Fallout (6 page)

the angle of the neck

the shattered skull.

Everything. Everything about this
girl is broken.

In the shower

the heat

the steam

the water

the endless hot tears

swirl through and around and into
me

into the street scene so real

that sometimes I wonder

Should I stay unclean?

Snap the taps back off

wrap the towel around me

sink to the floor

a locked door between me and

all those funeral preparations

relatives hunched over the dining
room table

struggling to write the obituary

waiting for me to join them

to help honor the life that was my
sister's.

She checked out

made it easy on herself.

But what about us?

What about me?

The way forward, through the
bathroom door

littered with saying the wrong thing

smiling when the last thing I want
to do is smile.

The way back, through time, a
minefield of

what-ifs

if-onlys

I-should-haves.

Or I can stay here

in the quiet of this small room

until someone panics

breaks down the door.

The applause carries me back to our table.

“Good job,” Maddy says. “You'll get through to round two for sure.”

Ebony nods. “Shh. Karl's up.”

Karl explodes with a poem about two Germanys before the Berlin Wall was taken down.

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot to kill.

We protect our citizens

keep them safe behind the wall.

Ebony is next. Her whole body lifts into the poem. Her mother black, her father white, she lives in a simmering space between. The words tumble and roll around her. She rises up onto her toes, her hips moving this way and that. She is fierce in the challenges she throws at us.

People shout and bang mugs on tables even before the last words fade away. She drops her face into her hands and backs away from the mic. When she slides back into the empty seat beside me, she cannot suppress a smile.

“Good,” I say. “You made it.”

She crosses her fingers and holds them high.

Six of us move on to the second round of the night. Everyone is sharp and hungry.

Blake, tonight's emcee, says, “Please welcome Tara Manson.”

This is what's in the mail:

Two men and a strong ladder

to fix your gutter

hungry students to paint your house.

Phone bill. VISA statement.

Who cares? stuff

arrives every day.

Then, a fat envelope

soft with crinkles as if

it had been well-handled

or stuffed in a backpack

or hidden under a mattress

or all of the above.

Addressed to me.

It isn't my name

that hits me like a punch to the gut.

It's the loopy handwriting

a heart over the letter
i

each time it appears.

Wild thoughts crash into each other

a hailstorm

of jumbled questions.

Where is Hannah writing from?

If the girl in front of the bus wasn't
Hannah

then who?

On my bed

legs crossed

hands quivering

I tear open the envelope and

tug out the contents

start with the letter

written—in haste?

With plenty of time to consider?

Dear Tara

By the time you read this

I will be gone.

Don't be sad it's better like this.

It doesn't matter if I am
around anymore

you and Mom and Dad
deserve to be happy

it's bad that you are always
worrying about me.

She goes on to explain
no friends no life no hope no future
nothing but some kind of dark hole
where she has no interest in staying.
She doesn't expect me to understand.

I am a drain on you and
everyone.

I know you are trying to help

but that isn't your job.

You will be happy at university

and this way you don't need to
worry.

If I do this now

you won't have to miss

any school for the funeral.

As if missing school for the funeral

might have been a hardship

as if going to a funeral

is something you want to do

instead of other things

as if there's no contest

as if this is a logical choice

Stupid stupid stupid ass.

I love you forever and always

your sister

Hannah

I turn it over and over and over

looking for more—over and over—

trying to find Hannah

over and over—

Written on the back

of a fast-food restaurant tray liner

the note dodges grease spots.

The page swims before my eyes

wobbly, uncertain

real and final.

Tucked into the envelope

a napkin

scarred with chicken-scratch lists

Dad

Cash (not much, sorry
look in my purse, bank
account closed)

School books and papers

(or just burn them)

I hear the
or whatever
she has

not added.

Mom

Books

Riding ribbons, trophies
etcetera

Tara

Riding stuff (I think it's all
down in the basement)

Earrings (except for horse-
shoes—those to Jackie)

Books (share with Mom)

Clothes (or give away to
charity)

The pen had skipped and blotted

over her last will and testament

scribbled in a booth?

on a hard plastic seat?

at the bus stop?

Earrings. Books. Clothes.

Did she expect us to appreciate

this thoughtful gesture?

Did she imagine we'd be thankful that

even in her time of despair

she was thinking of us

when, clearly, she was not thinking
of us at all

or she would have known that this
pitiful offering

was so shallow—so selfish

a transparent attempt to ease her
conscience

by tidying up her room

putting her affairs in some kind of
order.

My name is on the envelope

and this is how it slips under my
lacy bras

and silk panties

tucks into a dark corner and rests
there awhile

until the time comes

to share this last moment of
Hannah's

with the handful of others

who need to know.

Chapter Thirteen

Slams are different from regular poetry readings. At an old-fashioned poetry reading the audience is polite even when the poetry sucks. At a slam, crowds sometimes hiss and boo. Things aren't quite that bad tonight, but I'm not surprised when my name is not one of the four second-round winners.

