Rosa argue and laugh.

Real sisters

acting like

all real sisters do,

I suppose. Who knows?

Maybe, just maybe,

everything

would be different

between my real sister

and me. The fact

is,

it could very well be

hate at first sight.

The fact is,

just

because you’re related

doesn’t mean you

want to be. So,

fine.

Forget that ridiculous

fantasy. Who needs

family, anyway?

DAY FOUR

Tanya has taken the girls Christmas

shopping. We drew names to get gifts

for. Stupid, if you think about it. None

of us has any money. It’s all pretend.

I drew Rosa. Figured a Barbie would do

for her, but couldn’t stomach the idea

of traipsing around Wal-Mart. So I faked

sick. Asked Tanya to pick one up.

Walter is puttering around the garage,

playing with his tools (or something else).

This is what I’ve been hoping for—a few

private minutes to try and call Kyle.

But when I dig out my cell, there’s

a message waiting for me. From him.

Summer. Call me. Please. Can’t stand …

Can’t stand not having you with me.

His voice trembles. Crying? My own

tears start to fall as I think about

his arms around me. The comfort

of his kiss. All this love, wasting …

I speed dial his number. He answers

almost immediately, as if waiting

for my call. Summer? How are you?

Oh God, I’ve missed you so much.

“I’ve missed you, too. I’m okay….”

We spend a few minutes talking.

I tell him about the blonde and the bear

and my faux sisters. He tells me about

coming to Fresno to visit his aunt

for the holidays. I have to see you.

Maybe we can get together

while I’m there. What do you think?

Get together? How? I’m pretty sure

dating is a solid foster care taboo.

“You know I want to, but I don’t

know how to make it happen.”

You can sneak out, right? His voice

trembles. I have to see you, Summer.

I’ll come early. Tomorrow. Give me

the address there. I’ll MapQuest it.

I hear a door close, bear-heavy

footsteps. “I’ve got to go! Call me

when you’re getting close.” I hang

up, just as Walter clunks down

the hall. His face pokes through

the doorway, all feral eyes and licking

lips. I pretend I’m waking up from

a flu-induced nap. “Ugh. Gotta puke.”

THE REST OF THE DAY

Is filled with

excited squeals

peals of laughter

sisterly whispers

Bear growls and

Tanya squeaks.

I lie in bed

trying not to listen

trying not to get up

trying not to obsess

about seeing Kyle

in just a few hours.

My head spins

dizzy with love

dizzy with hope

dizzy with strategy

dizzy with dreams

of tomorrow.

ALBUQUERQUE JOURNAL

Working with the FBI and the Bernalillo County sheriff’s department, Albuquerque police accomplished a major sting, arresting five members of a marijuana smuggling ring. Lieutenant Rocky Schneider said if not for an unrelated incident, the smuggling operation might have continued unimpeded indefinitely.

“It started with a simple speeding ticket,” said Schneider. “The officer noticed a definite odor of marijuana and upon questioning the driver, discovered a quarter pound under the front seat. Rather than face a more severe charge, the driver decided to cooperate with authorities.”

Albuquerque resident Wayne Allen Snow led police to a house in Rio Rancho. Upon entering, officers found almost ten pounds of highgrade marijuana, imported via runners for a major Mexican cartel. Arrested there were Adam “Buddy” Grimoir; his wife, Lince; and three Mexican nationals. All five were bound over to await trial.

“This is only a small glimpse of a much larger picture,” Schneider said. “Nevertheless, it was a righteous bust, and perhaps the beginning of a positive trend.”

Hunter
BACK HOME

Indefinitely.

Nikki won’t

even talk to

me, let alone

forgive me.

She pisses

me off. My

fault? Maybe.

But I deserve

a chance to

explain. I

could say it

isn’t so bad.

But that’d

be a lie. I’m

home, yes,

but with the

boys still in

my old room,

I’m in the

guest room.

White

on

white

with

white

trim.

I HATE WHITE

The sun through the south window

makes it much too bright in here

by day, and at night, artificial

light glares, wall to wall to wall.

If this move ends up permanent,

I’ll have to talk to Mom about paint.

My plan, though, is to give Nikki

time. Then gently wear down

her defenses. She’ll have to forgive

me eventually, right? There must

be some way to make that happen.

I can’t believe how much I miss her.

And not just the way she fills my bed

with velvet skin and satin hair and

warm spice scent. Without her,

I am incomplete. The worst thing

is, I have no excuse for what happened

with Leah. The message that bitch

left on my phone gave no room

for misinterpretation. Nikki knew

for sure I had betrayed her. And how.

SO FOR NOW, IT’S WHITE

And not just in here,

but outside, too. It

started to snow four

days ago. And it just

keeps on coming down.

Semester break, no

classes for three weeks,

I only have to worry

about driving for my

air shifts. Holidays

mean the “stars” go

home too, so I’m

pulling a few extra.

But mostly, if for no

other reason than to get

out of the guest room,

I’m helping Mom with

her Christmas stuff.

Decorating. Wrapping.

Baking cookies, even.

That’s what we’re doing

now. She tried to get

the boys to help. But

Donald thinks it’s lame.

And David prefers the pup.

GOOD THING

Someone wants to play with Sasha,

I guess. She’s at that gangly stage—

all floppy feet and squirrelly tail,

wagging into the cupboards while

Mom and I measure flour and sugar

and butter. David, says Mom,

would you please put on your coat

and take Sasha outside to play in

the snow? If you wear her out, maybe

she’ll take a nice long winter’s nap.

David is willing, so off they go.

Donald and Scott are shoveling

the decks. I’ve got Mom all to

myself, a rare thing around here

lately. We haven’t talked much

since I came back. All she knows

for sure about Nikki and me

is that we had a little fight.

I’ve got a lot more than that

to tell her about, though.

I watch her cross the kitchen

floor. Graceful, like a dancer,

and fit, especially for a woman

her age. Still working out at sixty.

Wonder if I’ll have her energy.

SHE TURNS

Finds me staring, gawking in

admiration like a regular fan boy.

What? A booger or something?

“Nope. Just wondering where

you get all your energy from.”

Can’t slow down. Too much to do.

I have to smile. “You’ve been

saying that since I was a little kid.”

Yeah, and? Nothing has changed.

Still dealing with the fallout of choices,

not her own, made twenty years ago.

Anyway, slow down, you grow mold.

Another favorite saying. “But don’t

you ever get mad about … stuff?”

Hunter, I used to live “mad.” Didn’t help.

I REACH WAY BACK

Into memory, to another

Christmas. I must have been ten.

Kristina was here with Donald.

He would have been three.

Ron was supposed to come

with them that year, so Mom got

them a hotel room. That man

will not stay under this roof.

She didn’t give a reason, and

I wondered why she was so angry.

On their way out of Vegas,

Ron was arrested. Kristina claimed

it was an outstanding traffic

ticket. We found out later it was

for a domestic violence warrant.

Kristina came alone, checked into

her room on Christmas Eve,

and when she didn’t show up for

our usual family dinner, Mom

was mad. You can’t ever rely on her.

But she was also worried

and sent Dad out to look for her.

Turned out she was in the ER.

She claimed it was food poisoning.

Poor little Donald hadn’t had

a bite to eat all day except for a candy

cane a sympathetic nurse gave him.

You’d think a nurse would know better.

I didn’t understand until I watched

him bounce off the walls all night.

Kristina came over the next

morning. Spent Christmas Day, and

I mean all day, on her cell phone,

talking to Ron, who was already out of jail.

Mom stewed big-time. She’s using

again. Six years clean for what?

I overheard her tell Dad. I thought

she was wrong. Turned out she was spot

on. The ER visit was bad dope.

And Kristina was pregnant with David.

MOM WAS ANGRIER THEN

Is anger something

you can outgrow?

Can anyone do it

with practice? Dad                  Maybe it’s a gender

has never quite                        thing. I think I take

mastered the talent.                 after Dad, carrying

anger like he does,

tight in my muscles,

unable to quite let go.

I don’t feel like I’m

mad most of the time,

but it isn’t hard to let

all that stored anger             But it’s hard to talk

come rippling out.               about resentment,

I should get help.                 bottled up inside.

I have it easier than

most people. So why

feel sorry for myself?

Not like very many

people have intact

families. One parent

or the other is likely                Looking at it that way,

absent. Shacked up                  I’m pretty normal. So

Knocked up. Fucked up.         why do I feel like some

sort of a freak? Bigger

question: Why take it

out on people I love?

ALL THIS FILTERS THROUGH

My brain in the time it takes

Mom to cream two cups of

butter with two cups of brown

sugar, add two eggs, and beat

well. And despite every warning,

once the mixer noise stops,

I have to spout words I swore

to keep to myself so as not to

hurt her. “I met my father.”

Well, of course you met your

f—, she starts, back to me.

Her shoulders tense, and very

slowly, she turns toward me.

Your father? Are you sure?

She studies my face intently.

I nod. “Pretty sure …”

And I tell her the story, starting

with noticing piebald eyes

in the crowd at the Christmas

parade and ending with the X

holiday party. Deep breath.

I DIDN’T THINK

Talking about it would bother

me so much, but my hands quiver

and my breathing falls shallow.

Mom notices, comes over to

me. She takes my hands in hers,

presses gently. You okay?

I wish I were little again so

she could wrap me in her arms

like she used to. I remember

how, growing up, I wanted to

be taller than her, always kept

measuring. Then one day, I was.

It was better before. I look down

into her eyes. “Yeah. I’m okay.

I just never really expected

to meet him. Or that I might

actually like him. It was easier

hating him for what he did.”

Mom tugs gently, sits me

at the table. Resentment is

always easier than forgiveness.

SHE SITS BESIDE ME

Pulls her spine straight,

making her still nowhere near

as tall as me. Yet her presence

seems larger than life.

Do you have any idea why

Leigh isn’t here yet?

I shake my head. Smile.

“Didn’t want to ask. I figured

once she got here, I’d end

up sleeping on the floor.”

She laughs. Futon, remember?

Then she gets serious again.

You know Leigh has never really

forgiven her father, right?

Well, Wayne was recently arrested

for a large quantity of marijuana.

He cooperated with authorities,

and they left him on house arrest,

which turned out to be a good

thing because he just had a major

heart attack. It wasn’t his first, and

they don’t think he’s going to make

it. Leigh flew back to Albuquerque

to basically say good-bye.

Wow. I’m sort of stunned.

He is my grandfather and now

I’ll never get to know him. Not

that I ever wanted to know him,

because of the things that happened

a long time ago. Things that will

never be rectified. God, why does

my life continue to be defined

by other people’s decisions? “Why didn’t

he ever try to be a part of our lives?”

Mom shrugs. Maybe he didn’t know

how to say he was sorry.

Or maybe he was afraid

we wouldn’t believe it.

SUDDEN COMMOTION

As a wet puppy bounds into

the room, followed by an excited

David. Come back here, Sasha!

Fu. German for “heel.”

Surprisingly, Sasha obeys,

coming round to sit at David’s

left side. Good girl. Good Sasha.

When he moves, she moves too.

“Wow. I’m impressed. You

going to work Sasha, David?”

Before Mom’s life got too busy,

she used to work her dogs, Schutzhund

fashion. Police-dog-style training

is incredibly demanding on both animals

and trainers. Might be really good

for David. Donald, too, if he’d do it.

There’s still a club out here,

Mom says to me. Scott has taken

David and Sasha to a couple

of sessions. I think they like it.

I do, agrees David. They say

I’m kind of young, but I’m not

the only kid. Sasha likes it too.

And she’s kind of young too.

SMART KID

It’s good to see him so engaged.

Donald, on the other hand, really

worries me. Mostly he just sits

around, playing computer games

or watching TV. Except when Dad

makes him get up and do something.

Dad, in fact, seems to be the only

one who can convince him to

behave even halfway civilized.

Mom has him in therapy. “Severe

emotional detachment,” was

the diagnosis, “probably caused

by early childhood trauma.”

Yeah, like his parents’ (one or

the other or both) meth-fueled rages,

resulting in fists to his face.

I remember him visiting us once,

decorated with knuckle-shaped bruises.

Such treatment can only erect walls

inside a kid. One between him and pain.

Another between him and love.

WHEN DID I BECOME A PHILOSOPHER?

I’ve got my own walls, and they

were not built by abuse or neglect.

I should probably go into therapy

myself, try and figure out why

I would so willingly sabotage

a relationship that means everything

to me. What am I, fucking stupid?

Okay, I am totally fricking stupid.

Here I thought I was using Leah, and

she totally used me. Set me up

completely. When she programmed

her number into my phone, she also

called herself, so she’d have my

number too. Like I said. Stupid.

And now I’m mad all over again.

At her. At myself. I get up, kiss

Mom on the forehead. “Let’s finish

those cookies.” Mindless activity,

that’s what I need. Maybe by not

thinking at all, my brain will come up

with a way to get Nikki to forgive me.

COOKIES IN THE OVEN

Mindless

activity finished for now,

my brain has failed me completely.

Dad and Donald are in the front

hall, shaking snow off their boots,

hats. Almost unbelievably, Donald

is laughing. A new wall goes up.

Jealousy.

Weird. Really, really weird. Why

do I feel that way? Maybe because

Dad and I haven’t talked in years,

at least not about stuff that matters.

And the last time we laughed

together? I really can’t remember.

I want

us to be close again. We were

when I was young. Then, I guess,

I made him into “the enemy,”

the one who said no to giving me

money (for weed) or borrowing

the car (to party). What I forgot was

his love.

GOD, I’M MAUDLIN TODAY

Must be all the obvious Christmas cheer,

and how it doesn’t cheer me. Mom has

always been big on making the house

look Good Housekeeping gorgeous.

Electric trains. Ceramic villages.

Multicolored garland and lights,

strung on banisters and door jambs.

The tree, a twelve-foot blue spruce,

is hung with ornaments collected for

almost forty years. Wreaths. Poinsettias,

in four shades and varied heights.

Candles in holiday colors, scented

cranberry and bayberry and vanilla.

And outside? Colored lights and white

icicle lights and a giant lit Santa’s sleigh.

You can see this place clear across

the valley. When I was a kid, I loved

it. Now it seems a little ostentatious.

Wonder if Mom and Dad would have

gone so all out without the boys here.

SAID BOYS

Disappear into their (my) room.

Mom vanishes into her office

to write. New book. Fantasy.

Dad decides to work on dinner,

something he often does even

when Mom is home. Chef Dad.

I sit at the table, munching cookies,

watching him season the roast.

Here is a chance to talk about

something that matters. Like?

“So, Dad …” Do I dare ask?

Oh, why the hell not? “Have

you ever cheated on Mom?”

He looks up, humor in his eyes.

Is this some sort of a test?

Do you have a hidden recorder?

That makes me smile. “No,

no. This isn’t about blackmail.

And you don’t have to answer.

I just wondered because …”

Because of what happened with Nikki?

And here I always thought Mom was

the psychic. “Uh … kinda … yes.”

He lines a baking pan with foil.

Nestles the roast inside. I thought

that might be it. One of your listeners?

Oh my God. He is psychic.

“Yeah, that’s right. And I swear

I don’t even know why I did it.

But how did you know?”

Hunter, I used to be in radio,

remember? I know how it is when

a pretty girl throws herself at you.

Good. He gets it. God, I’m glad

he’s been there, except …

“But you never got caught.”

No, Hunter. See, I never said

okay, not once I’d made a solid

commitment to your mom. I just

couldn’t take a chance on losing her.

THIS COULD TURN INTO A LECTURE

And it sort of does.

Believe me, there were

plenty of willing women.

Some really didn’t want

to take no for an answer.

I nod. Because I know.

But your mom came to me

already wounded. I had

to win her trust. Destroying

that trust was unthinkable.

Dad and the moral high road.

Even beyond my time in

radio, there have been plenty

of temptations over the years.

I’m sure for your mom, too.

Mom? Women are tempted?

But with as much as she has

to travel with her books,

if either of us had to worry

about that, where would we be?

Has Nikki been tempted too?

We’re married, of course.

That is a stronger commitment

than living together. Although

Nikki would probably argue that.

NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

For Nikki, living together meant

every bit as much as having a piece

of paper giving us the legal right.

I still have no idea what my next

move should be. How can I make

this up to her? Dad puts the roast

into the oven. Washes some big

potatoes. Wraps them in foil.

“Do you ever wonder where

you would be if you hadn’t met

Mom? She told me once that when

you first met, your dream was

to be the next Johnny Carson….”

I didn’t know who that was, so I looked

him up. He was pretty famous back then.

“Does it bother you that you’re not

a late-night TV host? Or that Mom got

to be the famous one instead of you?”

He keeps working but laughs softly.

Hey, I’ve still got time. Seriously,

though, sure, it’s bothered me.

But we don’t always get what

we want. I didn’t get to be a star,

but I did get to be something

special—your mom’s husband.

And your father. Those things mean

more to me than hosting late-night TV.

“Seriously? Because sometimes

you seem resentful. Not that I blame

you. You didn’t ask for me.”

The potatoes join the roast in the oven.

You’re right. We didn’t ask for you.

But I have never resented becoming

your father. Your mom and I made

that choice willingly, with our eyes

wide open. Yes, sometimes I get mad

about things beyond my control.

Not that it’s useful or changes

anything. It’s just human nature.

