Fallout 3f4w2k

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.

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, messedup 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 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-upin-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 comionate. (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 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 tearglittered 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 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 it 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 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 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 re 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 ed 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 Dean. I just ed 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 ed. 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 waytoo-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

d 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 it, 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 , “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 . “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 nth 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 truckdriver 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 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 ? 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 enger 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-encoming 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 .” 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 something 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 its, 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, 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. Byebye, 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 itted a youthful flirtation with crystal meth, was a vocal er of the new requirement for legal prostitutes to 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 itted 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 ion 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 H2O 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-fiveminute 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 housebroken, 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 semisteadily 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 .

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 it 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 out or die or something.

And maybe I am. “Yes . . . No. Uh-uhuh 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 s.

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 s. 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 enger 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 hightails 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, ? 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 superhuman 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 enger 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. Summerfried 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 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 . 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.

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 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 filmmajor 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 some thing 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 laborintensive. 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 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, 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 enger 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 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 just 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 Oscarnight 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, ? 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 insane 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 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 enger door. What can that girl do but

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 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 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 its, 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 crotchdeep 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 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 t, 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 . “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 seniorcitizen-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 cholesterolridden 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.

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 it 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 horsepulled 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 bundledup 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

overthe-top reaction. How

many recesses I stayed inside, while the bullies went out to play!

I don’t 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 ing.”

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 hip at Gold’s Gym!”

Gold’s Gym, of course, is a sponsor. Not to mention an X r.

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. 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-coasterstyle. 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 , 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 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-beforeChristmas 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-andwhite 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 saleslady 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 it 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, ? 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 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 shitfor-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-myfather 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 it at all. Yes, Trey and I were friends, and I was

ing through. Don’t 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 , 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. Semiirrational, 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.

AP 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 ed my daughters and their dreams,” she said. “And I will continue to 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 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 ire 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 it 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.

Rick is in the game. Your girl? Didn’t know you had such good taste.

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 ed 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 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 a certain night, up on Mount Rose. Just you and her and a little crank . . .” Loud. Too loud.

But he definitely re. 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 eggplantcolored 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 ed

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 es 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 . 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. Gas. (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, ? Whatever my heart desires, ? 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 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 ing everyone’s names.

And as I struggle to label faces, Micah comes over to, uh . . . help?

First he gives me a major onceover. 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. ed. 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 namecalling. 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 . 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 how it feels.”

It felt rough. Like punishment. Punishment for his own pain.

I 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 ing 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, bearcolored man. Brown hair. Brown skin. Brooding brown eyes. George Clooney, he ain’t. Wonder who he is.

FINALLY, I’M IN

Introductions are ed 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 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 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 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 high-grade 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 iration 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

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, ? 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! Fuβ. 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 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 .

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,

? 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 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 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 enger 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 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 it 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 ed 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. Kaching.

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. ? 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 es 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 ,

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

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 someone 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 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 ed “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 crimsonrimmed, 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 highsounding 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? Strongarm 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 it 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 , 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 fourby, 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 , 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 background, 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 offspring. 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 homecoming 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 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 twowheel-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 . 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 fulllength 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 campground, 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 platinumset 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 enger 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 enger

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 starstruck 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 . 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 ed. 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 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 Nikki

in the shower, iring 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 backand-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 eightyfive, 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 mes 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 byed my ears,

whispering straight into my brain. Dead inside . . . hating her . . . a little alive.

I ed 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 .

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 ?”

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, ?”

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 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

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 it 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, ing 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 grandmother’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 uned. 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 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 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 wideeyed 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 halfeaten 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 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 it’s only one possible future, created from how I see these children’s lives now. And also please 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.

A Reading Group Guide to FALLOUT by Ellen Hopkins

PREREADING ACTIVITY

What psychological impact might drug addiction have on offspring?

Is it possible for a drug addiction to be just one person’s problem?

How else, besides drugs like meth, can an addiction manifest itself, especially in the life of a teenager?

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

Since the birth of her first child, Hunter, how has Kristina changed over the years? How has she remained the same? How has her relationship with her parents evolved?

How are Hunter, Autumn, and Summer alike? How are they different? Which of the three has a better chance at a successful life? Why?

Why is Autumn so careless about unprotected sex? How does she feel about

getting pregnant? Is she grounded in reality? Explain.

Summer has feelings for both Matt and Matt’s friend, Kyle. She describes Matt as a nice guy who has never pushed her to have sex and who has never belittled her or yelled at her. However, these positive characteristics “make him boring” How can this be? What characteristics in a boy excite her? Why? What similar responses to men does her mother have? Consider her mother’s relationship with Ron.

Trey and Autumn’s journey to Autumn’s grandparents house is also a journey through Trey’s relationship with Autumn’s mother and, ultimately, his relationship with Autumn, his daughter. Along the way, Trey says, “I’ve/spent the last fifteen/years hating your mother . . . What I couldn’t see/ was that hate controlled me.” What does Trey mean? Give examples. What other characters have been controlled by hate? Explain.

Anger is a recurring theme in Fallout. Hunter reflects on his own rage and wonders why people take it out on those they love. Why do you think those closest often are hit the hardest by rage? Is Hunter’s anger justified? What about his mother’s? Explain.

How might anger be self-contempt? Use Kristina as an example.

Hunter’s mother remarks in the closing pages that she “used to live ‘mad’ ”. What does she mean and how has she changed? Has she found peace? Explain.

Autumn and Summer both want desperately to be loved. Explain their desperation. Why are they so quick to fall for a boy? Why are they so needy? In

what ways are they like their mother? In what ways are they different from their mother? How will they need to change so that they can have healthy relationships with men?