Ebony advances and so does a skinny guy called Mike. He looks about twelve but he's actually twenty. Mike is hilarious. He does a poem about the war between a procrastinator and his conscience. We're all grabbing for napkins so we don't spray our drinks everywhere.

Karl, the German guy, moves on, even though I don't think his second poem is that great. Rosie, the fast-talking food girl, is the fourth poet to survive to round three.

It's a relief, in a way, to be able to sit back and listen.

The last round is intense. Ebony does a great job with a poem about the pleasures of sleep. I doubt I'm the only one ready for bed by the time she's done. Even though Karl's poem about a puppet is really clever, he doesn't stand a chance, and Ebony winds up being the big winner of the night.

“Congratulations,” I say. “Nice,” I add, examining her gift basket. It's full of fancy chocolates and good coffee. She also won the big cash prize of thirty-five bucks.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “Sorry about tonight.”

I shrug. “It's okay,” I say, though it isn't.

The organizers of the slam series are over behind the counter, punching calculator buttons. Tonight's the night they announce the team. It would be better to know if I'm not going. We all hold hands under the table when the emcee, Blake, steps up on the stage and grabs the mic.

“What an exciting series this has been. Let's have a round of applause for all the poets.”

I squeeze Ebony's hand and she squeezes back.

“As I announce the winners' names, please come up here onstage so we can share the love!” Hoots and whoops fill the coffee shop. “The following fine poets will represent our fair city at the National Poetry Slam to be held in Corinthian two weeks from now!”

“Karl Meisner—”

“I knew he'd make it,” Maddy says.

“Tiffany Hwan. And…Ebony Graham.”

I let go of Ebony's hand. “Congratulations!” Ebony's huge grin says it all.

“We have an odd situation here,” Blake says as Ebony joins the others onstage. “We have a tie for fourth place—Tara Manson and Rosie McCarthy. Would you lovely ladies please join us up on stage?”

Stunned, I do as I'm told.

“We're allowed to send four team members and one alternate. One of you two will be our fourth and the other the alternate, and…” Blake shuffles through his papers and then asks Geoff, who's in charge of the sound system, “What did we decide?”

“We didn't!” Geoff booms from the back of the room. “We'll figure out a fair way to choose our fourth, but either way, you're both going to Nationals.”

That seems to be enough to satisfy the crowd, and the place erupts into a wild frenzy of cheers and clapping.

Ebony gives me a huge hug. “Two weeks!” she says. “Corinthian, here we come!”

Back at our table, we're joined by the other team members and a skinny boy I've seen before but have never met.

“They should have just picked one of us,” Rosie says. She probably means they should have picked her. “It's not fair to not know who's on and who's not.”

“You're both going,” Ebony says. “They have special events for the alternates.”

“So cool you get to go again,” the skinny boy says. Karl is the only one who has been to Nationals before.

“Do you guys all know my brother, Ossie?” he asks, nudging the skinny boy with his elbow.

We exchange greetings and order another round of drinks. It's late and we're still buzzing when the baristas start sweeping up around us.

“Do you want to walk home?” Ebony asks.

“Good plan.” I'm wide awake now.

“I can walk with you as far as the train station,” Rosie says.

I don't know Rosie very well. Chatting with Ebony won't be the same. Then again, we're sort of teammates, so I suck it up and say, “Sure. You live over that way?”

“On Fifth. About two minutes from the station.”

Everyone else fades into the night and we head down Bingham Street. A light rain starts to fall when we take the shortcut through the park.

“What poem were you going to do if you'd made it through to the last round tonight?” Ebony asks.

Is she wondering if I performed the right pieces? If I had done things a little differently, maybe I would have had the extra point I needed to make the team. We're supposed to find out about the final decision at a team meeting in two days. How are they going to decide?

“I was going to do ‘Obituary
.
'”

“Is that the one where your family is fighting about what to put in the paper?”

“That's the one.”

“Can you do poetry and walk at the same time?” Ebony asks.

“That's okay. I'm sure Rosie doesn't want to—”

“No, go ahead.” Rosie's slow to say it.

Ebony barges in. “Don't be shy! Go on. There's nothing like an obituary poem to take your mind off the rain!”

Rosie shoves her hands deep in her pockets and keeps walking.

“You might need to do it at Nationals. Every chance to practice is good, right?”

I can't argue with that. “Fine.”

The dark shapes of trees and bushes are hiding places for who knows what kinds of people that haunt the park at night. The louder I am, the more likely I'll scare them off.

Fill in the blanks

and come up with an acceptable
obituary.

Our beloved so-and-so

taken too early

to return to God

leaving behind

loving husband wife

two sons a daughter

grandchildren

a dog

…after a valiant battle

cancer, stroke

Lived a full and happy life

old age.

Thank you to the caring staff