Anger is a valid emotion. It’s only

bad when it takes control and makes

you do things you don’t want to do.

I GUESS I CAN’T BLAME ANGER

For the Leah incident.

Lack of self-control isn’t

always about being pissed.

Sometimes it’s sheer greed.

Something Dad said filters

back to me now.

Not once I’d made a solid

commitment to your mom …

“You said you never

cheated on Mom once

you committed to her.

How about before that?”

He decides how to answer.

I was dating a couple

of other people at the time.

So, yes, I guess I did.

Okay. This could quite

possibly be useful. “So did

Mom find out?” She had to,

right? She’s not exactly dense.

Actually, she did. And

when I saw how hurt

she was, it really made

me think. She was the one

I loved. I didn’t want to

lose her. That’s when I

decided playing around

just wasn’t worth it.

Dad got Mom back, so

there’s hope. But, “What

did you say to make Mom

give you another chance?”

He smiles. I told her if

I ever messed around again,

she could cut off my balls.

At my horrified expression,

Dad amends, Not really. Look.

There’s no secret formula here.

Give it a few days. My guess is,

once Nikki cools off, she’ll be

missing you. Then go to her and

tell her you know you screwed

up big-time, but you love her too

much to let things end like this.

It may not work. But Nikki loves

you, and if you love her, too,

what have you got to lose?

Just be sure to follow through.

FEELING MARGINALLY BETTER

And semi-jacked-up on chocolate

chip cookies, I think maybe I’ll

ask the boys if they want to break

out the sleds. The driveway is perfect,

as long as we build up a berm across

the bottom. Not that there will be much

traffic out in a storm like this. I am

considering digging around in the garage

when the phone rings. Once. Dad

and I look at each other, some strange

kind of understanding building between

us. Suddenly David dashes into the room,

Sasha nipping at his heels. Mommy’s

coming for Christmas! he shouts.

Mom follows. Her public defender

argued illegal search and seizure,

she explains. The judge agreed. All

charges against her were dropped.

Kristina talks her way out of another

predicament. Christmas drama to come.

Autumn
LONELINESS AND LIQUOR

Are best friends. Too bad I haven’t

had any liquor since the wedding.

Loneliness is eating me alive.

No more Aunt Cora. No word from Bryce.

Grandfather in bed with some ailment.

Much too much time on my hands.

If there were any alcohol in the place,

I’d be dropped-on-my-knees drunk.

Instead I keep cleaning. Organizing.

There isn’t a speck of dirt anywhere.

Except, no doubt, in Grandfather’s room.

I avoid going in there. It stinks.

Stinks like old man. Stinks like a feeble

old man, flat on his back for three days.

Farts and sweat and medicine.

I only go in to take him soup. Hot tea.

Water. More water. But not much me.

WHEN I CALLED BRYCE

To apologize, he was Arctic cool.

I don’t understand. Why did you

tell me your parents were dead?

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s just …

well, there are things about them

I’m not proud of. I was afraid….”

Look. No one’s parents are perfect.

And whatever is wrong with yours,

lying to me like that just sucks.

“I know. I was wrong. Can’t you please

forgive me? Will you come over so

we can—wait. Grandfather’s sick.”

He warmed up a little. Listen.

We’re heading out to California.

I’ll be back after Christmas.

We’ll get together then, okay?

But we can’t have a relationship

built around lies. Love is honest.

AT LEAST HE USED THE WORD “LOVE”

The “built around lies” part,

however, has me worried. I wish

I would never have made up

that stupid story about my parents

being dead. But hey, for all I know,

my mother is dead. Not like I’ve

heard a single word from her.

And my dad isn’t a whole lot better

than dead to me. I never really

expected to see him again.

Certainly not then. Did he pick

Aunt Cora’s wedding for shock

value alone? He couldn’t have

timed it worse, with Bryce right

there as he made his grand entrance.

At least Bryce is willing to let me

explain. But even if I fess up about

the circumstances of my birth, what

about my deeper dishonesty?

How much truth do I want to tell him?

MY STOMACH STIRS

And I’m pretty sure it has nothing

to do with the thought of lies.

Hope I’m not coming down with

Grandfather’s bug. Wonder if it’s cat

flu or dog flu, or some other

new, improved, unidentified strain.

He’s actually a little better today,

and seeing as how he’s a member

of one of those “high-risk populations,”

I guess that’s a really good thing.

I wander down the hall to check

on him, but he’s in the bathroom.

God! The smell coming from

his bedroom is going to make me …

Quick. Run to the other bathroom,

reach the toilet just in time for

my stomach to jet a horrid stream

of oatmeal and yogurt. Breakfast.

I HEAVE

And heave,

sweat breaking

out on my forehead.

Gut clenching

and letting go.

Clenching. Great.

Who will take care

of Grandfather

if I get sick too?

Who will take

care of me?

No Aunt Cora to

tuck me in bed.

No Aunt Cora to

bring me soup,

steaming cups of

tea. Ugh. Soup.

Just the thought

makes me hurl

again. I hurl till

I’m food-empty and

there’s nothing

left in my stomach

but putrid air.

ALL HURLED OUT

Shaky. Drained. I poke my head

through Grandfather’s door, see

he is dozing. Sounds like a plan.

I wander into the living room, turn

on the TV. Lie down on the couch

to not watch the History Channel.

Some boring show about some boring

monarch in some boring century.

My eyes, weighted, close and I slip

toward some deep pocket of dark

space. Warm here. Comforting, with

a low buzz of canned boring voices.

Ringing now. Ringing? Bell. Doorbell?

Bell? I swim up into a bay of flat,

gray light. Doorbell. Who? Bryce!

He came? I jump up way too fast.

My head is so light. Did my brain

shrink? I steady myself. “Coming!”

The door is so far. Oh, God. Don’t

leave. Don’t go away. “Be right

there!” I reach for the knob, jerk

the door open. “Bryce!” But no,

he’s too tall. Too dark. Too old.

Trey. Perfect. The anti-Bryce.

Sorry. Not Bryce. Can I come in?

He doesn’t wait for an answer,

though. Just pushes on past me.

“W-wait. I’m not sure … uh …”

Not sure of what? Think, Autumn.

“Uh, Grandfather has been sick.”

That’s okay. I’m not here to see

him. I’m here to see you. We’ve

got a little catching up to do.

I follow him into the living room,

watch him flip off the TV. I start

to tell him I don’t feel so hot either,

notice I’m actually better. Strange.

I figured I’d be on my back for days,

like Grandfather, who I should tell

we’ve got a visitor. Then again,

he’s asleep and I’m a big girl.

I can handle this on my own.

AT LEAST I THINK I CAN

When it comes right down

to it, I don’t know very

much at all about

the man

sitting on Grandfather’s

recliner, claiming it as if

it were his own. I think he

is

probably dangerous.

Aren’t all armed robbers?

And yet, would he be

a

threat to me? For all I

really know, he could

be a serial killer, a

total

whacked-out pervert,

stalking his next victim.

He is nothing but a

stranger.

A black hole. Will he suck

me in? Burn me up? What

does he want with me?

HE STUDIES ME

For several minutes. Finally says,

You look a lot like her. Your

mother. Her hair is darker.

You got the red from my mom.

Straight for the jugular.

“I wouldn’t know. I never

met my mother. I don’t

even know her name.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy.

No one ever told you her name?

I shake my head. “For all

I know, the stork delivered me.”

His mouth twitches slightly.

No, you were born at Washoe

Med in Reno. Your mom’s name

is Kristina. She lives in Vegas.

“Why should I care? She never

cared enough to contact me.”

Not exactly true. I just talked

to her a little while ago….

He talked to her? About me?

“She doesn’t even care if I’m alive.”

That’s not so. She’s tried to find

you since she got out of prison.

What is he talking about? Anger

stings, hot in my cheeks. “No way.

No calls. No letters. Definitely

never came ringing the doorbell.”

Because she didn’t know where

you were. I didn’t either, not until

Mom got the news about Cora’s

wedding. Why do you think

everyone was so surprised when

we showed up? He sets his jaw.

“I don’t understand. How could

you not know where I was?”

HIS EYES LIFT

Then they settle somewhere

over my shoulder, grow cold.

He points. Ask him. Grandfather

has come into the room, silent as

still air. I don’t have to turn to feel

him there. The tension is solid.

His trembling voice falls, a bag

of marbles, over my shoulder.

You. Get out of my chair.

Trey does not comply right

away. But as Grandfather starts

to move, he stands. Tell her.

Grandfather limps slowly

toward his chair. He is pale

as paper. I stay silent as

he sits and meets my eyes.

We were just trying to protect

you, Cora and I … we …

He pauses too long, so Trey

expands, They kept moving

around when you were little.

THINGS FALL INTO PLACE

Suddenly. Frequent

moves to different

little Texas towns.

Different schools.

Different friends.

Different boyfriends

for Aunt Cora. Phone

numbers. Addresses I

could never quite recall,

and if I did, there were

frequent reminders

frequent lectures

frequent warnings

not to share them,

because a stranger

could get hold of

them, might come

kidnap me away.

Hidden photos.

Hidden paperwork.

Hidden stories

about my family.

To protect me from

my mother. Father.

And who else is out

there? Who else might

want to know what

has happened to me?

SUCKER PUNCHED

I can’t find air, and it has nothing to do with illogical panic.

It’s shock. Pure. Simple. Rational. “How could you?”

How could they make me believe I was a throwaway?

Grandfather is completely white, and the folds

of his eyes crease with pain. Good. I want him to hurt,

like he and Aunt Cora have hurt me. I’m sorry, he says.

“Sorry? Do you understand how it feels to believe

your parents don’t want you? Don’t tell me they didn’t

deserve me. I already know that. This isn’t about them.”

The look I shoot Trey withers him slightly. But his eyes

glitter defiance. A desire so different from any I’ve

known before strikes suddenly. “I want to meet her.”

TREY STRAIGHTENS

I can see the wheels

creak-turn in his head.

He looks at Grandfather,

says to me, I’ll take you.

You should meet her.

Just don’t go thinking

she’s going to be like

some perfect mom. Kristina

is all about Kristina.

Far as I can tell, that pretty

much goes for everyone.

“Really? You’ll take me?”

Why not? I’d like to see

her again myself. I used

to love the bitch. Maybe

I can figure out why. She’s

on her way to Albuquerque

to see her dad, but will be

at her mom’s for Christmas.

Plenty of time for a road

trip. You’ll be a nice surprise.

GRANDFATHER IS SHAKING

Anger. Fear. Goat flu. Not sure

which is to blame. Maybe all three.

You’re not serious, he says. You

can’t take her. I won’t let you.

I want to go over. Give him a hug.

I want to go over. Slap him. Hard.

That’s the indecisive part of me—

well-known. A strange, new take-

charge part jumps in, “Yes, he can.

If I don’t go now, it may never happen.”

Grandfather crumbles. You’re going

to leave me alone on Christmas?

I could thaw if I let myself. But no.

“Austin isn’t so far. Call Aunt Cora.”

My heart flip-flops in my chest. I might

meet my mother. It may very well turn

out all bad, but how else will I know

that? “I’ll go pack some clothes.”

BY THE TIME

My suitcase sits, barely half-full,

by the door, my anger has mostly

subsided. Grandfather slumps,

wounded, in his ratty recliner.

“Did you call Aunt Cora?” I ask

him. When he doesn’t reply,

Trey says, He wouldn’t, so I did.

She said she’s on her way.

Which means we’d better go

before she gets here and tries

to make me change my mind.

She could probably do it.

I go over to Grandfather, put

my hand on his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

He refuses to meet my eyes.

I’ll be right here, waiting.

WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR

I’m surprised to see the car

parked at the curb. It’s a late

model Cadillac. White. Pin

neat. Wait. This can’t be Trey’s.

Suddenly I understand how

little I really know about him.

Am I making an awful mistake?

Wasn’t he in prison for grand

theft auto, among other things?

“Uh. Nice car. Whose is it?”

He pulls the key from his

pocket, waves it in the air,

pushes a button that opens

the trunk, puts my suitcase

inside. Actually, it’s my mom’s.

Get in. He waits for me to

make up my mind. It takes all

of two minutes before he says,

Well? Are you coming or what?

He starts the car. Exactly

the motivation I need. I slink

into the front passenger seat,

fingers tingling. Plush white leather

sucks me in. The stereo plays

metal and my heart drums along.

My nose wrinkles at an overpowering

stench of stale tobacco. The ashtray

practically overflows. “Will

you empty that, please? And you

won’t smoke with me in the car?”

I meant it as a question, sort of.

He takes it another way. Kind

of demanding, aren’t you? I don’t

have to do this at all, you know.

Still, he opens the door, dumps

the ashtray into the gutter,

replaces it. Nice. Really nice.

I should haul my butt out of

the car, back into the house

where I belong. But I don’t.

MAUREEN IS AT A HOTEL

A nice enough Best Western.

Not the Ritz, but not a dump,

either. I’d forgotten she was

part of this equation. A big part,

as it turns out, the Cadillac

being hers and all. I trail Trey

down a long hallway. “Should you

have talked this over with her?”

He doesn’t slow. No doubt.

And she can always say no.

I don’t think she will, but maybe

you should wait out here.

I lean back against a gold

flocked wall, sink down it,

sit on the yellow/brown swirled

carpet. Wait. Listen, as beyond

the far door, conversation

becomes animated. Not loud,

not really, so if they’re arguing,

it isn’t with much conviction.

It takes quite a while before

the door opens and Trey

gestures for me to come on

inside. Once again, I get an urge

to turn and run. But I don’t.

The room is neat, except for

a collage of empty bottles—wine,

beer, gin, Coke, and mineral water.

It’s enough to make my mouth

start to water. I could use

a gulp or two of liquid courage.

I look at Maureen. “Hello.”

She stares back curiously.

Are you crazy? The question

is so matter-of-fact, it catches

me completely off guard.

“Wha-what do you mean?” Panic

attacks? OCD? She doesn’t

know about those things, right?

Or is she just talking genetics?

SHE SITS QUIETLY

For a couple of seconds. Finally

says, Why do you want to stir up

a mess of trouble for yourself?

Is your life so god-awful now?

How to answer? Not bad. Not

great. But headed steadily toward

god-awful, mostly because of

the sudden appearance of the very

people in this room? TMI. “It’s okay,

I guess. No real complaints. But I have

a right to know who my parents are.

Even if I end up disappointed.”

We both look at Trey, who throws

his hands in the air. This is your idea.

Maureen shrugs. I guess you do.

And you very well may end up

disappointed. It’s against my better

judgment, but I’ll loan Trey my car.

On one condition. When you come

back through California, you stop

in Sacramento and visit me for a few

days. Don’t forget, I’m your family too.

And so it’s decided. Maureen will

fly home. We’ll take the Cadillac

on a long, boring drive to northern

Nevada. Reno. Where I was born.

Will it feel like home? Does the city

or town where you’re born imbed

itself in your psyche? I only lived

there three years. Will the altitude-

influenced temperature better suit

me? Will I breathe the air easier?

Will the scent of high desert

Nevada trump Texas prairie?

Will I come running back to Grandfather

or find solace in rediscovered family?

IT IS LATE AFTERNOON

By the time we actually hit the highway.

First, long, straight stretches of Interstate 10.

Through Arizona, New Mexico, into California.

North on I-15, to 395, north to Carson City.

More than seventeen hundred miles. Alone with

a stranger. Straight through, more than twenty-

four hours. The longest ride of my life, through

mostly unremarkable country. Flat grassland.

Dry desert as yet unkissed by winter’s

soft wet lips. At least it’s not ungodly hot

in December. When we get out to stretch,

it’s rather comfortably warm. At least it will be for

the first part of the trip. We hear there’s

a blizzard warning from Bishop, north.

Blizzard? I’ve never even seen snow, not

that I can remember at least. I’m excited.

Scared. Chilled through to the bone, and

we’re only two hundred miles toward cold.

IT TAKES THAT TWO HUNDRED MILES

And more of tedious small talk—school,

extracurricular crap or lack of it, friends

or lack of them—interwoven with long bouts

of silence, before I finally get up the nerve

to redirect the conversation away from me.

“What’s she like?” I ask, then add, “My mother.”

Trey thinks for a minute, reaches over,

turns down the radio. I wish I could tell

you. But I’m not sure I ever knew Kristina.

The real Kristina, that is. I saw traces

of her once in a while. That girl had

a heart. The Kristina I met was still

pretty, but not nearly as beautiful

as the pictures I saw of her when she

was younger, before she started …

“Started using meth? With you?

Grandfather told me about that.

He said you were different before too.”

His jaw clenches. Dad doesn’t know

everything. Kristina didn’t start using

with me. She already had a history.

He tells me about Albuquerque.

How she met a guy there who first

turned her on. Tells me about

partying with her father. Hiding it

from her mother and stepfather.

How she probably would have

kept right on smoking it up then

except, But then she got pregnant

and mostly quit until Hunter was—

“Wait. Hunter? I have a brother?”

I’ve always believed I was an only

child. Not sure why, in retrospect.

I’m sorry. I forgot you didn’t know.

You have three brothers and a sister.

But you’re the only one who’s mine. I—

“Stop. I have to think.” I turn up

the radio. Close my eyes. Dive into

the music as best I can. Ride the metal

current. None of this makes sense.