How do Kristina’s children define love? Would you say they “misname” love? If so, explain.

Kristina has hurt everyone she has touched, and she seems to know she has. How does she respond to the pain she has caused?

Will Kristina’s family ever heal? What scars might remain? Explain.

Fallout ends with the phrase, “. . . look/very long at/Kristina, I see/me/me/me.” Each use of the pronoun me represents one of Kristina’s three older children. What do all three wish for? What are their fears? Will each of them be able to stop the “monster” from destroying their own families?

ACTIVITIES

Draw and/or use computer software to generate a relationship tree, highlighting the key characters in Fallout.

Choose one of the following relationships to research: father/daughter, father/son, mother/son, mother/daughter. What are the characteristics of a healthy relationship between the two? What relationship difficulties might a young teen have if one of these relationships is damaged? Prepare a class

presentation based on your findings.

Organize a book read at your school between parents/guardians and their children around a book with strong relationship themes between parents/guardians and teens. Mothers and sons might read a YA novel about a mother/son relationship (ex., Bucking the Sarge by Christopher Paul Curtis); a father and daughter might read a YA novel about a father/daughter relationship (ex., Story of a Girl by Sara Zaar). Adopted children and their adoptive parents might read Whale Talk by Chris Crutcher.

Read a nonfiction or a biography about a child growing up in a foster home (ex., Three Little Words: A Memoir by Ashley Rhodes-Courter) and share your reactions to the reading with the class.

Fallout guide written by Pam B. Cole, Professor of English Education & Literacy, Kennesaw State University, Kennesaw, Georgia.

Turn the page to discover Ellen’s greatest inspiration.

My Greatest Inspiration: My Readers

People often ask what inspires me. When I first got the question, it stumped me. Inspiration? Why, it’s everywhere, right? It’s the view of the Sierra Nevada outside my window. It’s watching my children grow into adults, succeeding in ways big and small. It’s listening to my grandchildren laugh, watching them build Legos and play trains. It’s my husband. My pets. My friends. My home. Truthfully, all these elements have served to inspire my stories. But my greatest inspiration over the years has been my readers.

At this point in my career, between regular mail, e-mail, and a plethora of social networking platforms (Twitter, Goodreads, Tumblr, Google+, Pinterest and a handful of Facebook pages), I receive around two hundred reader communications each day. While I enjoy every “I love your books” or “You are a genius” (especially that one!) or “I’m preordering your next book right this very minute,” the more personal ones speak to my heart. They come in fairly regular categories. I’d like to share a few actual messages.

YOU’VE GIVEN ME INSIGHT

I come from a town that is filled to the brim of meth s. The slogan there is “City with a Toothless Smile.” I lost two of my very close sisterlike friends due to their constant usage of that dark chemical. I like to say that I tried to do everything I could to help them, but they kept digging themselves deeper and deeper into the hole of substance abuse and addiction. I think it’s my fault that they ended up the way they did. I left them back in my hometown, alone, when I went off to college. How I wish I could have put them in a box and taken them with me. The feeling and memory burn my heart. Sometimes I wake up, drowning in my own tears, because of the wicked realistic dreams I have of them. Their bodies are still walking this dirt, but their minds are forever gone.

I can point out comparisons between the book and my life, even though I never touched the drug. Your books put light on the possible thoughts of “what they were thinking” when they were doing all these degrading, horrid activities. Your books always helped me realize just to let go. s can only seek help if they want help; I can’t force or lure my friends into treatment anymore. They have to want to fix themselves. It hurts to come to such a conclusion, but it’s the truth.

YOU’VE OPENED MY EYES

I know you must get a million e-mails a day, so if by some chance you do actually read this, I just want to say thank you for opening my eyes. Even if you don’t see it, it doesn’t matter that you read it, but that I write it.

I just finished reading Glass. I read this book because I wanted to better understand addiction. It never really clicked, you know? How someone could give up so much just to get high. I’ve never understood. And frankly, that’s what I realized. Addiction is something so strong, that if you’re not caught up in it yourself, you can’t quite wrap your brain around it. I put myself into Kristina’s shoes. As she fell deeper and deeper into her addiction, I started resenting her more and more with every page I turned. But I also felt sorry for her, how she can’t control her self.

Now I can relate to my own family issues a little more. My uncle has thrown his life away. And not only his, but my mom’s, my nana’s, and his son’s. I know I don’t have to explain to you how stressed my family always is now that he’s in jail. Everyone is on edge all the time. I used to hate him for turning my mom into a different person, for making her cry every day. But now I hate his addiction. It’s his fault for allowing “the monster” into his life, but is it his fault he doesn’t know how to ask it to leave?

I have used marijuana for two years (I’m now GUFN, thanks for teaching my mom her favorite new word). I got caught, and honestly, when I read about Kristina, it reminds me of how I acted. I didn’t really realize how heartbreaking it is for my mom to see me using drugs at such a young age, when she knows I’ve seen what it has done to my family. I haven’t smoked in ten days, pretty good considering I haven’t been clean in two years. I know it’s a gateway drug. But there is no way in hell I would ever do anything hard. Especially because I see myself in Kristina. And that scares me. Thanks for teaching me enough about drugs to know that if they are offered to me, to turn and run, fast.

YOU’VE GIVEN ME HOPE

Identical is the most intense work of literature I’ve ever read. I’ve never felt so close to anything in my entire life. The only thing that’s made life bearable this month was having the opportunity to read your books, relate to them, and realize that I’m not alone and I never have been.

First of all, thanks. A ton. You’re such an inspiration to so many people. I was nervous to read about all these intense topics. And at points, I found myself in tears because everything is so real. I’m fifteen. But since I was almost ten, I’ve had two different sexual abuse cases opened. It started with a family member, moved to his friends. It was tough to live with for a while. It reminded me how scary it was to deal with as I read the sections in Identical that talk about Kaeleigh’s fear, when she counts her father’s footsteps in the hall, scared of what’s coming next. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried that hard in my life. But it was okay, because although it’s fictional, these things really happen and I’m not going through them by myself.

Physical abuse came next, and it was scary. And from there, I struggled with

addictions to cutting and alcohol. Alcohol is finally gone, but cutting is still near, and I think about it a lot. It’s been twenty-six days since I’ve picked up a razor and used it against myself. Progress is progress.

Suicide is very real. Addiction is very real. Abuse is very real. But hope and faith and love are also very real. And they can often outweigh the struggles. Maybe I just want to tell you that you’ve given me hope and security. Thanks for listening, and thanks for turning frightening topics into conversation. Because, truly, they’re important.

YOU’VE GIVEN ME A VOICE

I want to say thank you for your books. I was seventeen when Crank came out, and it helped me out by giving me a voice to tell someone what happened to me. Normally, I didn’t choose to read this kind of book because it would bring back too many memories, ones that I have tried to repress. My mother was kind of like Kristina in your book. Some of my earliest memories are of me getting beaten or raped so she could get her next fix. By the time I was five, the only thing I knew was abuse.

When I got put into foster care, I was kind of like Maya Angelou, I didn’t speak, I couldn’t find my voice. As I got older I got better, but I only spoke when absolutely necessary. I don’t know why I picked up your book, but it seemed to be the key to my voice. I found a good friend to talk to. He was all I had. He had (and still has) trouble shutting me up. The very morning I finished Crank I got up, got dressed, went to his house, and for some reason told him everything. It made me feel so good to finally have a voice. You gave it to me. You were like that lady that helped Maya get her voice, but for me.

YOU’VE SAVED MY LIFE

Impulse. The three stories in the book will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I have been suicidal for over a year. I thought dying would just make everything better. Make myself and everyone else happier. I thought nobody would care if I died.

The end of Impulse really affected me.

I grew attached to all three of the characters. I felt like they were my friends. I loved them. Related to them. Connected with them. Understood them. Vanessa . . . Tony . . . and Conner.

The ending of Impulse left me in tears. Shock.

Disbelief. Frustration. Confusion.

I read Impulse a few months ago and I still feel the way I felt about the ending.

I’ve read your other books as well. I loved them. They’re on the top of my bookshelf, my favorite books.

But Impulse really, really touched my heart. No book has ever made me feel the way I felt once I finished the last page.

I wish I could change his decision. Help him. Fix it. But it’s too late. Suicide is a permanent end to a temporary problem.

I was once suicidal. Not anymore.

You saved me. After reading Impulse, I realized that suicide does not have to be the end.

I’m still breathing. Crying. Smiling. Lying. Laughing. Loving. Living.

I’m still alive. You’re my hero. Thank you.

These are just a few of the thousands I’ve received over the years. You can find many more on the tribute wall on my website. How could I not find inspiration from readers, who share their stories with me, often in person, after book gs or school visits? How could stories like these not touch my heart? How could I ever stop writing real stories, inspired by real people, knowing my books have the power to change lives?

This is why I push back against would-be censors, who claim my books are too dark or edgy, when what they mean is “real.” Yes, real life can be scary, and I represent that in my books. But I also write about love and hope and light beyond the darkness. And as long as I can bring a little of that light into my readers’ lives, I’m going to keep on writing and keep making it real.

Turn the page to read as the real “Kristina” shares her side of the story.

Kristina Speaks Up

“KRISTINA”

I’m not exactly sure where to begin, but to describe where my heart was at the beginning and how it got lost along the way. Any way you look at things, I’d like it to be known that I’ve always wanted to do the right thing. Even when it came right down to destruction and carnage in my wake, I looked upon myself in a kind of helpless and detached way: a flailing enger on a tumultuous runaway train destined to destroy everything in my path, knowing my own demise would be eminent upon encountering the slightest obstacle, yet still unable to do anything but watch on autopilot and hang on for dear life. I don’t blame anyone for my actions, or try to blame a bad childhood for my faults—in all actuality I had a very privileged upbringing. I didn’t really see it as such, being your typical teenager, but my problems weren’t anything to put into a storybook. I believed I was “blooming” when I began acting out, and I really did create a kind of alter ego to carry the guts-and-glory part of things through. Without that part of me, I might have actually become valedictorian and gone on to college. It’s a tiny bit scary that this same me could quite possibly have been a judge or lawyer and responsible for defending or condemning the very same kinds of people that I ultimately became, isn’t it? My only reason for showing little to no resistance to the dark side was yearning. Deep and mourning within my soul lived a desire so desperate to be assuaged that it consumed my dreams: I wanted to be accepted and embraced by the other kids more than anything in the world. I looked at the pretty girls and wanted to look like even the plainest of them so that I would be accepted and ired and would fit in. I longed for the cruel little tyrants to like me, but I had glasses and straight As and had not yet come into any real maturity, even by the end of the eighth grade, when all “those” girls had boyfriends and went to parties. I suppose a child of any age with a traumatized heart becomes easily malleable when her deepest desire becomes a possibility. When it comes down to a search