The only thing about myself I know

for sure is that I don’t know anything.

OFF-KILTER

Canted. Listing

to one side,

a rotting hull.

Nothing will ever

be the same in

my world—careful

order

twisted.

Tossed

into chaos.

I don’t even

know how to

feel about that.

Relieved?

Terrified?

Hopeful?

Suicidal?

How does

this define

(or redefine)

me?

WELL PAST MIDNIGHT

We stop for sleep in Las Cruces.

New Mexico is supposed to be

pretty. Maybe I’ll agree, come morning.

So far it looks like Arizona did

at night. Miles and miles of

dark emptiness. A starlit vacuum.

Trey pulls into a dive of a motel.

Hope the beds have clean

sheets. The room is claustrophobic.

And ice-cube cold. I flip on the heat, go

to pee in a closet-sized bathroom.

Trey’s going out for fast food, asks for

my order. I beg off. “Too tired to eat.

And I don’t feel so hot. You could

bring me some bottled water, though.”

I throw back the covers for inspection.

The sheets look okay, so I crawl

into bed. Tired. Real tired. So why does

it take forever to fall asleep? How do

I shut off my brain? What have

I done? What will tomorrow bring?

A THIN BEAM OF LIGHT

Ray guns my eyes, and I jump

up into early gray morning.

Where am I? I’m not alone.

Someone is snoring? Oh. Trey.

It all comes tidal waving back.

New Mexico. Cheesy motel room.

Cadillac outside the door. Smell.

What’s that smell? I glance around

the room, notice the Taco Bell

bag, and wrappers, gooey with

hot sauce and bean detritus.

Suddenly I seriously need to toss

what little is in my stomach. I run

to the bathroom. Heave until I hit

empty. Get up, rinse my mouth.

Wash my face. When I exit the room,

Trey is awake, sitting up in bed,

looking more curious than worried.

“Sorry,” I say. “I think I might have

caught Grandfather’s flu bug.”

Hope that’s all you caught,

he says, half smiling. Puking,

first thing when you wake up?

Sounds like morning sickness to me.

Morning sickness? Oh my God.

Is that why I’ve felt so lousy lately?

He could be right. Pregnant?

Why does the idea shock me?

Can’t admit it, though. Not to him.

Righteous indignation swells. Who

the hell is he to even suggest it?

Trey Shepherd has never been

anything but the sperm donor

whose semen maybe jump-started

me. I shake my head. “Can’t be that.

What? You don’t believe me?”

The tone of my voice warns him

off. He shrugs. Goes to pee. I fall

back into bed. What have I done?

And what will Bryce do when he knows?

Summer
LABELS

Hate ’em. Mostly, I guess,

because I’ve worn one label

or another pretty much forever.

Loser.

Because when I was little,

Grandma Jean and Grandpa

Carl couldn’t afford the cutest

clothes or designer backpacks.

Loner.

Because foster kids don’t make

and keep friends. Might as well

brand their foreheads: FK.

For foster kid. Or freak.

Stoner.

Because even if you don’t get

stoned, hanging out with stoners

makes you feel like you belong.

Somewhere. Anywhere.

Stuck-up.

Because when you close yourself

off from questions, erect walls

around pain, unlocking the gate

to let someone in is unthinkable.

Fuckup.

Because it’s easier to let others

believe you have no plans. No

dreams. No future. Nothing

worth taking away from you.

AND NOW A NEW LABEL

Probably the worst one ever

affixed to me. Not because

of the word. Because of what

it means. To me. To Kyle.

To our tentative today and even

shakier tomorrows, despite

how good it is to be together

again. Despite how good it feels

to be sitting here, close to him,

skin to skin, absorbing his heat

by osmosis. Inhaling the scent

of him. Tasting the salt of him,

whenever we chance taking the time

to kiss. Time being of the essence.

Driving south. Looking over our

shoulders, back at Fresno.

Holding the speed limit, wanting

to go faster but not daring.

He, doing this to be with me, despite

my brand-new label: runaway.

SNEAKING OUT

To meet him was harder than

I expected. Not because of Tanya

and Walter. Because of Simone,

who, for some unfathomable reason,

decided she wanted to bond after all.

That day, after I talked to Kyle,

started planning a little AWOL jaunt,

Simone softened. She had drawn

my name for our gift exchange.

Hope you like what I got you.

This was after a fabulous

beans-and-hot-dogs dinner.

We were in our fart-fragranced

bedroom, listening to the radio.

Simone is a huge hip-hop fan.

Can’t stand the stuff myself,

but I wasn’t going to argue.

All I could think about was Kyle

and how to escape the house

to meet him the next day.

Out of the blue, Simone

decided to open up. You want

to hear about my brother?

The creepy voyeur in me did.

But I kept my mouth closed.

Simone started to talk, anyway.

He was really my stepbrother,

and it started when I was eight….

It wasn’t a pretty story, but

I couldn’t not listen to the sordid

details of late-night visits.

Bad touch. Very bad touch.

Threats to keep her quiet.

And when it all became too

much and she told, anyway,

her stepmother called her

a liar. And her father, who

was totally not going to disrupt

his new marriage, refused

to believe his own daughter.

It took a trusted teacher to

call in the authorities. Proof

wasn’t difficult to come by.

Yet it was Simone whose life

was disrupted. Simone who

had to move out of her home,

into foster care. Simone whose

childhood was stolen. Innocence

eroded into nightmare. All because

of very bad touch. Love, corrupted.

NOT EXACTLY A NEW STORY

But it was Simone’s story, and once

she shared it, she felt more than

connected to me. She felt chained.

Like if I left her sight, her secrets

might go with me. Like once she gave

them away, they weren’t hers anymore?

Not like I wanted them. Not like I asked

for the responsibility of keeping them.

I’ve got enough secrets of my own.

One of which was on his way to me

from Bakersfield. And I really needed

the opportunity to head out the door

undetected. I had a couple of choices.

Confide. Or hide. I didn’t really think

we had bonded close enough to tell

her about Kyle, his impending arrival.

I wanted to hold that close. Thank God

I still had the “you don’t want to come

in the bathroom now” excuse going on.

Eventually she tired of shadowing me.

Stuck her nose in a book, kept it there.

I HAD MY CELL

With me, set on vibrate,

so no one but me would

know when it rang. I hid

out in the bathroom for

more than an hour, expecting

the buzz against my thigh.

I had almost given up by

the time it came. When

it finally did, it made me

jump. Good thing I was

only pretending to need

the toilet. I spoke in a low

whisper, hoping Simone

had, indeed, vacated the

hallway outside the door.

“Where are you?” It came

out a serpentlike hiss.

He was down the block.

Luckily, Walter was at

his day job. Tanya and

the sisters were crashing

around in the kitchen,

baking cookies. Leaving

was a piece of cake.

NOW I SWEAR

I didn’t have running in mind

as I slipped outside, sprinted

along the sidewalk to where

Kyle had parked. It still was

not my goal when I jerked open

the pickup door, bounded

into Kyle’s arms. Hadn’t even

considered the idea when I buried

my face into his chest, inhaled

his well-loved scent, turned up

my eyes, begging him to kiss me.

But when our lips met, starved,

something stirred. And when

his skin flowed like a warm tide

over my own, whatever had stirred

whipped up, crazy. And when

our bodies linked, woven in

heated rise and fall, every tatter

of loneliness dissipated into

the ether of memory. And then

he said, Oh my God, I love you

so much. I can’t be without you

ever again. Come with me,

Summer. Let’s get out of here.

NOT MUCH TIME

To think it over. Still,

my first reaction was, “I can’t.”

Yes, you can, he said. I need

you. Don’t you understand?

I sat up. Glanced around.

No sign of bear nor blonde.

“We can’t just go. I love you,

Kyle, I really do, but …”

If you really love me, you’ll say

okay. He reached out, grabbed

my face, turned it so I had to

look into his eyes. Okay?

I started to protest. But then

I remembered something Dad

had told me not long before

Shreeveport took me away.

We were on the porch, and as

usual, he was smoking. I watched

a narrow stream of smoke lift

into the cold morning. Rarely

before had the idea of separation

stung so much. I guess because

of the relative closeness we had

lately discovered. Finally I asked,

“If you could do anything over, take

something back, what would it be?”

He thought for a minute or two,

and when he finally spoke, his

answer surprised me. I guess

I would have tried harder to

convince your mother to stay

after she got out of prison.

I loved her enough to hope she

might fall back in love with me.

We were together for a while.

You were like two or something.

I would have done anything for her.

Maybe I didn’t let her know that.

I should have fought harder to keep

her. I’ll never love anyone else.

NOTHING TO LOSE

Unless I stayed. I think I surprised

both of us when I said, “Okay.”

I started to open the door.

Kyle stopped me, with a hand

on my arm. Where are you going?

“I have to get my stuff. Everything

I own is in there.” Not that it

amounted to a whole lot.

No. We have to go right now.

We’ll get you whatever you need.

He was right. Going back inside

would have been a mistake.

I settled into the seat. “Let’s go then.”

His eyes lit with excitement.

I love you. He kissed me sweetly.

Started the truck. Our adventure—

and neither of us had any idea

exactly what kind of adventure

it was or will be—had begun.

I only hope it means no regrets.

AS WE DROVE AWAY

I’m almost positive I saw Simone

glance out the bedroom window.

Not sure if she noticed me or not,

and can only hope she didn’t run

and tell right away if she did. Would

she have had the presence of mind

to take down the license plate?

Would she have seen the happiness

written all over my face and kept it

to herself? I feel sorry that she gave

me her secrets now. Sorry she won’t

have someone to whisper to in the night.

But you can’t get attached to anyone

in a foster home. I learned that lesson

a long time ago. Get close, get hurt.

She might as well learn that too.

LESS THAN A HALF HOUR

Away from Fresno, the weight

of our hasty decision hits me.

“Any idea where we’re going?”

Deceptively simple question.

Kyle sighs heavily. Nope. I was

kind of hoping you might have

an idea. Any place you’ve

always wanted to see?

I slide my hand into his. “Lots.”

It is kind of exciting, just picking

a place and aiming for it. Except,

“What do you think they’ll do?”

He shrugs. Depends on if they

think you were kidnapped or

split on your own. Hey, do you

suppose they’ll do an Amber Alert?

God, I never thought about that.

Kidnapping? “I don’t want you

to get into trouble. Maybe you

should just take me back.”

Zero hesitation. No damn way.

I’m not sure where to go or how

we’ll get by, but one way or

another, we will be together.

APPROACHING THE FLAT FIELDS

Of Bakersfield, I can’t help but think

about home—Dad’s sorry old place.

Empty right now is my guess, with

Dad in lockup and Kortni most likely

working. Just in case, I make a test

call. No answer. “Take me home, okay?”

I don’t think that’s such a good idea.

Why do you want to go there? But as

we near the exit, he slows down.

“I want to leave a note, tell them

I haven’t been kidnapped. And I know

where Kortni stashes her mad money.”

He hesitates, considers the note.

Just say you’re okay. Maybe that

you were afraid living back there.

Good idea. Even if Walter didn’t

do anything, making them think

he might have is a good excuse

for taking off. And it just might

keep him from taking a chance

on future bad behavior. Ka-ching.

KYLE EXITS THE FREEWAY

Swings in the correct direction.

“What about your dad?” I ask.

“What are you going to tell him?”

We are bumping along the dirt

by the time he answers. He won’t

even know I’m gone for a week.

Any other week, maybe. But,

“Uh … Christmas. Remember?

Anyway, your sister would notice.”

He thinks for a while, and I see

his shoulders slump slightly.

Forgot about Christmas.

Sadie will miss me for sure.

Then he brightens. At least

I’ll get to spend it with you.

Anyway, holidays bring out

the asshole in my dad. He starts

drinking at breakfast, goes

all day until after dessert or

until he passes out. And every

drink just makes him meaner.

AS WE PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY

I think about my own dad’s drinking.

He starts early, finishes late. But

he doesn’t very often get mean.

Maybe that’s ’cause he mostly

drinks beer. But I don’t think

his mean streak is very big.

Maybe when he gets out of

jail we can figure out how to

grow closer. That would mean

coming back from … wherever

Kyle and I end up. It would also

mean forgiveness on both sides.

Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.

Easier staying pissed. But I’m

tired of being pissed all the time.

Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that

can never be fixed because it is

an indelible part of the past.

KYLE STAYS IN THE TRUCK

While I circle around back, where

I know a certain window has a broken

lock. I left my house key in Fresno

with the rest of my meager possessions.

I shimmy up the dilapidated vinyl siding,

squeeze through the smallish opening,

drop into my old bedroom. An odd pang

of homesickness presses, weight

enough to make my eyes water. Why

am I so sad? I hate this place. Hate

what it represents—the threadbare

remnants of my childhood, few enough

happy memories woven into that cloth.

A strange foreboding chills me, and

I creep into the hallway. “Is someone

here?” I call, though I know the place

is empty. Ghosts. That’s all. They smell

of old tobacco. Dribbled beer. Cheap

perfume. Detritus-caked dishes left

to molder in the kitchen sink. Trash.

I sneak into my dad’s bedroom, a thief

who has already cased the place. I know

where the spare change jar is kept beneath

the canvas liner in the clothes hamper.

Sometimes there’s more than change

in the jar, and this is one of those times.

Kortni’s tips have been good lately,

and without Dad’s bad habits to support,

she has squirreled away almost four

hundred dollars. I take a fistful, leave

the rest to help replace the clothes

I borrow. She’s a little bigger than me.

But baggy is better than nothing, and

nothing is what I have now. Two pairs

of jeans. A couple of sweatshirts.

A plaid flannel shirt. Underwear.

That’s the creepiest thing, but panties

are expensive. At least they’re clean.

I help myself to five pair, trying not to

think about what has worn them.

Finally I go to the kitchen, find paper

and a Sharpie, write a note: I am okay.

Have not been kidnapped. I had to

leave Fresno because Walter scared

me. Tell Shreeveport to keep an eye

on him. I had to borrow a few bucks

and some of your clothes. Promise

to pay you back. Love, Summer.

I GATHER UP

The fragments

of my shattered

dignity. Exit through

the front door, paper

bag filled with

pilfered necessities

heavy in my hand.

I look at the horizon,

hung low with charcoal

clouds. Storm gestating.

Kyle waits, fingers

thrumming impatiently

against the steering

wheel. Can’t say

I blame him. We

really must go. Need to

run. One chapter closed.

Another almost begun.

THREE HUN IN HAND

We chance a quick stop at Wal-Mart.

I’ve been thinking about which way

to go, Kyle says. I think we should head

up Highway 395. No one will expect us

to take that route. Not this time of year.

There are lots of places we can camp,

and I could probably find work at

Mammoth, once the ski resort opens.

But I think we’ll have to sleep in my truck,

at least until I can make enough money

to get us a place. It’s going to be cold up

there. We’ll need two good sleeping bags.

A little food. Cereal. Jerky. Nuts.

Or maybe trail mix. Water. Flashlight

and spare batteries. Toilet paper.

Toilet paper? Seriously? Logistically,

this is terrifying. I’m not exactly

a mountain man (woman?). But I go

along, hoping we don’t blow our entire

money stash. We hurry the cart

through the store. As we pass

the feminine products section, it hits

me that maybe it’s the right time

of the month to consider tampons.

But how do I buy them with Kyle?

How do I manage a period camped

out in the bitter-cold wilderness?

My resolution to make this happen

falters. But then I look at Kyle,

who is totally determined to see it

through. I grab the tampons,

throw them into the cart. And,

knowing my body the way I do,

I add a small bottle of generic

ibuprofen. Last thing Kyle needs

is to hear me bitch about cramps.

I blush when he smiles at my

selections. But he only shrugs,

puts a box of condoms into the cart.

KYLE’S EXCITEMENT

Is palpable, obvious

in the way he moves.

Every security camera

here is probably focused

on him right now. He might

be buying Christmas presents.

Except who wants trail mix for

Christmas? Or, uh, condoms?

Oh, well. We’re not doing

anything wrong. Wait.

Inaccurate. Okay, I

don’t feel like

we’re doing

anything wrong.

Even if we happen

to be paying for all this

stuff with “borrowed” money.

Could someone define “wrong”?

Is it wrong to take someone else’s

money so you can eat? Wrong

to leave relative security in

favor of unknown risk

at the side of some-

one you love?

SUPPLIES STOWED

Kyle checks out the map, decides

we should go by way of Lake Isabella.

It’s only about an hour from here, and

we can find a cheap campground there.

Highway 178 follows the meandering

Kern. We’ve been this way before.

And when we pass the place we first

made love, Kyle reaches to take my hand.

I’ll never forget that day, he says.

It changed everything. You changed

everything. I thought love was bullshit.

Something made up for TV and movies.

“Me too. Or that people just repeated

those words to get them what they

wanted.” Sex. Drugs. Money. “You

always say the right thing, know that?”

If he had passed “our” spot and

said nothing, I would have seriously

questioned what I’m doing here.

Instead, I watch darkness descend,

a rain of night in the headlights,

washing away apprehension. Too

late to worry now, anyway. Might

as well soak up Kyle, enjoy the ride.

WE FIND A FIVE-DOLLAR

Per-night campground. Some are free,

Kyle informs me. But this one has toilets.

That’s worth five dollars, don’t you think?