of the soul, I suppose I would even go so far as to say that I still feel the desire for attention and approval from anyone in my vicinity. I’ve fought to reach a point where most of me is so far beyond that cosmetic crap, it’s unbelievable, yet that one little seed remains at the back of my skull, nagging my brain like a tiny parasite. And sometimes it surfaces no matter how hard I fight it, or how far beyond shallowness I believe I have advanced. Everyone grows up eventually, and as I became more and more willing to throw all caution to the wind, it never occurred to me to stop and take a look at myself. My transformation came almost overnight, and suddenly one day the boys began to notice me. Well, one boy at first, but after that they came almost too easily. The “bad boys” called to me like the sirens of myth and lore called to sailors, and each step I took toward them led me further and further astray. I still saw myself as the ugly duckling, and each flirtation built my confidence to new levels. I had finally found my own power and that in itself was the first and most addictive drug in my arsenal of self-destructive weapons. Still, for some reason, I couldn’t fully see that I had magically become an actual beauty. It was like some unseen force kept a shroud over the person I had become, and every flaw I possessed became magnified in my mind and heart until I reached a point where I obsessed over each tiny thing and constantly felt incomplete—always striving for greatness in the eyes of others and constantly failing to ask myself what could make me happy with myself. In the middle of my freshman year, I adopted an ironclad facade of a trendsetter. I clung to the disguise for so long that, after years of putting up a front, I actually finally figured out how to believe in the fictional person I had created. In doing so I found liberation. I realized that people didn’t want a weak-minded little girl who simpered at their feet and rushed to please. They wanted “Bree,” as my mother so aptly named her, the self-confident leader of the pack who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and didn’t give a damn what they thought of her or anything she did. And that is exactly who I showed them. I pretended to be a self-confident, mellow “stoner” who started trends because my style was the only one that mattered. Of course, Bree was an entirely made-up person. I decided to let surface an exact opposite of who I felt I was, and amazing things began to happen. The girls stopped trying to beat me up, and then went out of their way to make friends with me. Ironically, they fell over themselves to please me because I successfully made them think I couldn’t care less if they liked me or not. I couldn’t believe

the difference in their attitudes and actions. That made it even more important to build my walls of smoke and mirrors so they would not find out that the only reason I “liked” certain music, clothes, hobbies, and people was because they did. I lived alone, inside myself, because I was afraid to draw attention to myself that might send my carefully mortared walls tumbling down as a result of a lack of structural integrity. ¹ So this was where my soul fretted and when I reached the first really bad decision to be made—the first of the evils that led me down a shadowed path and dragged many friends and loved ones through the depths of my abysmal undertow. It seemed like a harmless thing to smoke a cigarette, a deliciously bad little habit to hide from my mom and stepfather, one that would immediately curry favor among the popular and make me feel as if I had taken a huge step toward liberation. Truth be told, I actually went through a kind of indescribable misery to accomplish this feat of stupidity. I realized, after trying to fake smoking for a week or so, that I looked like an obvious poser. After all, a true smoker can see when somebody doesn’t inhale. The first time I inhaled nicotine into my lungs I didn’t even cough, and this, of course, boosted my confidence, and I happily smoked an entire cigarette immediately before classes began at school. I felt fine and I fit into the group like I had always belonged there. My spirits soared! The bell rang and we filed in to first period like we did on any other day, but my heart was pulsing with a kind of jubilant song. For the moment, nothing was even remotely amiss in a place where anxiety normally prevailed. Ten or fifteen minutes into my English class, my euphoria ended abruptly. My face broke out in a cold sweat and my limbs began to shake. I got up from my chair and ran like Satan himself was at my heels. I made it to the bathroom, but I was a long way from the toilet. I spewed things I swear I ate for dinner three or four nights prior, and I bawled like a newborn as I splashed the floor and wall with filth I can’t even begin to describe. When my gut was finally emptied, I felt much better, but I knew right away what had made me sick, and I dreaded the days to come. I wondered if smoking would always cause this reaction and I feared the answer yet continued on my path with perseverance. I found out in the most awful way that some people’s bodies take about two weeks to adapt to the strength of the nicotine bombarding them before they develop any kind of addiction or immunity, but still I pressed on in the same daily fashion until I woke up one day and realized I needed a smoke. The whole journey to that point

had kept me wondering how in the ever-loving hell people could get hooked in the first place if the price was so high. This was kind of the way I progressed through each bumbling experiment, first with booze, which I hated, and then with marijuana, which I abhorred. I continued to misuse both with single-minded purpose, however, because I refused to be deterred. Both pot and alcohol made me feel detached from the world. “In a tunnel” is the sensation my sister and I used to describe the experience. Being intoxicated in these ways filled me full of dread because I hated feeling helpless and out of control. I had to know I was completely in command of my mind and able to retain my sanity and my disguise or I constantly feared for my adeptness in the crowd. I was forced to carefully control my own usage while convincing others I was using far more pot and alcohol than I actually was, which is not an easy feat. I also detested feeling dizzy and nauseous and, once again, could not see what all the hype was about or why on God’s planet people got off on being helpless and flailing on the carpet. They actually bragged about ing out in their own vomit, but I could not stomach the thought of showing signs of weakness. I was already lost in a world I couldn’t fathom, and I didn’t even realize yet that life, as I had it structured, was very soon about to crumble. Shortly after I turned fifteen, I decided the next logical step toward destruction would be to get losing my virginity out of the way. Not because I had any desire for the sexual aspect of things, but because I was sick of being the “odd man out” when sex came into any discussion. It didn’t take long to do just that, but I didn’t feel any different when it was all said and done. I didn’t achieve the desired epiphany. The fantasy that girls have about their entire life having meaning once they become a woman was all a load of crap, and I became even further disillusioned. There was little to no enjoyment for me in sex. Somehow I had led myself into a trap that now left me obliged to get the tedious chore out of the way before I could build any relationships or be taken seriously. I never even knew what kind of enjoyment a female could find in the whole business until I was much, much older. As a result, I sank deeper into bleakness. By the time I was nearing seventeen years old, I had let too many things fall apart on the surface. I was careless with my schoolwork, and I aroused the suspicions and anger of my parents with almost frightening frequency. I behaved in appalling ways at parties and just in general. Even thinking about some of

these things now is downright embarrassing. Suffice it to say that my mother was very ontarget with a good number of the assumptions in her story. One of the things I found most amazing was how she intuited who the “good guys” and “bad guys” were. For instance, without really knowing (and definitely without liking) “Chase,” she seemed to know he really did love me and had my best interests at heart. But there was so much more she never imagined. Like the fact that I not only trafficked meth but also manufactured it heavily for a while. Or like the time one of the guys² I moved in with pulled out a gun and shot someone right in the head. I was standing not two feet away, and the sight of that messed me up for years. It would take thousands of paragraphs to relate them all, and I’m not sure I have the courage to confess every secret. I do know this: at first the horror stories I had heard about crank were sufficient to keep me afraid and I swore I would never breach the line between harmless drugs like weed and dangerously addictive drugs like speed. I stayed away because I was terrified of overdosing and getting brain damage and everything else that has been attributed to any controlled substance that comes in a white or powdered form. I truly wish that whatever genius launched the DARE program would cease whining about the dangers of pot and put some real effort into scaring the daylights out of would-be methamphetamine enthusiasts before all hell breaks loose in their lives. Because it wasn’t at all hard to break my resolve when some friendly peer pressure was applied to just the right places. In fact, considering how hard I fought to avoid breaching the divide up until that point, it was really easy. And once I crossed the line, there was no prayer of turning back. What’s truly and sickeningly funny is that I often bragged that I didn’t have an “addictive personality,” using this lie as a cover for not getting completely hammered during past forays into less frightening vices. I hadn’t the slightest clue how wrong I was. For some reason, in the midst of the blurred haze that encomed a sizable portion of my past, I everything about the first time I tried crank, down to the smallest detail. I sat in my friend’s old Pontiac, squished in with four of my closest comrades in the parking lot of a slimy old bowling alley, and I watched as they made four smallish lines on a cracked CD case. My best friend, “Robyn,” goaded me to try a little. I resisted, mostly because I was afraid of the burn, but I hated the thought of being the only one not included in the party.

Finally she persuaded me to snort a tiny blast made from the remnants of the other lines. That way, if I didn’t like it, the effects wouldn’t be nearly so powerful. I caved in like a virgin on prom night. I felt almost no pain from the initial impact, and almost instantly my heartbeat increased and my spirit leaped in a way that made me feel truly in control of my own destiny. I was hooked, and I wanted—no, needed—to know how far I could go and what heights I could achieve. Suddenly crank became the world’s most harmless little drug in my mind, so as to more easily justify each time I dabbled in the wondrous euphoria that made me feel alive and helped me believe my uncertainties had been vanquished. As with any addiction, at first it was a once-in-a-while pleasure, but it became an all-consuming ion before I even had time to wonder how I got lost in the grip of the monster. I found, for a time, a substance that sated my great hunger, and my common sense lost its foothold. I have countless regrets and hundreds of memories that would make the strongest man’s skin crawl to hear them recounted. I may find the courage to completely purge my demons when there is more blank paper and hours of time in which to search my past. The story has not been completely told yet, and I would not want to ruin any surprises that “Kristina” has yet to relate, but just know that there is no such thing as easy fulfillment of your greatest desire. There’s a reason God does not always give us everything we ask for, and that is most people don’t really know what they want. Fewer still have a clue what they actually need. I put myself through the darkest drawn-out hell anyone could possibly imagine, and I dragged people with me who should never have had to experience pain inflicted by my hand. I’m filled with deep remorse. Meth poisoned more than my body. It poisoned my life. I am ashamed of what I allowed it to do to me and to my integrity. I can only hope that I will be able to keep others from making the same mistake. If I can prevent even one person from taking the same path I have, then it all will have been worth it. No matter what the struggle these days, I comfort myself knowing that I have been through worse things, and anything else that could possibly get thrown at me from this point on will be a learning experience and nothing more. My soul is at rest and it’s become a bit easier to find a smile in the tiny beautiful things that life has to offer. There’s no real way for me to travel the universe, attempting to save people or

anything, but I suppose that’s not my intention anyway. I just want a few people to open their eyes and see the possibilities that surround us but are overlooked more times than they are noticed—to understand more fully the repercussions that can be incurred so easily with a seemingly unimportant little dalliance. And maybe to appreciate just a little the things we so often take for granted. I’ve spent years tearing at my bindings again and again only to design yet another oubliette to puzzle through until I find the chink in the bricks and can begin anew to tear them down. I travel in circles like a diabolical carousel in a horror novel. But I have finally found freedom in the ability to battle my demons and win. My world has become a lovely place because I appreciate each and every moment of life not spent in the hands of the monster. Oh, now don’t get me wrong—I still dream about him from time to time. I still miss his kiss and the escape from pain that he offers. I still think about getting high just one more time so the world will make sense for a heartbeat or two, but I have found the strength to fight him off, for which I am eternally grateful. I urge you to never forget that addiction is not easily controlled and very rarely completely beaten. If you’re already in recovery, never be so sure of yourself that you take the wrong risk and get pulled back into oblivion. The hunger will hit you when your back is turned. Learn to see that life is the most precious gift and if you piss it away, you’ll wake up one day and realize it’s over before you ever got a chance to really live. Do your best to find joy in the sunshine or a rainbow or in the simple smile of another. If you succeed, you will feel a weight lift from your heart. There’s a universe full of endless promise. It carries many pitfalls and there is a price that must be paid, but if you look for only the good in things, you’ll find that the bad won’t tear you down nearly so thoroughly. Discover your wonder before it becomes too fleeting to capture long enough to know it was even there.