“Definitely. And since they’re here,

I’m going to pee.” The night air makes

me shiver. I slip into Kortni’s oversize

sweatshirt, grab the flashlight to show

me the way, happy to have both. When

I get back to camp, Kyle is messing

with a campfire. Someone left a few

sticks of firewood, he says. Nice of

them. Too dark to be hunting for it now.

I sit on a big log, watching him work to

start it. Before long, a small flame slithers

up thin sticks of kindling, licking at a log.

Kyle’s face is handsome in the building

firelight. Rugged. “You remind me of

a cowboy. Or maybe a fur trapper.”

He laughs, sits next to me. Guess that

makes you the lonely schoolteacher

waiting for me to come ravage you.

He kisses me, and it is sweet, despite

the smell of his smoke-stung clothes.

Too soon, he pulls away. Hungry?

I nod, and he goes to the truck,

brings back nuts. Jerky. Water

to wash both down with. I chew

for a while. Finally I notice Kyle

hasn’t touched the skimpy feast.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

He shakes his head. Maybe later.

I’m not really hungry right now.

He goes to poke at the fire.

I close the bags carefully. Gulp

water, wishing I’d thought to buy

a toothbrush. “Are you scared?”

You kidding? Even if we get caught,

it’s worth it. Being with you like this?

Fire’s low. Come on. He has already

rolled out the sleeping bags in the back

of the truck. We climb in, and under

a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.

BIRDSONG WAKES ME

Loud birdsong. A regular death metal

concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep

my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.

Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.

Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.

And I am alone. I jump into a sitting

position, quieting the avian cacophony.

A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”

An acrid drift of tobacco assaults

my nose just as I hear, Over here.

He squats to one side of the fire pit,

trying to resurrect the dead embers.

Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,

seven bucks a pack. He needs to

kick that habit, and quickly. I slide

from the warmth of the sleeping bag,

into frosty December morning.

Go over to give him a kiss, steeling

myself against the stench of smoke.

But another, more insidious smell

leaks from his pores, despite

the cold. “Did you do crystal?”

His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-

rimmed, are all the answer I need.

A bubble of anger rises. Pops.

Deep breath. “You did, didn’t you?”

He drops his gaze to the still-dead fire.

Just a little. Maintenance, you know.

A narrow column of bubbles lifts.

Pop-pop. “No. I really don’t know.”

I’m down to a taste a couple times

a day. Keeps my head on straight.

A thick stream of bubbles. Pop. Pop.

Pop-pop. “Fine. Then I want to try it.”

His head shakes so hard, it must

rattle his brain. Don’t want you to.

The bubbles become a low fizz.

It makes my eyes sting. “Why not?”

His eyes float up. He is crying

too. Because I love you too much.

Hunter
COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS

Less than two days to go.

Rick Denio being a brick

back in his native Texas,

I’m pulling a double air

shift.

Morning drive wrapped

up, midday well underway,

I am pouring a hefty shot

of vanilla International Delight

into

a strong cup of coffee

when the studio phone

rings. On the far end

of the line, an extremely

high-

sounding girl inquires

if I’d like some company.

“Leah. I told you to leave

me the hell alone.” I

gear

up to say something much

stronger when I notice

the mic is on. Just perfect.

Good thing the music’s loud.

“Go

away,” I tell her, mic muted.

How many ways are there

to say no, anyway?

I’VE TOLD HER NO

At least a dozen times

in the last three weeks.

No.

I don’t want to see her,

even if I am single right now.

No.

I don’t want to smoke up

with her. Sort of trying to quit.

No.

I don’t want sex with her,

not even no-strings-attached sex.

Now

if I could just get Nikki

to hear me tell her no.

How

could I manage that? Strong-

arm her, maybe? My life is

full of

women who refuse to listen

to me! Is this how serial killers

are born? Whoa. Where did that

bullshit

come from? I’m not even close

to some crazed ax murderer.

Am I?

NO, I’M NOT

I admit anger is a regular visitor.

It reminds me of some alien

vine implanted through my belly

button. It seems to germinate

in the pit of my stomach,

grow at warp speed, shooting

out tendrils to snake through

my veins, into my brain, where

it blooms into all-out rage.

But that would never make

me pick up a weapon and use

it, especially never on a girl.

Not even one who refuses to

return my phone calls. Or my love.

SHE STILL LOVES ME

I know she does. Boy,

I never thought forgiveness

would come so hard to her.

I give the top-of-the-hour

station ID, say a few witty

words about shopping

procrastinators. Once the music

kicks back in, I call Nikki.

Who apparently isn’t home.

Whatever. Maybe it’s better

to leave her a message. She’d

probably hang up on me.

“Nik, I swear I’m not stalking

you. But please, please listen.

What I did was worse than

wrong. It was unconscionable.

I have never loved anyone

the way I love you. And I

don’t think I ever will. You

are the most important thing

in my life. Without you,

I’m empty. Please forgive

me. I swear, I’ll earn back

your trust. Can we just talk?”

I COULD GO ON

But that’s all the machine wants

to hear at one time, and if I call back,

I’ll definitely sound like a stalker.

I’d just go ahead over there,

but she is somewhere else, and

after my shift, I’m supposed

to pick up Leigh and Kristina

from the airport. They’re flying

back together from Albuquerque.

I guess I should feel bad about

my grandfather being on his last

legs and all. But it’s hard to care

about someone (even if that

someone is your grandfather)

who never bothered to get to know

you in the first place. A couple

of visits when I was a baby,

a couple of birthday cards since.

His excuse? He couldn’t afford

to send real presents or make

the trip from New Mexico.

Well, how about a phone

call? Those don’t cost too

much. How about an e-mail?

Or even regular cards and

letters. I would have answered

them. We could have gotten

to know each other, even if

only virtually. Sorry, Grandpa.

Excuses are a dime a dozen.

And lame excuses are more

like a nickel. No, sir. Establishing

a relationship has nothing to do

with money. Listen to me. Like

I’m so good with relationships.

Although establishing them

doesn’t seem to be my problem.

Keeping them? Nurturing them?

Definitely not my best thing.

AIR SHIFT COMPLETE

As I get ready to leave, I notice

the new part-time on-air girl

coming toward me. Woot. Girl?

Babe! I can’t help but check out

her long, bronze-skinned legs,

most of which are showing. Skirt.

Is. Short. She smiles at the way

I’m obviously drooling. Hi, Hunter.

“Hey, um …” Name? I know

her name. It’s, uh … “Shayna.”

The hall is narrow and as we

pass, her body whispers along

mine. Excuse me, she says in

a deep-water voice. Sorry.

“No problem.” I watch her walk

away, invitation in the exaggerated

sway of her hips. I could follow.

Set something up for later.

I could. But I won’t. I’d rather

stay mired in unrequited love.

TWO THIRTY-FOUR

I’ve got a half hour until

the plane arrives. Hope it’s on

time, or it might not arrive at all.

Another big storm is speeding

toward us. The roads just got

cleared from the last one.

Mom insisted I take the Jeep.

Good thing. My truck is a four-

by, but the tires lack tread.

Anyway, the Jeep has more

room for women and their

luggage. The freeway is packed.

Last-minute Santas rushing

to buy those last-minute gifts.

I finished shopping weeks ago.

Mom is always easy. T-shirt with

some pithy author-type saying.

Ditto Dad and his Beatles.

Jake, ski gloves. Leigh, perfume.

Kristina, a self-help book, not that

I expect it to do much good.

For the boys, games. And all that

barely left enough for what I got

Nikki. Not lingerie. A promise ring.

I’M NOT A JEWELRY EXPERT

But the ring caught my eye.

Small rubies (her) and sapphires (me),

set to look like a chain—the two

of us linked together. Forever.

It’s beautiful (like her). Cleaned

out my bank account, but I don’t

care. I just want to see her wear

it. How can I make that happen?

I have to wait almost twenty

minutes in the cell phone parking

lot at the airport. What the hell.

I give Nikki one more try.

She answers on the second ring.

“Nik? Don’t hang up, okay?

I can’t believe you’re actually

there.” That she actually picked up.

What do you want, Hunter?

Clipped. Guess she hasn’t quite

forgiven me. Then, in the back-

ground, I hear another voice. Male.

And not on the television. The alien

vine bursts to life, snakes its way

through me. I start to blow. Think

better of it. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know

you had company. I just … uh …

wanted you to know how truly sorry

I am. Thanks for taking my call.”

I hang up, choking back a wad

of emotions. Hurt. Surprise.

Fury. Embarrassment. Now

there’s a weird one. Why am I

embarrassed? And not for her.

For me. How could she replace

me? Did she replace me? What

is she doing with that guy? Who

is he? Where did she hook up

with him? And for what reason?

Companionship? Sex? Love?

No. Not that. I can deal with

the other two, but no way could

I handle her falling in love

with someone else. My cell rings.

The ladies’ flight has arrived.

I put the Jeep into gear, and as

I pull forward into the loading

zone, it hits me suddenly that

Nikki must have asked herself

the very same questions about me.

SUBDUED

That’s the collective feeling

as I give Leigh and Kristina

tentative hugs, load their luggage

into the Jeep. We all pretty much

feel like shit. They, because

they’re very close to losing

their father. Me, because I’m

really afraid I’ve lost my Nikki.

Kristina commandeers shotgun.

Leigh doesn’t try to argue. We

drive along in silence for a while.

Finally I say, “Mom got you a hotel

room, Kristina. Do you want to

drop off your stuff before we go

on out to the house?” I do not

expect her answer. I’m not staying

at any hotel. I want to see my boys.

Mom can kiss my freaking ass.

Okay. This is going to be one

entertaining Christmas. “You might

want to rethink your attitude.”

Excuse me, but just who in the hell

do you think you are? You’re not

my father. You are my son.

The sky opens up. Wet snow splats

against the windshield. Very much

like how her words splatter me.

That vine again. And this time,

I let it go full bloom. “Fuck you.

I might have been your zygote.

Your fetus. Maybe even your off-

spring. But I have never been your

son. You have no idea what it means

to be a real mother. You think nine

months of discomfort and eight

hours of labor gives you the right

to call yourself ‘Mom’? Well, bitch,

you’re delusional.” I could go on,

but in the backseat, Leigh’s discomfort,

though silent, hangs heavily. “Here’s

the hotel. Why don’t you check in?

Someone will pick you up later.”

I PUT HER SUITCASE

On the sidewalk, come around

to open her door, expecting

a major argument. She climbs

out meekly, eyes on the ground,

and I almost think about saying

I’m sorry. Almost. Instead

I open the backseat door, invite

Leigh to move to the front seat.

“So we can talk,” is my reason.

It takes a few minutes before she

says, You may not believe it, but in

her own way, Kristina loves you.

The vine wraps itself around my

throat. Chokes. “Kristina doesn’t

love anyone, except ‘in her own

way.’ That isn’t good enough.

Love isn’t supposed to be …”

I hate revelations. “Selfish.”

A SUBJECT CHANGE

Seems in order. “So how’s …”

I don’t even know what to call him.

Leigh rescues me. Dad? Not good.

Linda Sue is beside herself. Scared.

“Of what?” Stupid question. I know

the answer before she says it.

Losing him. She really loves him.

I feel sorry for her, you know?

“But what about him? How do

you feel about him maybe dying?”

She’s already thought it through.

I hated him for so long. For the way

he left us. For the part he played in

Kristina’s drama. I don’t know, Hunter.

I guess what I feel is guilty because

I don’t have a need to mourn him.

Bam. “What about Kristina?

How does she feel about it?”

This answer takes longer. I’m not sure

Kristina can feel much anymore.

I’VE THOUGHT THE SAME THING

Seems like, no matter what goes

down in Kristina’s life, the only

thing she ever feels is paranoia.

Everyone hates her. (Not true.)

Everyone distrusts her. (True.)

Everyone is out to get her. (Uh … why?)

Whatever bad happens in her life,

it’s someone else’s fault. Wrong

turns? Forced to take them. Fall

flat on her face? She was pushed.

Personal responsibility for the choices

she has made? What the hell

is “personal responsibility”? And

what about other feelings? Love?

Happiness? Anticipation? Hate, even?

All those emotions seem unavailable

to her. Like no matter how deep

she drills for them, the well is dry.

Was she born that way? Were

those things taken from her?

What I want to know is, “Why?”

Leigh takes her time answering.

Kristina never really was the “warm

and fuzzy” type. But when we were

younger, she was so much more alive

inside. The meth stole that life force,

of course. You know how they say

it eats holes in your brain? Well,

it does. And it eats them in the part

of the brain that controls emotions.

But even beyond that. I think the more

she has failed at things like relationships

and parenting, the more she has cut

herself off from feeling bad about those

things. And if you don’t let yourself feel

bad, sooner or later you stop feeling

good, too. You insulate yourself. Build

up layers, like stacking paper, everything

growing heavier. And when the weight

becomes too much, those layers compress.

Become hard. Sad, really, to think that

Kristina has turned herself into cardboard.

Autumn
PRETTY MUCH MISERABLE

That’s how this trip has been,

not that I expected better.

Long, boring stretches of asphalt.

Landscape, mostly scrubbed of life,

at least until around thirty miles

ago. Then low desert gave way

to squat evergreens, hints of real

forest to the west, along the spine

of the Sierra Nevada. So far,

the weather has done nothing

more than loom, threatening.

But we keep heading north,

toward crazy-looking storm clouds.

Clouds like I’ve never seen before.

In Texas, stormers are huge, black

beasts. These are big, all right.

But they’re white, with giant silver

underbellies. Bellies, I hear,

that will open and bleed snow.

The threat of an approaching blizzard

is frightening. Exhilarating.

FRIGHTENING AND EXHILARATING

The words sum up a lot of what

I’m thinking about right now. A

blizzard

seems the least of my worries.

Let’s see. Closer and closer

to Reno, the thought of home-

coming

looms like a monster, spreading

its arms in some kind of welcome.

The idea of meeting long-lost

family seemed a whole lot

better

in Texas. Especially waltzing

in on Christmas Eve. I can hear

it now. “Would y’all just

look

what Santa brought this year!”

Except they don’t say “y’all”

in Nevada, do they? OMG.

I so don’t belong here. But,

for

what it’s worth, I so want to belong

here. So want connection with

something severed. So want to find

shelter

in the hearts

of a family of strangers.

THAT SEEMS EVEN MORE UNLIKELY

Knowing I’m probably pregnant.

Oh yeah, even better. “Here

I am. You don’t know me. But

accept me, anyway. And just

in case you’re wondering, I think

I’m going to have a baby.”

Husband? No. No husband.

(Not yet?)

Boyfriend? I think so.

(What will he say?)

Birth control? Well, yes,

they have it in Texas. I just sort

of decided not to use it.

(How do I tell him?)

Of course, I don’t have to tell

them. At least not right now.

Bryce should probably be

the first to know. God, he’s

going to be so mad at me.

But he’ll stand by my side.

(Won’t he?)

TREY TOTALLY SUSPECTS

The truth. But so far he has respected

my wish not to discuss the possibility.

He has, in fact, been pretty darn quiet

for most of this very long ride. When

the radio dissolves into a static dead

sea, though, there isn’t much to do but talk.

And since he isn’t about to initiate

conversation, I ask, “What’s prison like?”

He thinks a minute, says, Pretty much like

you see on TV, I guess. Except until you

experience it, you can’t really understand

what it’s like to live in an oversize crypt.

For ten years? I’d die of claustrophobia

poisoning. “What’s the worst thing?”

He thinks again. Toss-up. The smell—people

stink, let me tell you. That, or the boredom.

Wow. I thought he’d have some racy

stories to tell me. But yeah, I get boredom.

BOREDOM IS AN OVERSIZE CRYPT

Or twenty straight hours

in a car (sort of a crypt on

wheels, if you think about it)

with someone you don’t know.

Even if that someone might

be your father. I still can’t

think of him that way. (So why

are you here? Stupid?)

I really must stop thinking

parenthetically. Carrying on

a silent conversation with

myself. Splitting the whole

of me into halves. Pushing

myself beyond OCD and panic

attacks, all the way to the realm

of probable schizophrenia.

I’m not two people. Only one,

uncertain. One, scared of the gray

space of tomorrow. But a lot more

scared of being stuck in yesterday.

WE ROLL INTO BISHOP

A small California town also reaching

desperately for the future. Maybe

this is where I should move.

Trey decides to stop at Schat’s

Bakkerÿ. This place is famous. Can’t go

through Bishop and not stop here.

Famous? Never heard of it. But,

“I guess I could eat.” And I could

definitely pee. Not a lot of places

to stop along 395. If nothing else,

almost six hours since leaving our

overnight layover in Indio, it feels

great to stretch my legs. We go inside,

order sandwiches, and by the time

I get back from the bathroom,

Trey has collected them and stands

talking to a couple of locals. He sees

me, excuses himself to join me.

Those guys just got in from Reno.

Guess it’s snowing pretty good up

there. We’d better buy some chains.

ALL GASSED UP

Horribly overpriced chains

purchased and “how to install ’em”

tutorial complete, we hit the highway.

Normally, the yeasty scent

of the Schat’s Bakkerÿ bread

on my sandwich would strike me

as pretty much heavenly.

Today it’s making me slightly

nauseous, a fact that Trey, who

is inhaling his own sandwich,

can’t help but notice. Have you

decided what to do about that?

I want to sound defiant, but

the best I can accomplish

is a miserable, “Do about what?”

Trey shrugs. I can’t pretend to

be your friend, let alone your

dad. We barely know each other.

But I am a pretty good judge

of character, and I can see

you’re a special kind of girl.

Special kind of girl? “What

does that mean?” And am

I as pea soup green as I feel?

Don’t get all huffy now. All

I meant was, you’ve got a look.

In prison, we’d call you a fish—

someone new to the scene.

I figure you’re new to getting

laid. Probably how you ended up—

Before I know what my mouth

is doing, it opens and out spills,

“I know how it works! I wanted to …”

We both realize I’ve said too

much. Trey is quiet for a time.

Finally he says, You can’t keep

someone who doesn’t want

to be with you. Not that way.

Not any way. Believe me, I know.

ON THE FAR SIDE OF BISHOP

The highway begins

a long, lazy climb up

toward Mammoth

and June Lake. Up

toward the clouds.

Ten or so miles up

the grade, snow

starts to fall in soft

flurries. It doesn’t

seem to bother Trey,

who continues, You

probably don’t want

to hear this, but I’m

going to tell you anyway.

I was so in love with

your mother, my heart

could barely hold it

all. The crystal, yeah,

that was an issue,

right from the start.

Messes with your head.

When we went to jail

for trafficking, we had

no choice but to do

time, crashing hard.

I was glad to be clean

when they let us go.

Especially when I found

out she was pregnant

with you. I proposed

right away, and you

could have knocked

me over with a burp

when she said yes.

It was the happiest

time of my life. When

you were born, I thought

nothing could tear us

apart. And then we let

the monster back in.

Part of me was so

scared for you. More

of me wasn’t scared

of a goddamn thing.

And Kristina? She had

more balls than any guy

I’ve ever known. What

she didn’t ever have

enough of was love.

Not for me. Not for you.

Not for anyone who

came before—or after—

us. She used who she

could to get what she

wanted. And then she

tossed them like trash.

HE WAS RIGHT

Not what I wanted to hear.

But what exactly did I want

to hear? That this little reunion

was going to end up a fairy tale?

Darn right that’s what I wanted

to hear. I sit, semi-stunned,

watch the snow begin to fall

harder. “Does she want me or not?”

I wish I knew what to tell you.

I don’t know what she wants,

and even if I did, I couldn’t

speak for Kristina. I know she thinks

she has the right to know you.

That my father and Cora were

wrong for keeping you apart.

And I agree as far as that goes.

But I seriously doubt she has

the ability to take care of you,

if that’s what’s on your mind.

Small steps, honey. One at a time.

AS HE TALKS

We crest the summit. The snowflakes

blossom, grow into half-dollar-sized

white petals, pirouetting to collect

on the ground. Despite its heavy

frame, the Cadillac begins to fishtail.

Trey pulls off the highway, behind

a collection of semis and other two-

wheel-drive automobiles. Time to

chain up, I guess. He gets out

to attempt the complex process.

I stay in the relative warmth

of the car. Close my eyes.

Hear Trey say, Small steps,

honey. Honey? Seriously?

And, in case he hasn’t noticed,

which no doubt he hasn’t, up

until the last week or so, I’ve

taken nothing but baby steps

my entire life. And even those

were mostly guided for me.

This trip was a giant step. I’ll

deal with what’s on the other

end the way I always do. Deep

and deeper breaths, gathering gold

flecks to keep from going insane.

Then there’s the monumental

step of having a baby. Bryce or

no Bryce, I will never put anyone

or anything ahead of my child.

Substances? No way. That includes

alcohol. I will never touch a drop.

Not as long as I’m pregnant and

not if some tiny person’s life

depends on me sober. Baby?

Are you listening? Are you really

alive inside me? Oh God.

If you are, how will I ever take

care of you? My fingers go

tingly. My breath falls shallow.

Small steps. One at a time.

BISHOP TO CARSON CITY

Is about three hours in good weather.

This is not good weather. Talk about

initiation by blizzard. Even Trey

is impressed. I’ve seen it come

down pretty good, but never

quite like this. Hope a plow

comes through soon. Chains aren’t

going to help much otherwise.

Eventually, one does catch up

to us. Trey moves as far to one

side of the road as he can to let

the guy pass. Looks like just him and us.

Late afternoon. Christmas Eve.

Snow forming a dense white curtain.

Oh, yeah. We’re pretty much alone

out here. “Stay close to the plow, okay?”

Trey laughs. Don’t worry, little girl.

I won’t let anything bad happen to you.

TOO LATE, DUDE

But I don’t say that. In fact,

I don’t say much of anything

the rest of the way into Carson

City. Nevada’s capital, all wrapped

up in white for Christmas. Your

grandparents live just a little

north of here. Maybe we should

get a room and clean up?

We check into a Holiday Inn

Express on the far side of town.

It’s kind of pricey, says Trey.

But hey, Merry Christmas.

I shower first, to let my hair

dry. While Trey goes to wash

off his guy-stink, I change into

my pretty Aunt Cora skirt, top

with a jade angora sweater.

I stand sideways in the full-

length mirror hanging on

the closet door. Flat tummy.

ALL PRETTIED UP

We head out the door, where

the snowfall continues unchecked.

When we get in the car, Trey slams

the door. He starts the car, puts it

into reverse, and I begin to shake.

“Wait.” Icy tentacles thread my veins,

choke-hold my lungs. They scream for

breath. And my heart punches

against my chest. “Please, wait.”

Trey slams on the brakes. What?

His voice is taut, his eyes frantic.

Are you having a heart attack?

I shake my head, close my eyes,

concentrate on finding air.

And suddenly, it’s there.

I suck it down. “P-panic attack.

I’m o-okay now. We c-c-can go.”

But we can’t. Because just as we

start to turn onto the highway, a big

flashing sign overhead warns:

Whiteout conditions. Road closed.

Summer
NOT MUCH ROMANTIC

About living homeless.

It’s hasn’t even been a week.

We reek.

No showers for six

days would be bad enough

on its own, but Kyle is

sweating

out the last vestiges of

meth in his system. For me,

he says, though as yet

we barely speak

about what that really

means. That he’ll never

do drugs again? Will he be

forgetting

how much pain he’s put

up with the last couple

of days as soon as

the tweak is

calling out to him again?

What I need to know is

how big a

part

of Kyle the crystal is.

And I need to know

how big a part it is

of us.

I NEVER THOUGHT

That much about it before. When

you’re not around someone

twenty-four/seven, you

cherish every minute

together, no questions.

No “Why are you so

sweet-natured most of

the time, foul-tempered

the rest?” No “How much

of your emotion is fueled

by artificial means?” No

“What would we be

if you cut yourself

off from something

you’ve relied on

just to see you

through the day?”

And the biggest

of them all: No

“Who are you really,

and do I love

that person too?”

I KNEW HE WAS USING

He never tried to hide it. In fact,

offered to share. But even if he

hadn’t been honest about it,

his mood swings were obvious.

I just never realized how big

a part of his life it was. Not

sure why I didn’t see it. Guess

when you choose to be blind,

you really are. Don’t think it

would have changed a thing,

had I known. And now, seeing

him fight his demons for me,

I love him all the more. Even

if he is a complete grouch.

It’s the nature of the crash.

Better now than years down

the line. I never got into

it that much, he swore.

But without you, who knows

where I might be tomorrow?

HOPEFULLY, BY TOMORROW

We’ll be in a hotel room

in Mammoth, reward enough for

a week sleeping cold in a pickup truck.

Three nights at Lake Isabella, hoping no

one would come looking for us.

Kind of surprised when

nobody did. Another

three nights camped just west of

Lone Pine, in a sage-carpeted camp-

ground, more primitive than the first.

It was there, listening to coyote

song and eagle cry, that

Kyle crashed like iron

for two days. I gave him a wide

swath of privacy, exploring the brush,

gathering firewood, and otherwise

tending camp while he slept

morgue-dweller sleep.

When he woke up,

all groggy and weird, he was

so hungry he finished off two-thirds

of a bag of jerky. His face flushed

with color and the shivering

slowed. Resurrection!

THAT WAS YESTERDAY

And when we made love

last night, a blanket of frost

settling over the sleeping bag,

it was different than ever

before. Slower. Gentler.

Less demanding, more giving.

Hearts quickening in lockstep.

Breath like moth wings aflutter

against moonlighted window glass.

I love you, he sighed along

my skin. And I love you,

desert wind blown into my hair.

And when we were finished,

we drew into each other’s

arms, warmed within our harbor.

Something happened in

the night, happened as we

dreamed. Something unexpected.

For on awakening, blinking into

the murky dawning, needful love

had transformed into blissful love.

MAYBE IT HAD SOMETHING TO DO

With sleeping under the Christmas

star. Yeah, I know it’s actually a planet

or something. And I know if it were

really the Christmas star, it would

be shining tonight. But whatever it is,

this morning it looked like a platinum-

set diamond in the lightening sky.

I burrowed into Kyle’s body heat,

ignoring the quite randy smell.

“If you believe in wishing on stars,

you’ll never get a better chance,” I said.

“That one belongs to Christmas.”

I have to believe in wishes, or

I wouldn’t be here with you. Right?

Then he laughed. Even if you don’t

exactly smell like roses. Phew!

“No offense, mi amor. But I smell

a hell of a lot better than you.”

Guess you’re right. Definitely bath

time. You up for Mammoth?

WITH LUCK

We’ll be there tonight. Sooner

is better than later. The trail mix

is stale, the jerky gone. A hot meal

is my idea of heaven right now.

I dig in my backpack, count every

penny. “Sixty-six fifty-two.

Think we could get McDonald’s?”

I hate McDonald’s. But I hate

stale trail mix even more.

Kyle exits his shell of silence.

I think we can do better. I’ve

still got a few bucks myself.

“Enough for a room, too?

Just think … a hot shower.

Soft, warm bed. Reality TV.”

He laughs. We’re living reality

TV. But yeah, we’ll find a cheap

room somewhere. Looks like

winter has arrived up there.

The resort will open soon.

I’ll put in an application.

I turn on the radio. Not much

available out here, despite

Kyle’s monstrous antenna.

Don’t use “seek,” he instructs.

Try dialing by hand. I do,

and from a distant city, through

the static, I discern a familiar voice.

You procrastinators don’t have

much time left. Santa’s almost here….

“That’s my brother,” I tell Kyle.

“Hunter. He works at a station

in Reno.” Nostalgia whacks me.

Really? How come you never

told me you have a brother?

He turns up the volume, but

the meager signal has dissolved

completely. “I have three brothers,

actually. Oh, and a sister, I guess.

I hardly ever see my brothers, and

no one bothered to tell me I had a sister

until a couple of weeks ago.”

Wow. That’s tough. I love my sister.

Can’t imagine not … His voice

catches as he considers what

he’s about to say. Can’t imagine not

seeing her, let alone not knowing

she even existed. How’d you find out?

I shrug. “My dad got drunk—

that night he got the DUI, in fact—

and it kind of just slipped out.”

Kyle thinks that over. Finally says,

My dad was drunk when he told

me about my mom going into the river.

Said we were better off without

the bitch. If I had been as big as I am

now, I would have made him sorry.

No wonder he hates his dad.

Mine’s a major screwup, but

at least he isn’t corpse-hearted.

WE STOP AT A DINER

In Bishop. Splurge on a meat loaf

dinner, the Christmas Eve special.

That’s a little weird, I guess, but

hey. Special is special. And cheap,

too. I eat every bite, mop the gravy

from the plate with the last crumbs

of a big homemade biscuit. Good

thing the place is semi-empty.

I probably look like exactly what

I am—a homeless person

who hasn’t eaten much in a week.

The waitress comes over to check

on us. She smiles. Hungry, eh?

Can I get you another biscuit?

Then, to Kyle, Don’t like meat loaf?

I hadn’t even noticed that he’s sort

of just picking at his. It’s fine. Guess

I’m feeling a little under the weather.

He looks it too. Parchment pale

and a bit shaky. She’ll have a biscuit.

I WAIT FOR THE WAITRESS TO GO

“You okay? It would be better

if you could eat something.

You’re running on empty.”

I know. I’ll try. It’s just the last

of the shit in my system making

me queasy. He does force down

a few bites while I polish off

the butter-slathered biscuit Jeanine

returns with. “A good night’s sleep

in a big ol’ bed will make you

feel better,” I predict. “Tomorrow

is Christmas. Our first one together.”

The thought seems to brighten

his mood. Our first, but definitely

not our last. And look … He points

toward the window. It’s going to

be a white Christmas. My first

one of those, too. Outside, wisps

of snow have begun to fall. “Maybe

we’d better get going. It would

be good to get there before dark.”

THE LIGHT IS DUSKISH

By the time we’re on the road. It’s not

all that late in the day yet, but the peaks

to the west are tall, and as the sun dips

below them, its failing light is swallowed

up by hastening snowfall. Glad Mammoth

isn’t too far. The food Kyle managed

to get down seems to have helped

his system recover some. His color

is better, his energy level higher.

Hurray for meat loaf and biscuits!

As we start up the highway, the snow

begins to come down harder. It’s sticking on

the pavement, and once the temps

fall nighttime cold, it’s going to be icy.

“Hope you’ve got tread on your tires.”

Just got new rubber six months ago,

he says. And the truck has four wheel

drive. Think I’ll go ahead and put it into

four-by now, in fact. It’s a simple turn

of a knob, and the obvious traction

boost makes me feel slightly less

uneasy. We start up a long grade,

making deep tracks in the road slush.

And still the snow keeps falling.

Giant flakes, plummeting from the sky.

Holy crap! Check out this dumb-ass.

The words are barely out of Kyle’s

mouth when a black Hummer goes

barreling by. Hope the jerk doesn’t

have to stop fast. He’ll be toast.

Intuition, or maybe subconsciously

willing the universe to make it happen,

the Hummer’s brake lights flash,

and suddenly it is perpendicular

to us and drifting sideways, right into

our lane. Fuck, fuck, fuck, says Kyle,

hitting his own brakes and whipping

the wheel to keep from broadsiding

the bigger vehicle. No. This isn’t

happening. Everything seems to go

slow motion. Turning sideways

ourselves. Floating on snow toward

the Hummer. Toward the shoulder.

“Kyle!” I scream as we go face-first

off the highway. Over the side.

Gigantic bump. My head snaps

forward. Back. Someone praying.

Kyle? Falling. Somersaulting.

Can a truck turn somersaults?

Finally, no motion at all. And silence.

STUNNED

It takes a few minutes to understand

I am okay, despite hanging at an odd

angle by the shoulder harness that

doubtless saved my life. Kyle is beneath

me, against the window. “Kyle? Kyle!”

He doesn’t answer. But I can hear

him breathing. Okay. What now? If

I unfasten my seat belt, I might fall on him.

But I can’t just stay here, dangling.

“Help,” I call uselessly. My voice is thin,

and there’s no one to hear, anyway.

I test my body. Legs, okay. Arms?

Okay, I think. A little pain where

the harness caught hold of my collarbone,

but overall I got lucky. Please, God,

let Kyle be lucky too. I have to try

and help him, so I chance letting

myself out of the seat belt. With my arm

still looped through the shoulder

harness, I manage to let myself down

without falling on Kyle. Now that

I’m loose, I can assess our situation.

Not good. The truck is resting on

the driver’s side, nose against a big pine.

I can’t get out that way, and to

exit the passenger door, I’d have

to push it up, over my head, which

would be hard enough without

figuring in the fact that the rollover

smashed it. Maybe the window?

As I work through the logistics,

I hear voices somewhere. “Help!”

I try again. But it becomes obvious

they’re already coming nearer. I lift

my hands so they know someone’s

here. Hang on! We’re coming.

I manage to get the window

open. Strong arms reach down

through it, lift me out. Are you okay?

says the man, who I refuse to let go

of. Just want him to hold me.

Let me cry into his chest. “Help

him,” I stutter. “Please, get him out.”

And please get him out alive.

IT IS COMPLETELY DARK

By the time I see Kyle again.

I am sitting in the warm backseat

of a highway patrol cruiser when

they carry him up over the lip of

the highway. I jump out of the car,

run toward the stretcher. “Kyle!”

A cop stops me. Let the paramedics

do their job. His arm is broken, maybe

his collarbone, too. And he’s got one

giant knot on his noggin. But it looks

like he’ll be just fine. The truck

is definitely not so lucky.

We watch two tall uniforms load

Kyle into an ambulance. Then the cop—

Officer Strohmeyer—opens the passenger

door for me. Might as well sit up front.

He comes around, slips beneath

the steering wheel. Gonna take

a while to pull the truck out of there.

We’ll tow it to Bishop. The question

is, who’s missing you right now?

I’VE HAD SOME TIME

To think up an answer, so it flows easily.

“We were on our way to my grandparents’

in Carson City. My mom’s already there….”

Which may or may not be true.

But I’m pretty sure Grandma Marie and

Grandpa Scott will cover for me.

I suppose I should get in touch

with Kyle’s dad, let him know what’s up.

You better give them a call and let

them know what happened, says Officer

Strohmeyer. I’ll take you to the hospital.

You should get checked out too.

The cop starts the car, turns carefully

around, and I rack my memory for the right

phone number. When Grandma Marie answers,

relief floods through me, and I rush to tell the story

she is so not expecting to hear. I hang up.