1. I think most people act in whatever regrettable ways they do because of fear— a lack of trust in the humanity of the human race. We’re just all too ignorant to open our eyes to our true motivations, and too self-centered to care about anything more than our own skins first and foremost.

2. This guy was also the chemist who showed me how to cook meth.

More from the Author People Kill People

Our Stories, Our Voices

Life Inside My Mind

The You I've Never Known

Traffick

Rumble

Keep reading for a preview of

Rumble

by

Ellen Hopkins

In the Narrow Pewter Space

Between the gray of consciousness and the obsidian where dreams ebb and flow, there is a wishbone window. And trapped in its glass, a single silver shard of enlightenment.

It is this mystics search for. The truth of the Holy Grail. It is this believers pray for. The spark, alpha and omega. It is this the gilded claim to hold in the cups of their hands. But what

of those who plunge into slumber, who snap from sleep’s embrace? What of those who measure their tomorrows with finite numbers, cross them off their calendars one by

one? Some say death is a doorway, belief the key. Others claim you only have to stumble across the threshold to glimpse a hundred billion universes in the blink of single silver shard.

Have Faith

That’s what people keep telling me. Faith that things will get better. Faith that bad things happen for a reason. Implicit in that ridiculous statement is the hand of some extraterrestrial magician. Some all-powerful creator,

which, if his faithful want to be totally frank about it, would also make him/her/it an omnipotent destroyer. Because if some God carefully sows each seed of life, he is also flint for the relentless sun beating down upon his crops until

they wither into dust. Zygotes to ashes or some other poignant phrase. And why would any of that make someone feel better about snuffing out? The end

result is the same. You get a few years on this sad, devolving planet.

If you’re lucky, you experience love, someone or two or three to gentle your time, fill the hollow spaces. If you’re really fortunate, the good outweighs the bad. In my eighteen years all I’ve seen is shit tipping the scales.

Case in Point

I’ve been abruptly summoned to the front of the classroom at the urgent request of my English teacher, the oh-sodisturbed, Savannah-belle-wannabe Ms. Hannity, emphasis on the Mizz. She pretends sympathy, for what, I’ve no clue, and like she gives half

a damn about anything but clinging, ironfisted, to her job. Mr. Turnahhhh. Fake “South” taints her voice and her eyes—no doubt she’d describe them as “cornflower”—are wide with mock concern. Would you please come he-ah for a minute?

I think she thinks she’s whispering, but twenty-seven pairs of eyes home

in on me. I straight-on laser every one until they drop like dead fly duos. “Yes, ma’am?” The feigned respect isn’t lost on her, and she doesn’t bother

to lower her voice. Mistah Carpentah wishes a word with you. Please see him now. And the rest of y’all, get back to work. This doesn’t concern you.

Why, Then

Did she make it exactly everyone’s concern? The ends of my fingers tingle and my jaw keeps working itself forward. Backward. Forward. I force it sideways and audibly, painfully, it pops.

For some messed-up reason she smiles at that. I really want to slap that stinking grin off her face. But then I’d get expelled, and that would humiliate my father, everyone’s favorite science teacher, not to

mention the coach of the best basketball team this school has seen in a dozen years. Then Mom would bitch at him for not kicking my ass and at me for turning him into such a wuss, until I had no choice but to flee from our miserable

termite-ridden shack. And I’d have to live in my fume-sucking truck, eating pilfered ramen, drinking Mosby Creek water until I got the runs so bad I’d wind up in the ER, hoping Dad hadn’t had time to dump me from his insurance.

And, despite all that, Mizz nose-up-my-ass Hannity would still be a rip-roaring bitch.

As I Wind Up

That extended interior monologue, I notice everyone is once again staring at me, waiting for some overt exterior reaction.

Expecting, I’m sure, one of my infamous blowups. More fun to keep ’em guessing. “Can you tell me why he wants to see me?

Have I done something I’m not aware of?” I’m pulling off As in every class. Maintaining the pretense that all is well, despite everything

being completely messed up. It would be nice to have some idea of what I’m walking into. But Hannity gives nothing away. Just go.

Don’t flip her off. Don’t flip her off. Don’t . . . I flip her off mentally, sharp turn on one heel,

head toward the door. Laser. Laser. Laser.

Pairs of dead flies drop as I , anger obviously obvious in the death beam of my eyes. What now? All I want is to be left alone. All I want

is to cruise in radar-free space. Scratch that. What I really want is to disappear. Except, if this in-your-face place is all I’ll ever

get to experience, I’m not quite finished here. “Live large, go out with a huge bang,” that’s my motto. Too bad so many minuscule

moments make up the biggest part of every day. Moments like these. A familiar curtain of fury threatens to drop and smother me.

I push it away with a smile, hope no one takes a candid photo right now, because I’m as certain as I can be that I resemble

some serial killer. Tall. Good-looking. The boy next door, with near-zero affect. Totally fine by me. Keep ’em guessing.

I swear, I can hear the collective breathholding, all those goddamn flies hovering silently at my back. I plaster a grin. Spin.

“Boo!” Audible gasps. Yes! Okay, screw it. I flip off the lot of them, dig down deep for something resembling courage, and skip

from the room, a not-close-to-good-enough tribute to my little brother, Luke, deceased now one hundred sixty-eight days. Exactly.

A Tribute

So why do I stop just beyond the door, assess the scene . . . what am I waiting for? A sign? The hallway is vacant. Silent. No one to bear witness to . . . what? Some ill-conceived testimony? “Fuck you, Luke.”