“My grandpa will come get me in the morning.”

Hunter
CHRISTMAS DAWNS SILVER

It’s the way crisp sunlight

plays on the new snow,

all sparkling. Clean. The sky

is clear. Brilliant blue.

And I am up way too early.

I wasn’t the first one up.

Scott was off at daybreak,

on his way to Bishop to collect

Summer. Surprise!

Guess who was coming

to Christmas dinner, only to

be waylaid by a Hummer.

Guess she and some guy

named Kyle were lucky

enough snow had fallen

to soften their rollover. Some

cop named Officer Strohmeyer

insisted on talking to Kristina.

Mom got on the phone, and

when the guy found out

who she was, he went all star-

struck and forgot about

Kristina. Mom sent a signed

book along. Hopefully, the roads

will be clear and they’ll make it

back in time for the big meal.

Mom’s already in the kitchen,

baking pies and kneading

the dough for her homemade

cinnamon rolls. A Christmas

morning staple around here.

That and butcher-shop bacon.

Been the same breakfast every

Christmas morning that I can

remember. And before that, too,

I’m told. The boys and Leigh

are still fast asleep. I’m sure

Kristina is too. I’ll pick her

up a little later. After I make

another stop in Reno.

HER CAR IS HERE

The house is dark. Silent

in the growing light. I let

myself in with the spare key

I had made and never told

her about. Shh. In stocking

feet along the hallway, listening.

Hoping she is alone. I hear

only her breathing as I steal

down the hall, into the familiarity

of a room filled with Nikki’s

presence, even as she sleeps.

About the time I get ready to

add my own presence to the bed

too long emptied of it, I realize

this could go wrong. But I am

determined to make it right.

Her right arm lies atop the thick

quilt, exposed. I kiss her fingertips

gently. Move my lips along her

cool skin to the crook of her elbow.

She sighs, opens her eyes.

She could jump up. Scream.

Run from me. Instead she says,

I was dreaming you had come.

I ease onto the bed beside her.

Kiss her. Easy. No demands.

Kiss her mouth. Her forehead.

Her eyes. Down her nose. Back

to her mouth, which she opens,

inviting me inside. “I’m sorry,”

I whisper, before accepting

her invitation. Diving in, as

into a warm spring. And before

we go any further, she says,

I forgive you. This time. But

this is the last time, I swear.

“I know.” The love we make

is remembered. And it is all new.

And there is no one else in the world.

WE DOZE FOR A WHILE

And then

somewhere, music. Loud.

Incubus? Oh, my cell. The first

thing I think, as I part the clouds

of semi-sleep, is: better not be Leah!

And then

as the mist dissipates, I remember

it’s Christmas Day, and I am on

a mission. Besides winning

Nikki back, that is.

And then

I pull Nikki tighter against me.

Have I won her back? Can it

really be so? I kiss her awake.

“I have something for you.”

And then

I reach over the side of the bed,

find my jeans. Extract the shiny

red box from one pocket, dismissing

the phone in the other pocket.

And then

I tell her, “Merry Christmas,”

all hot and wobbly inside, like

I’m the one getting the present.

She sits up into slanted sunlight.

And now

My angel smiles, lingers over

the shimmery gold bow. Slits

open the tape, carefully unfolds

the foil. I love little presents.

And now

She lifts the lid from the cardboard

box, removes the smaller, velvet-

flocked box, slowly, too slowly,

opens it. Oh Hunter, it’s beautiful.

And now

She pulls the ring from its holder,

starts to put it on her right finger.

“No,” I say, taking it gently and

moving it to her left ring finger.

And now

I explain, “It’s a promise ring.

It belongs on this finger. Maybe

someday we’ll exchange it for

an engagement ring.” Wow.

And now

She moves into my arms. Kisses

a long thank-you. I love it, she says.

And I love you. And, despite my

cell going off again, she proves it.

WHEN SHE GOES TO SHOWER

I check my voice mail. No Leah,

thank God. But there are two

from Mom. Your Grandpa Bill

is flying up from L.A. He gets in

at eleven. Can you pick him up?

Call me back to let me know.

I look at the clock. Ten fifteen.

I let Mom know it’s not a problem.

Then I call Kristina to give her an

ETA for her own pickup. Her phone

goes straight to voice mail. Wonder

who she’s talking to. I join Nikki

in the shower, admiring how pretty

her summer tan looks under white

soap foam. “Have plans, or can you

come out to the house for dinner?”

She thinks it over, some sort of back-

and-forth in her head, as if arguing

with herself. Finally she says,

I should spend the day with Mom.

Dad’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend,

and I don’t want Mom to be alone.

“Bring her along,” I offer. As soon

as the words fall from my mouth,

I realize that could be a bad idea.

Kristina. David. Donald. Summer.

Throw in Grandpa Bill, who’s eighty-

five, and all the regulars—Leigh, Jake,

Misty, and me. It’s already a formula

for family disaster. But Nikki’s face

lights up. Mom would love that.

Your parents won’t care?

I suppose I should have asked.

But hey, too late now. “The more

the merrier, Mom always says.

We usually eat around four.”

Initiation by fire, I guess. “I love you.”

Hope she still loves me after dinner.

THE AIRPORT

Is busy. Weird. You’d think everyone

would already be where they’re going

by Christmas morning. I guess blizzards

have a way of messing up travel plans.

I wait inside for Grandpa Bill, who

I haven’t seen in almost a year. He’s

Dad’s dad, and has always been really

good to me. Mom says the amused

look he generally wears has to do

with Dad getting back as good

as he gave Grandpa Bill once

upon a time. Meaning I haven’t

always been the perfect kid. But

hey, no such thing as “perfect,”

right? I’m watching a couple

of not exactly perfect kids right

now, in fact, running around,

screaming and laughing while

their poor mom looks about nuts

as she waits for someone too.

Maybe I don’t want kids. Wonder

if Dad will wear an amused look

someday because I’ll be getting

back as good as I used to give.

I COLLECT GRANDPA BILL

And his small suitcase, load them

into my truck. “We have to pick up

Kristina, too. It’s going to be a little

tight in here.” Sardine-can tight.

The amused look wavers just

a little. I hope she can find a few

minutes to spend talking to me.

His voice crackles. Last time

we had a Christmas together,

she never bothered much with

small talk. That kind of hurt

my feelings, know what I mean?

“Grandpa, you ought to know

by now not to let anything Kristina

does or doesn’t do hurt your feelings.

Kristina is all about Kristina.”

SHE’S ALL ABOUT KRISTINA

When we get to the hotel and have

to wait more than twenty minutes for her.

All about Kristina when she opens

the door, sees Grandpa Bill,

and says, Hey there, Grandpa,

how you been? Scooch over.

He starts to sputter, doesn’t

want to complain, so I do it

for him. “You’re skinnier than

he is. You can ride in the middle.”

She throws up her hands, but

what can she say? Whatever.

For the next fifteen minutes,

she goes on about how Ron wants

to ruin her life. Finally, disgusted,

I say, “Try picking better men.”

That elicits a reaction. What would

you know about the men I pick?

I have debated saying a single

word about this, but my mouth

opens and out comes, “I know

about one. I just met Brendan.”

Autumn
AWAKE MOST OF THE NIGHT

Sleep elusive, chased

into the night

by fears of today.

Christmas.

My first far away

from the only

family I’ve ever

really known.

My first, promised

to spend with

the family I’ve only

dreamed about.

What if they won’t

let me in?

What if they don’t

want to see me?

What if they send

me away?

Why did I come

here, anyway?

AND ANOTHER NIGGLING QUESTION

Is

there some selfish reason

for Trey bringing me here?

“Out of the goodness of

his heart” doesn’t ring true.

There

has to be a bigger “why”

than just to make me happy.

He never cared before.

The need to know is

a worm

slithering through my brain.

I tried to bring it up last

night, when he was fighting

his own sleep demons,

working

up a tobacco-infused night

sweat. Both of us tossing

worry, I asked, “Did you make

this trip for me or for you?”

His

thrashing stilled, like he

thought about feigning

dreamland. But then a low

sort of growl exhaled from his

core.

HE SAT UP IN BED

A dark silhouette against

backlit blinds. And once

he started to talk, it all

came spilling out. I’ve

spent the last fifteen

years hating your mother.

That hate came from love

left to rot in my gut like roadkill

in summer. You know why

I ended up back in a cage?

Because I didn’t give

a half damn about anyone.

Rob ’em? Why not?

Rough ’em up? Hell, yeah.

Because it made me feel

in control. Never was,

though. What I couldn’t see

was that hate controlled me.

HE PAUSED THERE

And I thought he would stop

without telling me what I still

wanted to know. “You haven’t

answered my question.”

Because I’m not really sure.

I think it’s wrong that Dad

and Cora kept you from

knowing your roots. Just

wrong. I want to fix that if

I can. But I also want to see

Kristina again. Maybe I can

quit hating her then. At least

I’ll have a chance to tell her

what the last fifteen years

have done to me. I was dead

inside. And then I saw you.

A piece of me, so full of life.

I came a little alive too.

ALL THAT TALKING

Seemed to wear him right

out. He settled back down

in bed. Boulder dropped

into sleep. Guess clearing

his conscience tuckered

him out. I, on the other hand,

had no such reaction to

all that confession. Strange

voices bypassed my ears,

whispering straight into

my brain. Dead inside …

hating her … a little alive.

I remembered something.

It seemed a memory buried

deep in toddlerhood.

Mommy? Daddy? Glimpses

of slat-shadowed faces,

screwed up in rage. Screaming.

I hate you. Door slamming.

Pillow over my head against

the noise. Scrambling for breath.

MY HEART STUTTERED

With sudden clarity.

I’m not crazy.

The relentless feeling

of panic started there.

In my parents’

love-fueled hatred

for each other. And

me. I bet they

hated me because

I kept them together.

Drove them

apart. Reminded them

of what they should be,

and how incapable

they were of being it.

THE REST OF THE NIGHT

Was lost to the voice

of the wind calling

down over the Sierra.

Something familiar

about that keening,

too. Some part of me

longing to hear it again

after all these years.

I listened for hours,

until finally it calmed.

And in the lull, doubt

lifted, a ghost shrugging

off flesh. Nothing stays

the same. So how can

you trust anything?

How can you believe?

I got up, went into

the bathroom. Arranged

the toiletries by color.

Rearranged them by height.

But there weren’t enough

of them to make the job

important and in that

way, make me matter.

IN THE BOLD LIGHT

Of morning I wonder if I count

for anything at all. Christmas.

It’s early here, but Texas time

is two hours later. I find my cell,

buried in the oversize bag

holding my clothes. Later I’ll call

Bryce to wish him a merry Christmas

and maybe share some special

news. But he’s probably sleeping.

Instead I call a familiar San Antonio

number. No answer. Worry punches

at my gut. But then I remember.

Aunt Cora doesn’t live there

anymore. Grandfather? Probably

with her in Austin. I have to

scratch deep in my brain to

find the right combination

to make the phone ring there.

Liam answers, too cheerful.

Well, hello there, world traveler.

Merry Christmas to you.

Nevada is hardly the world.

But I don’t say so. “Can I

speak to Aunt Cora, please?”

Liam puts down the phone

to go get her, exposing

the handset to background

noise. Off-key singing. A chorus

of laughter. Voices I know,

and some unfamiliar, a strange

blend of old and new, all

around Aunt Cora and

Grandfather. Homesickness

swells. And not a small amount

of jealousy. They are there.

I am here. Where I swore

I wanted to be. When Aunt

Cora picks up, all I can say

through the tears is, “Just

wanted you to know I miss

you. Give Grandfather a kiss

for me. Gotta go now.”

I COULD LET TREY SLEEP

But the desire to escape

this room is driving me crazy.

“Wake up,” I urge. “The day’s

a-wasting.” It’s one of Grandfather’s

favorite sayings, and that wave

of homesickness crests.

Trey shakes off sleep reluctantly.

But when he sees my face, etched

with expectancy, he goes into

the bathroom to shower. I get

dressed again in my one nice

outfit. Brush out my hair. Put

on my shoes, and within one very

long hour, we are ready to go.

We are barely out the door before

I decide my cute Texas-friendly

ballerina-style flats aren’t exactly

suitable for snow. Especially not

snow like this. “Oh!” The word

disappears in a puff of steam.

“It’s just so … beautiful.” Everything

is carpeted white. Morning sun glints

off the clean, mostly undisturbed

drifts. Traffic beyond the parking

lot is light. Slow between the giant

piles of plow-pushed powder.

Definitely a whopper of a storm.

Looks like it’s moved on for now.

My clothes are Texas weight,

and I shiver beneath them. But

a strange feeling floats down

over me. It’s a flurry of calm

I’ve never felt before, and worry

dissipates. Whatever happens,

I know somewhere in all this snow

I’ve found a missing piece of me.

Summer
ADVENTURE OVER

Kyle’s truck is totaled. And with

it, our dream of playing house.

I guess somewhere deep inside

I knew it would come to an end.

Just didn’t know how quickly.

At least we’re alive. Relatively

unscathed. It could have ended

a whole lot worse. Kyle will have

to stay in the hospital a couple

of days. Long enough for his dad

to collect him. Oh my God.

He was pissed. But not nearly

as pissed as he would have been

had Kyle’s blood work shown

him to be under the influence.

And, despite what Kyle believes,

beneath his dad’s overt anger,

a large dose of relief was obvious.

I may not be in a position to judge,

but I think he cares about Kyle.

As for me, bruises. Contusions.

But no broken bones. Nothing

punctured or torn. You were

exceptionally lucky, the ER nurse

said. Good thing you buckled up.

Damn good thing, actually. Also

good they let me stay here overnight.

Waiting room chairs aren’t the most

comfortable things to snooze in,

but they’re better than the kind

that come with too many questions.

Like those in police stations.

I get up from the one I’ve been

in for too many hours, wander

down to Kyle’s room, peek through

the door. Kyle snorts in his sleep.

God, he’s cute, tangled in dreams,

a thick drift of hair across his face.

Whatever happens to me, I hope

he doesn’t get into too much trouble.

TWO NURSES HUSTLE PAST

Laughing about something.

The noise rousts Kyle from

wherever sleep has led him.

He yawns as his eyes open, try

to make sense of the surroundings.

Finally they focus on me. Hey.

He smiles. Tries to sit up in bed.

And then reality crashes around him.

Come over here. What time is it?

I point to the large clock on the wall.

“Little hand on the seven, big hand

on the five.” I draw alongside the bed.

He reaches for me, winces. Okay.

That hurt a little. Pain or no pain,

he takes hold of my hand. Squeezes.

And it hits me that we may not be

holding hands again for some time

to come. My throat knots up

and my eyes burn. Kyle notices.

Hey, now. Everything’s okay. Well,

except for a couple of broken bones.

Tears begin to fall in earnest.

“But your truck is history. So

is Mammoth. And what about us?”

I don’t care about my truck.

Don’t care about Mammoth.

All I care about is you. If any-

thing bad would have happened

to you, I would never have forgiven

myself. This is all my fault.

“No it’s not. Anyway, nothing bad

happened to me. You’re the one

with the broken bones, remember?”

He smiles. Hard to forget. Except

when they want to hold you.

Kind of like now, for instance.

My entire body heats with a warm

flood of love. But the truth of things

tempers it. “What will happen to us?”

He quiets me with a kiss. I don’t

know. But whatever happens, I swear

we’ll still be together. Somehow.

WE LEAVE THE “HOW”

To the future.

Settle for being together

right now. In this moment.

I’m pretty sure

I won’t see him again for

a while. Maybe a long while.

We’ll celebrate

Christmas safe and warm,

at least. Not buried by snow.

After that,

and after the truth

of our situation emerges,

we’ll just have to see.

GRANDPA SCOTT

Reaches the hospital around ten.

I see him wandering down the corridor,

looking for me. Age has not

much diminished his fair good

looks, and the nurses smile

appreciatively. I nudge Kyle.

“There’s my Grandpa Scott.”

Kyle locks eyes with Grandpa,

who stands outside the door,

assessing. He doesn’t like me.

“He doesn’t even know you.

How can he not like you?

I mean, he might be a little

annoyed. But he’s here.”

I go give him a giant hug. “Thanks

for coming. Sorry you had to drive

all this way on Christmas.”

He draws back to give me

a good once-over. Are you

sure you’re okay? We’re just

happy you weren’t hurt.

“I’m fine, Grandpa. Someone

was watching out for us, for sure.”

After quick introductions, Grandpa

excuses himself. I’ll go take care

of the paperwork. We should

probably hit the highway soon.

Was good meeting you, Kyle.

I don’t want to leave, but I know

I have to go. I give Kyle a long,

sweet kiss. “I wish I could stay, but …”

No. Go on. We’ll talk when you get

back…. He pauses there. Neither

of us knows when or where I’ll get

back to. Merry Christmas. I love you.

ONE LAST KISS

And without looking back,

I go to find Grandpa.

He’s at the nurses’ station,

where he has dropped a signed

copy of Grandma Marie’s latest

book for Officer Strohmeyer

to come pick up later. I watch

Grandpa Scott totally schmooze

a plus-size nurse with orange

hair. I’m sure we can find

another copy for you. Write

down your address and I’ll make

sure you get one. I can pull

strings with the author. He winks,

turns to me. Ready to go?