Another pointless statement, echoing. Echoing. Echoing down the corridor. Luke. Luke. Luke. You selfish little prick. My eyes burn. No, damn it!

If the vultures see me cry, they’ll swoop in, try to finish me off. And I’m just so tired of fighting, they might actually

manage it this time. Screw that. They already got my brother. It will be a cold day in hell before I give up, give in, allow them to claim another victory.

I’m Not Quite

To Mr. Carpenter’s office when the bell rings. Okay, technically it’s a blare, not a bell. Some new-wave decided to replace the old buuurrrriing

with a blast of music so we don’t feel so much like we’re in school, despite the off-white cement walls and even offer-white linoleum, lined with

not-quite-khaki lockers. Doors slam open and out spills noise. Lots of it. Laughter and curses and screeches echoing down the corridor. I scan

the crowd, as I always do, hoping for even just a glimpse of her. There, on the far side of the counselors’ offices.

She’s hard to miss, my amazing girl—

a whole head taller than her pack of loser friends, with perfect slender curves and thick ropes of honey-colored hair. “Hayden!” I yell, though it’s impossible

to hear in this obnoxious swell. Yet she turns, and when those suede chocolate eyes settle on me, her diamond smile lifts my mood. She gestures for me to come there.

I shake my head, tip it in the direction of the counseling offices. Even from here, I can see the way concern crinkles her eyes at the edges. I shrug a silent, “No worries.”

That’s one thing I love about Hayden—how we can communicate without words. It’s not the only thing I love about her, or even close to the most important. But it’s really special,

sort of like Heath bar sprinkles over the vanilla cream cheese frosting on top of the very rich red velvet cupcake. Ultra extra deliciousness. Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s mine.

But knowing that—trusting it—helps me tilt my chin upward, straighten my shoulders, and put one foot in front of the other, toward Mr. Carpenter’s lair.

As Is Usual

Whenever you’re called, posthaste, to the counselor’s office, it becomes a game of Hurry Up and Wait. I sit on a hard plastic chair, pretty much the color of a rotting pumpkin, just outside the inner sanctum. Not a whole

lot to do but try and discern words in the muffled exchange behind the closed fiberglass door. This school is barely ten years old and the builders had some new tricks up their sleeves—things that might

thwart punches, kicks, and other assaults that damage painted wood. Eventually, the door clicks open, and Alexa Clarke emerges, thin

tracks of mascara trailing down her cheeks. Guess it didn’t go so well.

Hayden and Alexa used to be best friends, until Alexa veered off the straight and narrow, or whatever. Personally, I have no problem with detours. “Hey, Lex.” I grin. “Thanks for warming Carpenter up for me.”

The Defiance

So obvious only seconds ago melts from her eyes, and she manages a smile.

Warm. Yeah, right. But it’s all good. He’s only on you ’cause he cares.

“I’ll that.” I’ve barely spit the words from my mouth when

Mr. Carpenter’s hulking form appears in the doorway. Come on in, Mr. Turner.

“So formal? I thought we were on a first-name basis.” I pretend hurt,

and he pretends to be hard of hearing. Please go on back to class, Miss Clarke.

Alexa and I do a mutual eye roll thing and as she leaves I call, “Always

important to understand motives. Thanks for letting me know he cares.”

Without turning around, she flips a hand up over her shoulder. To slaughter I will go.

Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O

That’s what I’m humming as I take the seat on the far side of Carpenter’s desk. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, or lost it even worse than he figured I’d lost it, or whatever.

I could ask what’s up, I guess. But this is his party. It’s up to him to kick it off.

I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here. He looks at me like

I really should know. But I seriously don’t. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I hear I have a twin, and people see him smoking sometimes. Personally, cancer scares the crap out of me, and—”

His head rocks side to side. Don’t mess with me, Mr. Turner. This isn’t funny.

Damn. He really looks concerned. “Mr. Carpenter, my grades are jake, I’m not abusing drugs, I don’t beat my girlfriend. I have absolutely no idea why I’m here. Please enlighten me.”

The Weight of His Sigh

Could crush an elephant. I mean, really, what could I have done to rate that?

He moves a folder from atop a stack of papers, pushes a thin sheaf across his desk. Oh. Duh.

Ms. Hannity thought maybe this was worthy of some discussion.

It’s my senior essay: Take Your God and Shove It. I thought the title was a nice

play on words. “I’m sorry, but what, exactly, is the problem? Looks like she gave me an A.”

It’s not the grade, obviously. But the content raises a red flag or two.

My first reaction is a wholly inappropriate snort, courtesy of the picture that popped up

in my head—paragraph two, page four, hit the last word and “Taps” plays as a scarlet banner

lifts off the page. But as that vision fades, and I consider why I wrote what I did, every crumb of humor

disappears, smashed into powder by a huge fist of anger. Adrenaline thumps in the veins at my temples.

I summon every ounce of will.

Detonating will accomplish exactly nothing. “I’m afraid

you’ll have to be a little more specific, Mr. [Carpentah] uh, Carpenter. What worries you?”

He clears his throat. Let’s start with your thesis statement. . . .

Which Would Be

There is no God, no benevolent ruler of the earth, no omnipotent Grand Poobah of countless universes. Because if there was, there would be no warring or genocide in his name; those created “in his image” would be born enlightened, no genuflecting or tithing required; and my little brother would still be fishing or playing basketball instead of fertilizing cemetery vegetation. And since there is no God, this nonentity has no place in government or education and certainly not in constitutional law. The separation of church and state must remain sacrosanct.

No bonus points for using the word sacrosanct? “I’m sorry, but was I not clear enough? Or was it the ‘Grand Poobah’ thing? Because if that’s offensive, I don’t mind changing it. Although—”

That’s enough. You know, Matthew, some people might find your biting sarcasm humorous. But I have to wonder what lies beneath it. Tell me. Just what are you trying to hide?