Before I know it, we’re out

the door and in Grandpa’s new

Lexus SUV, cruising toward Christmas

dinner, me fiddling with the seat

heat control, mostly because

it gives my hands something

to do besides tremble. By some

unspoken agreement, neither

of us says a word until we’re

well on our way out of town.

THE HIGHWAY IS MOSTLY CLEAR

But Grandpa drives cautiously.

Have to be careful of black ice,

is his explanation. It is all he says

for a while. But finally he broaches

the necessary inquiry. So we

hadn’t expected you this year.

And Kristina didn’t know you were

coming either. He pauses. Waits.

“It was a last-minute decision,”

I try. “We wanted to surprise you.”

You definitely did that. His voice

is gentle, tinged with humor. And

you surprised everyone else, too.

We called your dad’s to let him know

you were okay. Someone named

Kortni answered. She said your father

was in jail and as far as she knew,

you were in a foster home in Fresno.

He lets the weight of his words sink

down around us. Was she wrong?

OBVIOUSLY HE KNOWS

She wasn’t wrong. And I’m just

too tired of it all to try and make

up a lie. “No. She was right.”

Despite the Lexus’s luxury, I have

become extremely uncomfortable.

Oh, well. Fabrication is useless.

I launch the story, omitting only the parts

about making love beneath the stars

and Kyle’s farewell to the monster.

Grandpa Scott absorbs it all

in silence. When I finish, he thinks

about things, then spends some

time crafting his comments.

Running away is never a good

decision, Summer. There has

to be a better answer, though

to tell you the truth, I’m not sure

what it is. Let’s get through today

as best we can, then make

some decisions tomorrow.

This should be interesting.

I point as we pass the place where

Kyle and I plunged off the highway

yesterday. Last night’s heavy

snowfall has covered most

of the evidence of the accident.

“You can’t even tell it happened,”

I muse. What I don’t say is how

scary that is. If circumstances

were just a little different,

we could still be down there, buried

in a giant snowdrift. Suffocating.

Or left to slow starvation.

Even without my voicing

those thoughts, Grandpa Scott

gets them. Someone was watching

out for you, all right. You’ve got

something important to do

before you check on out of here.

IMPORTANT? ME?

I’ve never once thought

of myself as

important,

or considered

I might have a special

reason for being. I’ve

mostly thought

of myself

as an accident.

Someone in the way.

Something important to

do? Like what?

Guess I

don’t need to

think about that right

now. Like Grandpa Scott

said, let’s just

get through

today. And make

big decisions tomorrow.

Hunter
SOMETIMES I SHOULD SHUT MY MOUTH

I knew bringing up Brendan

wasn’t the most tactful thing

to do, especially on Christmas.

But sometimes Kristina makes

me so mad, I want to hurt her.

It’s stupid. She doesn’t injure

easily, at least not when the slaps

are verbal. When I mentioned

Brendan, she didn’t say anything

immediately. Finally she said,

I’m surprised he came back.

Surprised he’s still alive,

actually. He ripped off a lot

of people. Even worse than

he took advantage of me.

We were almost home by

then. I slowed enough to get

a few words in. “Don’t suppose

you’ll take some responsibility

for what happened that night?”

ANGER PUFFED

From her mouth in

abbreviated breaths.

What? You

want to

blame me

for getting

raped?

Oh

my

God.

And then she really

pissed me off.

Just like

a man.

Despite Grandpa

Bill’s obvious

uneasiness, I jumped.

“All men are not alike.

And, thank God, all

women are not like you.”

SHE HASN’T SPOKEN

To me since. Not that I care.

When we got home, she went

straight into the house and

retreated somewhere with

the boys. For all of ten minutes.

Then I noticed Donald join

Grandpa Bill in the family room.

He got a new game system

for Christmas. They’re playing.

I am helping Mom wash veggies

when David bops by with Sasha.

“Where’s Kristina?” I ask.

He shrugs. She went outside

to smoke a cigarette. Why

does she like those stinky things?

Mom answers, Tobacco

is addictive. Once you start

smoking, it’s really hard to quit.

I’ll never smoke, he decides.

Not if it makes you smell

like that. Come on, Sasha.

EVENTUALLY

Kristina comes back inside,

trailed by Jake and Misty,

who have just arrived bearing

gifts like Christmas magi.

They sweep into the kitchen,

Leigh close on their heels,

put the presents on the table,

chant a chorus of “Merry Christmas.”

Kristina heads straight for

the brightly wrapped boxes,

finds one with her name on

it. Ooh. Can I open it now?

Leigh stops her from tearing

into the Santa-and-puppy

paper. Why don’t we wait

for Scott to get back?

Kristina, who has managed

to ignore me completely,

reluctantly agrees. Nicotine

obviously can work wonders.

Jake goes into the family room,

and I hear him say, Grandpa

Bill! I didn’t know you were

here. Where’s your car?

Damn DMV wouldn’t re-up

my license. Said my eyes

don’t work so good anymore.

Hate to admit they’re right.

The banter picks up speed in

the kitchen as Mom and Misty

and Leigh and Kristina start

yakking girl talk. Enough, already.

I’m on my way to the family room

when the doorbell rings. Nikki?

She’s early, but that’s all good.

I swing the door open. “Nik!”

Autumn
THIS HOUSE IS INSANE

Insane, as in beautiful.

I stand on the front porch,

staring up at the tall doors.

Oak, with beveled stained glass.

I wait for the familiar tingle

in my fingers. But I don’t

feel close to panic. I reach

out. Ring the doorbell.

The door jerks open. Nik!

But I’m not Nik, whoever he

is, and the boy who is waiting

for him is confused. Uh …

Can I help you? He is older

than me by a year or two,

with mink-colored hair and

eyes an unusual shade of green.

We are related, but I’m not

sure how, and even less sure

of what to say. I start to back

away, but Trey takes over for me.

You must be Hunter. Wow.

I haven’t seen you since you

were a baby. Damn. I’m, um …

Is Kristina here, by any chance?

Hunter—my brother—nods an

“oh, okay” nod, turns, and yells,

Kristina! Someone’s here to see

you. Beyond him, amazing Christmas

decorations swag staircase

railings, and the scent of turkey

roasting and bread dough rising

makes my mouth start to water.

A woman comes to the door.

I have dreamed of this face,

only a younger version of it.

Kristina. My mother. Curiosity

lights her eyes, only to be

replaced by sudden wonder.

Trey, she says. What are you …?

Then her eyes fall on me.

AT FIRST

There is no hint of recognition.

I could be a Jehovah’s Witness,

passing out literature. But then,

a rain:

Memory search

Denial

Rewind

Inquiry

Puzzlement

Recognition

Surprise

Shock

Stunned

Acceptance

Autumn? Is that really you?

She comes forward, hand

extended toward my face.

Suddenly I don’t want her

to touch me. I don’t know why

not, except you don’t let strangers

touch you, do you? I step back.

Annoyance shadows her eyes.

So much for imagined reunions.

NOW IT IS HUNTER

Who rescues me. Autumn,

he says matter-of-factly. I always

hoped we’d meet one day.

Come in. It’s cold out there.

The house is full of people.

Thank goodness I’ve had a little

practice lately being around

a mob of not-quite-family. Lots

of introductions. Two aunts.

One uncle. A great-grandfather.

Another grandmother. Marie.

Three brothers. And my mother.

Everyone seems excited to see me.

I’m not sure how to feel in return.

Voices. Questions. Puppy feet.

Television, loud. Timer buzzers.

Oven doors closing. The whistle

of a teakettle. It’s all too much.

I ASK FOR DIRECTIONS

To the bathroom. Follow them

through a maze of halls and space.

This house is crazy. Compared

to Grandfather’s staid white

rooms, these are warm with wall

color, art, and hardwood floors.

I don’t know my grandmother yet,

but I feel her presence here.

She’s an author. I’ve seen her

books around school, though

I’ve never opened one.

I wonder if I would have, had

I known how much they relate

to me. I think maybe not. Surreal.

I wander down a long hallway,

hung thickly with family photos.

Hunter in Little League. Kristina

as a teenager. And uh … me,

as a baby. I was here all along.

I need air. I cut through my grand-

mother’s office, go out a side door.

Summer
LOOKS LIKE THE PARTY’S STARTED

The driveway is choked with cars,

lined bumper-to-bumper against

the berms of piled snow. “Did you

do all that shoveling, Grandpa?”

He maneuvers the Lexus carefully.

With a little help from your brothers.

“Brothers? Plural? You actually got

the boys to work?” That’s a surprise.

Believe it or not, Donald has become

quite a good helper. David would still

rather play with the puppy, but he’s

getting better too. Consistency.

We could all use a little of that.

Grandpa noses the SUV against

the garage, and as we exit the car,

the office door opens. “Who’s that?”

The girl is a year or two older than me,

with thick copper hair tumbling loose

to her shoulders. She is not dressed

for snow. I have no idea, Grandpa says.

She stares up into the crackled

blue sky, lost in solitary reverie.

I am connected to her in some

unfathomable way. The door opens

again, and out comes my mom

with some guy I don’t know either.

They light cigarettes, and Grandpa

Scott says in a stiffened voice, Trey.

Everything clicks into place. Trey plus

Kristina equals, “Autumn.” My sister.

She pivots like a soldier on drill, goes

back inside. This day is full of surprises.

GRANDPA SCOTT SHIVERS

Cold out here. Let’s go inside.

But he creeps along, trying, I think,

to understand what this development

means. Trey has materialized, a ghost

of times best left unremembered.

And Autumn? What does she know

of those times? How much does

she really want to know? Still,

the little chills quivering through me

have nothing to do with air temp.

“I didn’t even know I had a sister

until a couple of weeks ago.”

Grandpa looks truly surprised.

Someone should have told you.

But so you know, Marie has been

trying to track her down for years.

I glance over at Mom and Trey,

who stand close to each other,

exhaling smoke into iced air.

“Why didn’t Mom ever tell me?”

Grandpa shrugs. I’ve never

quite figured Kristina out.

It’s almost like she fuels

herself on secrets and lies.

GRANDMA MARIE’S KITCHEN

Has always felt like sanctuary.

Some people might think

that’s a cliché, but compared

to any other kitchen I’ve ever

spent time in, this one is always

the gathering place. Warm.

Spice-scented. Spilling laughter

and conversation. Today there

is more. Today there is reunion.

And, for some of us, relationships

too new to quite comprehend.

Grandma Marie is at the counter

kneading dough. Aunt Leigh

and Aunt Misty play cards at the table.

Autumn hovers in a corner, trying

to make sense of what these women

mean to her. I know the feeling well.

Might as well try the direct approach.

“Hi, Autumn,” I call across the short

expanse of tile. My feet follow, until

I stand in front of her. “I’m Summer….”

SHE IS WARY

Like a caged cat, escaped,

but unsure of the wild lands

beyond the bars. I understand.

Already, we walk common ground.

It is tenuous turf, riddled with

the rifts and earthquakes of our

personal histories. We confess

scenes. Abbreviated clips.

With her soft Texas drawl

and faux hippie wardrobe,

on the surface she is nothing

like me. But just below the skin,

we find connection. I shudder

to think why that might be, because

our common denominator is

someone I don’t want to resemble.

Autumn and I talk for an hour,

while the house fills with holiday

cheer. I don’t know where we’ll go

tomorrow, but today there is communion

here, and now I have a sister.

There is power in that. Today

I am surrounded by family

and affection, uncluttered by need.

Hunter
SURPRISES

Are rarely good things

around here. Today they

are kind of a mixed bag.

Good:                Meeting a sister I only

half believed existed.

Not-so-good:    Meeting a guy I always

half blamed for Kristina’s

return to the monster.

Good:                Watching Summer and

Autumn test the choppy

waters of sisterhood.

Not-so-good:    Watching Kristina pay

more attention to Trey

than to her children.

Good:                Seeing how well David

and Donald are coping

despite being ignored.

Not-so-good:    Seeing that no matter

how some things change,

others never will.

THE BEST SURPRISE

Of the day was Nikki

opening her arms, allowing me

back into her life.

I have to remember how bad

being closed out felt.

I know we’re young,

that we have a long way to go,

and love has a way of

fading. I can’t promise her we can

keep ours alive, but

I can promise to give

it a damn good try. Temptation

is something I can’t

control. Flirtation is a whole

different thing.

As afternoon slants

toward evening and she hasn’t

arrived, anxiety nips.

What if she changed her mind?

Should I call her?

But then the doorbell

rings and I know it’s her and

now it really feels

like Christmas. Thanks, Santa,

for the best gift ever.

DESPITE HER MOM STARING

I pull Nikki into my arms, kiss

her like we don’t have an audience.

Then I notice the bags her mom

holds. “Let me take those for you.”

I peek inside. Eggnog and brandy.

This could prove an interesting

afternoon. I lead the ladies into

the kitchen. “Look who’s here!”

It is a busy place. Mom slices

turkey. Leigh mashes potatoes.

Misty spoons cranberry sauce,

trying not to trip over Sasha,

who sits, tail wagging at

the prospect of some offered

tidbit. David obliges, slipping

her bits of roasted poultry skin.

Autumn and Summer have

tag-teamed the table setting.

Nikki and her mom see what

they can do to help. It might

be a scene right out of a Norman

Rockwell painting. Except,

of course, it isn’t. It can’t be.

Because this is our family.

Autumn
DINNER IS READY

My grandfather—Grandpa Scott,

he said to call him—has announced

that it’s time to eat. We all gather

at the table, which has two large

folding tables placed at one

end, and still we’ll all barely fit.

Once everyone has found a seat,

two chairs are too obviously empty.

Hunter goes to the door, calls loudly,

Kristina! We’re all at the table.

Are the two of you planning to join

us? Room service is closed.

His voice carries thinly veiled anger,

and his girlfriend shoots a warning

glance that says, Watch your temper.

Earlier, I heard Hunter talking

to Grandma Marie. Why is Kristina

outside? he asked. Why isn’t she

with her kids? Why can’t she just

act like a mom? Doesn’t she care

about them? Doesn’t she love them?

Grandma answered right

away, as if she’d thought about

the question many times before.

I think she wants to love them.

Wants to love all of you. But

she can’t. I told you how meth

eats into the brain. Well, the part

that gets chewed away is

the part that lets people love.

I think about that as Kristina

and Trey finally find their way

to the table. How sad if they

really aren’t able to love.

It explains a lot. But it also

raises more questions.

QUESTIONS LIKE

Why am I here?

What have I accomplished

by coming all this way?

I wanted to meet my mother.

Mission accomplished.

What does it mean?

We haven’t even spoken

to each other. My fault,

I guess. Should I have

run into her arms?

Do I open

my arms to her now?

She seems much more

interested in rekindling

things with Trey.

Does she care

at all about getting to

know me? Would she try

harder to break down the wall

if I radiate more gold flecks?

Will I ever find

the courage to storm

the wall myself? What do

I mean to my mother? Why

can’t I open my mouth and ask?

Summer
BEEN THINKING

So much about where I might

be going, I’ve kind of neglected

thinking about where I came from.

Wonder how Christmas was for Ashante.

Did Santa visit? Does she still believe,

despite having her innocence stolen?

What about Simone? Did Bear and Blonde

deliver? How about Eliana and Rosa,

sisters who I never really got to know.

Sisters missing their mother. At least

they have each other. And now that I have

a sister, will we have each other too?

We will not, I predict, ever have a mom,

not the kind who we’ll sit down at dinner

with. Except for on holidays, that is.

I wish Kyle were here to share this

holiday dinner. Wonder what hospital

turkey is like. Wonder if he is lonely.

NOT MUCH ROOM

For loneliness here.

The table is heaped

with food, surrounded

by four generations

of family. It’s sensory

detail, maxed. Perfume

of Christmas feast.

Assorted flavors, blended

with conversation.

Swelling. Fading. Swelling.

Loud. Soft. Loud. Silent.

In those scant moments

of silence, reflection.

Live-wire tension. You

can feel it building.

Something wants to blow.

You can see it, anxious,

in the lift of shoulders.

You can hear it whine.

Implosion imminent.

WHAT LIGHTS THE FUSE

Is an innocent question.

When are we going home?

asks David. Conversation brakes.

Everyone looks at Kristina,

who doesn’t answer right away.

Finally she says, I don’t know.

Donald stands, clenching

his fists. Fine by me. Who

wants to live with you, anyway?

He slams his chair back

into the wall, rattling dishes.

Then he stalks off into the other

room. Grandpa Scott says,

Excuse me, and follows,

leaving all eyes on Kristina.

I can’t go back to our old place,

she says. Ron knows where it is.

Why is everyone so mad at me?

I think about chiming in, and

so does Grandma Marie. But

it is Hunter who opens his mouth.

Hunter
MAYBE IT’S THE EGGNOG

I had a couple, heavily spiked,

before we sat down to dinner.

Maybe it’s just Kristina’s wide-

eyed pretense of innocence.

Whatever it is, I’ve had enough

of her acting like she gives a shit

about anyone but herself. “Look

at us, Kristina. I mean, take a few

minutes of your precious time

and really look at what you’ve done.”

My voice amplifies with each word.

“Every one of us at this table has

been hurt by you. Some of us have

been crushed—no, annihilated,

and all because of you loving yourself

best of all….” Nikki rests her hand

on mine. I stop, not for Kristina’s sake,

but because Nikki wants me to.