Fucking Great

The last thing I need is more therapy courtesy of some armchair shrink. “Surely the school district isn’t paying you to attempt psychoanalysis?” I summon my best pretend smile.

His shoulders stiffen like drying concrete. Ahem. See . . . uh . . . Ms. Hannity thinks I should mention our concerns to your par—

“You mean Mizzzzz Hannity, right?” I interrupt. A change of subject matter is probably wise. “You know, if you’ve got nothing more important to worry about than my essay,

maybe you don’t have enough to do.

So, here’s what I think. You should petition the Lane County School District to the authenticity of Ms. Hannity’s birth certificate.”

Consternated. That’s the only way to describe the look on his face. Wha—wha—what do you mean?

“Well, it’s obviously fictitious, don’t you think? Jeez, man, my brother talked me into watching Gone with the Wind once and Mizz Hannity is sooooo not Scarlett O’Hara.”

His jaw literally drops, exposing a mouth full of fillings. Old silver mercury-laden ones. When I stare, he snaps his mouth closed. Shut up. I mean it. This is really not funny.

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you, let alone question the veracity of Ms. Hannity’s Southernness. I just think this is all much ado about nothing, to quote

the Bard. An essay should express an opinion, correct? My opinion is that it’s inappropriate to allow religion—any religion—to influence the laws that govern this country. That’s a valid

viewpoint, right? And even if it’s not somehow, it’s mine, and I’m allowed to hold it, not to mention argue it.”

He Tries Another Tack

I watch as his whole demeanor softens, like gelatin on a hot plate. Matthew, the truth is, I’m worried about you. I’m not sure you’ve really processed Luke’s death. It’s been almost six months. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?

That fist of pissed again, only this time it smashes me square in the face. “Dude, I have fucking moved on. I don’t call him to dinner anymore. I don’t think I hear him coming in the back door. I hardly ever dream

about how he looked when . . . when I found him. But if you mean I should accept what happened, you’re out of your mind!” Winded,

I catch a breath, realize I’ve been yelling, lower my voice. “I never will.”

Mr. Carpenter studies my face, and what he finds there—truth, that’s all he can possibly see—seems to make him sad. I’m sorry you feel that way, Matthew. But what happened to Luke wasn’t God’s fault. Why blame him?

For a Counselor

This guy is awfully dense. “I’m not sure how you draw the conclusion that I blame God when I clearly state I’m one hundred percent certain no such creature exists.”

I don’t understand. His eyes hold genuine confusion. Maybe even shock.

“I’m an atheist. You know, a nonbeliever. Considering Lane County demographics, you must have run into another one before. I can’t be the only sane person in this school.”

He yanks himself together. That may be. But the others don’t brag about it.

Blah, blah, blah. The game grows old. “All I did was state my opinion. Do you

actually see that as bragging? Because seriously, Mr. Carpenter, I don’t.”

But there’s more. He loses steam. It’s . . . it’s the tone of your writing.

The tone? Angry? Yeah, but more. Bitter? Closer, but not quite. Acerbic? Almost. Caustic. That’s it. Still. “Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”

It’s a Total Lie

Not sure there’s been a single day of my life when everything was totally fine. And now?

The best I can say is once in a while I’m not somersaulting in chaos. I sink into my well-

practiced bullshit-the-shrink tone of voice. “Look, Mr. Carpenter. It has been a rough

few months. Losing Luke did throw me off balance for a while, but day by day

it gets a little better. I appreciate your concern. Ms. Hannity’s, too, and I understand where

it comes from. The truth is, you’re right. I will never forgive the people who are

ultimately responsible for Luke’s demise. But I don’t really see why I have to.”

Maintaining your sanity? He gives a tiny smile. Anyway, be very careful of the blame

game. It can get you into all kinds of trouble. And it’s always possible that you’re wrong.

Doesn’t Matter

If I’m wrong or right (not that I’m wrong). All I want is out of here, so I agree, keeping a perfectly straight face. “I know. And thanks.”

Unbelievably, he lets me leave without another comment, not even another warning to play a less provocative game. He’s not stupid, and neither

am I. We both understand what’s at stake, and it’s more than my sanity. It’s my freedom. Lockup’s the only thing that frightens me.

The one insistent whisper of fear has kept my temper mostly in check these past few months. More than once, I thought about taking a dead-

of-night slow cruise through certain neighborhoods, drawing a long bead on designated silhouettes

shadowing their bedroom windows. One squeeze

of my Glock’s trigger, and BLAM! Eye-for-an-eye justice, just like their Good Book calls for. But then that niggling little voice would ask me to consider life

walled in by concrete and metal bars. That would do me in, and I’m not quite ready to check on out of here yet. I’ve got some living to do. Hard living.

Continue Reading…

Rumble

Ellen Hopkins

Also by Ellen Hopkins

Crank

Burned

Impulse

Glass

Identical

Tricks

Fallout

Perfect

Tilt

Smoke

Rumble

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 places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2010 by Ellen Hopkins “My Greatest Inspiration: My Readers” copyright © 2013 by Ellen Hopkins “Kristina Speaks Up” copyright © 2009 by “Kristina,” Flirtin’ With the Monster, BenBella Books 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. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Also available in a Margaret K. McElderry Books hardcover edition Book design by Mike Rosamilia The text for this book is set in Trade Gothic Condensed First Margaret K. McElderry Books paperback edition September 2012 The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

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) [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 ISBN 978-1-4424-7180-1 (paperback) ISBN 978-1-4424-0945-3 (eBook)