Autumn
HUNTER’S OUTBURST

Is completely unexpected.

The sound of yelling, so close

to me, jump-starts the race

of my heart. My fingers go numb.

I close my eyes. Concentrate

on my breathing. Deep in. Hold.

Trickle out. Deep in. Hold …

Nobody notices. Good.

Eyes still clamped shut, I hear

Kristina respond. You’re wrong.

I don’t love myself at all. In fact,

I can hardly look at myself

in the mirror some days. Don’t

you think I know what I’ve done?

It’s not that I don’t care. But

I can’t change anything now.

Heart still too quick, but slowing,

I open my eyes just in time

to see Kristina’s tough facade

crumble and fall away with the words …

Summer
I’M SORRY

That’s what Kristina says.

We all look at her as if we haven’t

quite heard her correctly.

But she repeats, I’m so sorry.

I never wanted to be a bad mother.

Maybe that’s why I kept on

trying, kept on begging for another

chance to finally do it right. But I

don’t have the skills, don’t have—

“Don’t you dare say it!” I yell.

“Don’t say you don’t have

the resources. You do, or

you could have. All you had

to do was ask for help.” Anger

oozes like blood from my pores.

Her anger is greater. No! she

shouts. You don’t understand.

I can’t ask for help from people

I turned my back on. People

I stole from. Lied to. Hurt.

People whose love I threw away.

Hunter
KRISTINA IS OUT OF WORDS

Good thing, because

that’s all they are. Words

without conviction

have no meaning.

I look

down the long table,

past turkey carcass and half-

eaten pie, and ignoring

the shock-iced eyes that stare

at her,

I measure her lowered

gaze, the foreign

language of her body.

And I

find

in the cold iron set

of her shoulders,

the boulders of her fists,

defiance.

Apology without regret.

The desire to challenge,

still. And, obvious through

a red haze of my own,

anger.

Autumn
KRISTINA IS OUT OF STEAM

I can’t help but feel sorry

for her. She is a bird,

too broken to fly.

I look

across the granite width

of table, beyond crystal

glassware and cloth napkins.

Notice the way Trey smiles

at her,

as if telling her she has said

exactly the right thing. But

Hunter is not swayed. Summer,

too, seems unconvinced.

And I

find

in Kristina’s refusal to meet

anyone’s eyes, in her knuckles

that tap without rhythm,

fear.

And in the way she hugs

her secrets close, like I must

continue to hold on to mine

for a while longer yet,

deception.

Summer
KRISTINA IS OUT OF EXCUSES

I know that’s what Grandpa

Scott would say, and the rest

of us would no doubt agree.

My mom has said enough.

I look

to my right, where Leigh

sits, drop-jawed, gawking

at her

sister, as if she’s never seen

her before. On my left, Autumn

seems lost in some obscure

distraction. Wonder where

her thoughts have wandered.

And I

find

in the tears that drop from

my mother’s eyes into puddles

on her dinner plate,

doubt.

A growing desire to escape

the confines of this house,

no longer her home, by

her own design. And in that,

loneliness.

Hunter, Autumn, Summer
I HOPE FOR

Trust. Joy.

Courage. Honesty.

Belief. Belonging.

Attaining these

things may not

come easily.

Because, look

very long at

Kristina, I see

me

me

me.

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

The release of Marie Haskins’s and Kristina Shepherd’s highly anticipated mother/daughter memoir, Monster, was yesterday put on indefinite hold.

“We felt it was appropriate to wait until Kristina’s current round of chemotherapy has been completed,” said Haskins, whose novels Crank, Glass, and Fallout offer a fictionalized account of Shepherd’s twenty-year battle with methamphetamine addiction.

Shepherd said in June of the memoir project, “We want to fill in the blanks, not only for my mother’s readers, but also for my children, who still might not have all the answers they need.”

All five of Shepherd’s children currently reside with Haskins.

Shepherd, who reunited with her husband, Trey, after a fifteen-year separation, has recently undergone radical treatment for lung cancer. “The prognosis is about as good as you could hope for,” Shepherd said. “I throw it out there to the universe, pray God is listening and that he hasn’t given up on me.”

Author’s Note

This is the third and final part of the saga begun in my first novel, Crank. When that book released in October 2004, I could not have predicted its phenomenal success. The story in Crank, and in its sequel, Glass, is shared by many. But even those whose lives have never been touched by this particular monster are drawn to Kristina. Despite her many flaws, they come to care about her and her family. Especially her children.

Originally, I never planned a sequel to Crank. But readers demanded more of Kristina’s story. I could probably write ten books about her fall from grace, but series often degrade over time, and I don’t want to give my readers progressively weaker books. Rather, I wanted the final Kristina book to be the most powerful of the three. And I believe I’ve done that with Fallout.

The book is written from the points of view of her three oldest children, now teens in the book, and dealing with their own lives, which have been shaped by the choices she made when she was their age. At the time I pen this description, the real “Hunter” is thirteen, but I write him at nineteen in Fallout. Which means I’ve written the future. Please remember it’s only one possible future, created from how I see these children’s lives now. And also please remember that, while these books are rooted in our real life, they are to a large degree fiction.

I chose to pull out of Kristina’s point of view, into her children’s to give them a voice, and to give voice to my readers who struggle with their own parents’ addictions. There are many. I also believe the ultimate hope of these stories lies here, with the generation that can choose to break this cycle. You will get “the rest of Kristina’s story,” through different lenses because “the monster” doesn’t only destroy the addict. It tries to destroy everyone who loves him or her. Parents. Children. Partners. Spouses. Friends. If this describes you, take care of yourself first. Get help if you need it. You might find a sense of peace and community in an organization like Al-Anon. Above all, please know, without a doubt, that you are not alone.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Reno Gazette-Journal

We Hear

Hunter Seth Haskins

So You Want to Know

If You Don’t Know

Foreword

Chapter One

I Kind of Enjoy

Picture the Ideal Girl

I Am Genetically Predisposed

Nikki Isn’t Home Yet

I’ve Asked the Question Before

In Mom’s Book

Not That I’ve Ever Once

I’ve Got a Little Problem

As I Ponder the Question

That’s It?

I Bite Down Hard

As the Words

Enough Already

The Wood

Autumn Rose Shepherd

Sometimes I See Faces

I Suspect

Aunt Cora Insists

Generally

Can’t Bear the Thought

That Felt Right

I Hate When I Bleed

She Doesn’t Take it Seriously

I am in the Den

I Slip Quietly

And he Does

Grandfather is Stern

Sometimes, When it’s Just

And Where I Came From

I Have Managed

All Things Considered

The Monster

Mine Isn’t the Only One

Summer Lily Kenwood

Screaming

I’m Fifteen Now

Screaming, Again

Darla is a Different Story

Gawd!

I Totally Know Treed

Maybe That’s Why

My Mother

I Couldn’t Say That, Though

It Was Nasty

Goddamn Meth

It’s Not Hard to Find

So Far

I Think of Them Both

Maybe What I Need to Do

I Watch the Pair

Matt Walks Me

Hunter

Saturday

The Remote

It’s a Half-Hour Drive

Especially Football Games

Most of Them

And there is Nikki

I Notice Her Mom And Dad

Why Do I Promise

In My Arms

He Does Kind of Look

Married?

As I Pack Up the Van

Maybe Corrine

For Example

That Detail is Confirmed

Kristina, Scheme Queen

Cynical?

Autumn

Change is Coming

Aunt Cora

She Doesn’t Say that Now

She Pauses

The Fifteen-Minute Ride

I’ll Never Forget

Somehow he Didn’t Get

Instead, She Stayed

Whatever She Is

I Shouldn’t Have Worried

When We Walk Through the Door

It’s not Like

Time

So Close

I Haven’t Had

The Bell Rings

Summer

Roused

Amber Light

I Open My Arms

A Memory Slams Into Me

I Never Told

My Body

Anger Mushrooms

She Stares at Me

Zero Remorse

Suddenly, I am Jerked

I Make Myself Go Limp

That Bad, Huh?

Darla Comes Into the Bathroom

If I Tell

My Mouth Opens

Despite Dragging

My Actions

Matt Finds Me

For the Most Part

I’m Not Really in Love

I Do Believe That

Nevada Appeal

Hunter

Nevada Day

When we Finish

Mom is an American Idol Devotee

This Must Be

Something’s Wrong

The Revelation

I Realize Suddenly

A Warm Ginger Fog

I’m Sort of Ambivalent

Nikki’s Eyes

What, Exactly, Did I Do?

Might as Well

Good Plan

There’s an Understatement

And now the Brood

Speaking of Playing

I Stash any Residual Worry

A Little after Midnight

Autumn

A Cold Rain

An Old Maxim Goes

Cherie Says

Maybe I’m Wrong

I Jerk My Locker Open

With my Back Toward

Mortified

I Think

How Do I Back Out Gracefully?

By the Time

Surprise Number One

That Makes Me Laugh

I Should Have An Answer Ready

Tears Pool in My Eyes

Surprise Number Three

I Dare

Summer

Crazy

That Kind of Denial

Whether or Not

And Me?

One Okay Thing

So Instead

There, Said It

Fair Question

I’ve Been This Close

He Turns Off the Main Road

I am Certain of That

A Battle Begins

I Expect Him

Suddenly I’m Uncomfortable

That Makes Him Want

I’m So Lost

An Intense

Kyle Has Listened

Awash

Variety

Hunter

Confucius Say

Changes

The Night She Thought

The First Few Nights

Our Truce

The Compromise?

I Tried to Resist

The Alarm Blares

For a Refreshing Change

I’m Most of the Way

I’m Still Musing

We Get to the House

This Dog Starts Salivating

Call Me a Cynic

A New Puppy

I Am On My Way

A Loud Gasp

What May Do

Autumn

We’ve Always Kept

I Haven’t Caught all the Way

Yeah, I Knew I Had Them

If You Believe the Hype

Wonder Who Thinks I Do

Hope He Does

I Wish I was Spending

Turns Out

Did He Mean

Off

I Soar

I Crash

I Don’t Need Her Help

Cranberries Simmered

The Whole Thing

It’s not Exactly Unusual

That Girl

It is that Girl

The Door Flies Open

I Start Toward the Front Door

A Giant Feast

Summer

Dad’s Idea

Operative Word:

Long Before

Instead

He Inherits His Temper

Even So

I Watch the Dust

I’m Getting Dressed

But That’s Not What She Wants

I Never Cry

Almost Done

Memory Lane

But She’s on My Mind

Holy Crap

There I Go Again

He Manages Not to Choke

He Wolfs

I Wait in the Car

Hunter

Damn Cold

Charmless

Predictable or not

The Parade Begins

See, When I was a Kid

Mom’s Fame

The Memory

She Winks

She Waits Impatiently

I Pursue Said Trouble

But Apparently i am

I Close My Eyes

Only After

We Weave

Zapped

A Sharp Whine

Almost Talent Show Time

Sparks Has Talent

Covering the Short Distance

Montana, It Seems

Autumn

Planning a Wedding

It’s All Quite Lost

She Denies That Totally

Absorbed By Status Quo

Sudden Focus

Sorcery or Hormones

That Slows Him Down

Really Me

We Lie Together, Silent

The Second Time

I Am Loading

That Little Voice

A New Fantasy

Am I Nuts?

I Am Making My Bed

I Go To Join Them Anyway

She Pulls me into the Hall

She Doesn’t Deny

Summer

Straddling a thin Wire

It’s Been This Way

Called First

I Suspected

Why Did I Call?

But I Was on a Roll

Kortni Bailed Dad Out

He’s Pretty Miserable

He’s on the Porch

I Expect

When I Return

Left Unsaid:

But I Have to Try

He Cocks His Head

Pregnant With Me

I’ve Always Felt

Back to the Original Question

Zoe

That’s A Good Thing, Right?

Call Her

Needle-Sharp Air

Associated Press

Hunter

Some Secrets

Almost a Week

After the Talent Show

My Heart Spoke Up

Nikki’s Advice

She Was Mad

I Watch Her Now

Best of All

Amusing to Watch, Though

There, Indeed, is Montana

Before I Can Sit Down

I Try, Really I Do

The Wasp Buzz Intensifies

Can’t Confess Everything

I Want to Keep Hating Him

The Buzz Quiets

His Jaw Plummets

Our Eyes Lock

Except It’s Not

Autumn

One Day

Pilfering Booze

Trains Like This

Listerine Rocks

Underwear Shopping

Boy, Does that Add Up

The Question Nags

Stupid Fantasy, I Know

I Get My Own Room

Next thing i Know

Thanks to me

But, Makeup Or No

Wedding Day Dawns

Everything Accomplished

It’s an Exercise in Futility

Run, Flee, Fly

Gentle Shaking

I Am Also Claustrophobic

Things are Moving

Wedding Receptions

The More I Think About Bryce

We are Kissing

Summer

Condemned

Telling Him

I Remember How It Felt

I Wasn’t in Love

Right Turn, Left Turn, Right …

So Says She

Can’t Say It’s “Nice” Inside

Finally, I’m In

I Notice the Walls

A Riptide of Sadness

She Goes to Say Good-Bye

We Change Subjects

End of Story

I Keep Unpacking

Impossible, I Know

Zero Response

Thankfully

Apparently I Made Tanya Feel Guilty

Lights, Garland, and Ornaments Hung

The Only Place

It is Walter

Before Too Very Long

How Long Will It Be

For Three Days

Day Four

The Rest of the Day

Albuquerque Journal

Hunter

Back Home

I Hate White

So For Now, It’s White

Good Thing

She Turns

I Reach Way Back

Mom Was Angrier Then

All This Filters Through

I Didn’t Think

She Sits Beside Me

Sudden Commotion

Smart Kid

When Did I Become a Philosopher?

Cookies in the Oven

God, I’m Maudlin Today

Said Boys

This Could Turn Into a Lecture

No Doubt About It

I Guess I Can’t Blame Anger

Feeling Marginally Better

Autumn

Loneliness and Liquor

When I Called Bryce

At Least he used the Word “Love”

My Stomach Stirs

I Heave

All Hurled Out

At Least I Think I Can

He Studies Me

His Eyes Lift

Things Fall Into Place

Sucker Punched

Trey Straightens

Grandfather is Shaking

By the Time

When I Open the Door

Maureen is at a Hotel

She Sits Quietly

It is Late Afternoon

It Takes that Two Hundred Miles

Off-Kilter

Well Past Midnight

A Thin Beam of Light

Summer

Labels

And Now a New Label

Sneaking Out

Not Exactly a New Story

I Had My Cell

Now I Swear

Not Much Time

Nothing to Lose

As We Drove Away

Less Than a Half Hour

Approaching the Flat Fields

Kyle Exits the Freeway

As We Pull Into the Driveway

Kyle Stays in the truck

I Gather Up

Three Hun in Hand

Kyle’S Excitement

Supplies Stowed

We Find a Five-Dollar

Birdsong Wakes Me

Hunter

Countdown to Christmas

I’ve Told Her No

No, I’m Not

She Still Loves Me

I Could Go On

Air Shift Complete

Two Thirty-Four

I’m Not a Jewelry Expert

Subdued

I Put her Suitcase

A Subject Change

I’ve Thought the Same Thing

Autumn

Pretty Much Miserable

Frightening and Exhilarating

That Seems Even More Unlikely

Trey Totally Suspects

Boredom is an Oversize Crypt

We Roll Into Bishop

All Gassed Up

On the Far Side of Bishop

He was Right

As He Talks

Bishop to Carson City

Too Late, Dude

All Prettied Up

Summer

Not Much Romantic

I Never Thought

I Knew He Was Using

Hopefully, By Tomorrow

That Was Yesterday

Maybe It Had Something to Do

With Luck

We Stop At a Diner

I Wait for the Waitress to Go

The Light is Duskish

Stunned

It is Completely Dark

I’ve Had Some Time

Hunter

Christmas Dawns Silver

Her Car is Here

We Doze for a While

When She Goes to Shower

The Airport

I Collect Grandpa Bill

She’s all about Kristina

Autumn

Awake Most of the Night

And Another Niggling Question

He Sat Up In Bed

He Paused There

All That Talking

My Heart Stuttered

The Rest of the Night

In the Bold Light

I Could Let Trey Sleep

Summer

Adventure Over

Two Nurses Hustle Past

We Leave the “How”

Grandpa Scott

One Last Kiss

The Highway is Mostly Clear

Obviously He Knows

Important? Me?

Hunter

Sometimes I Should Shut My Mouth

Anger Puffed

She Hasn’t Spoken

Eventually

Autumn

This House is Insane

At First

Now it is Hunter

I ask for Directions

Summer

Looks Like the Party’s Started

Grandpa Scott Shivers

Grandma Marie’s Kitchen

She is Wary

Hunter

Surprises

The Best Surprise

Despite Her Mom Staring

Autumn

Dinner is Ready

Questions Like

Summer

Been Thinking

Not Much Room

What Lights the Fuse

Hunter

Maybe It’s the Eggnog

Autumn

Hunter’s Outburst

Summer

I’m Sorry

Hunter

Kristina is out of Words

Autumn

Kristina is out of Steam

Summer

Kristina is Out of Excuses

Hunter, Autumn, Summer

I Hope For

Publishers Weekly

Author’s Note