Fallout (33 page)

IF YOU BELIEVE THE HYPE

Pretty much everyone my age

has been doing it since puberty

claimed them. I have no idea

how

accurate that is, but think it must

be a gross exaggeration.

In health class, Mr. Vega said

most self-proclaimed virgins

will

resort to self-satisfaction. Just his

saying the word “masturbation” out

loud bellowed embers in my face.

I

have never … could never …

At least I’m pretty sure I could

never. Mr. Vega also said

that the best way to

know

what you like is to experiment

without a partner. What I like?

That’s up to me? And anyway,

I’m

afraid if I happen to figure out

what I like, I might never stop

doing it. OCD masturbation.

The world is definitely not

ready for that.

WONDER WHO THINKS I DO

Aunt Cora? Maybe, maybe not.

Seems like satisfaction of any type

would make one’s little gold flecks

multiply like jackrabbits. My aura

would sparkle like an Oscar-

night Yves St. Laurent. And anyway,

Aunt Cora is probably too busy

basking in her own satisfaction

to worry too much about mine.

Cherie? She thinks I do, of course

she does. She’s got a grubby mind.

Grandfather? No way. If he thought

such a thing, for even one

minute, he’d cure me, Baptist-style.

The only other person who might

care is Bryce. Oh God, I hope

he doesn’t think I do. Hope …

Wait one sec. Maybe I hope he does.

HOPE HE DOES

Because, so sayeth

Mr. Vega, the big M

is normal. I want Bryce

to think I’m normal,

though I suspect he

might guess otherwise.

(Guess otherwise and like me

anyway? What’s that about?)

Hope he does because

that would mean Bryce

is putting me and sex

in the same thought,

something I’m pretty

sure no one else has.

(Want—really want—him to think

about me in a sexual way? Weird.)

Hope he does, mostly

because putting me

and sex in the same

thought means he’s

got me, Autumn Rose

Shepherd, on his mind.

(Means he’s got me on his

mind in any way at all.)

I WISH I WAS SPENDING

Thanksgiving with Bryce. Just the two

of us, plus cornbread-stuffed turkey,

taters, gravy, cranberries, pumpkin

pie. Skip the green bean casserole.

Aunt Cora loves that stuff. Claims

it’s her specialty. Special? Uh …

Anyway, it’s my fantasy, so

excise the French cuts, smothered

in mushroom soup. Start with

Bryce and me nibbling each other

for appetizers while the bird

roasts and the pies cool

on the counter, perfuming

the kitchen with cinnamon and

nutmeg. Bryce leans me back

over the Formica … scratch that.

Fantasy, remember? Leans me

back over the shiny black granite,

kisses me. And not in a nice way.

And I kiss him back, with every

fiber of me screaming, “Go ahead.

Say okay. You know you want to.

Beg him to—” Except a buzzer

goes off. The turkey’s done. Taters,

too. Gosh darn food fantasies.

TURNS OUT

The buzz isn’t fantasy. It’s my cell,

insisting I’ve got a text message.

Bryce. Wonder if he was reading

my warped mind long-distance.

He’s in San Diego, spending

the holiday with his grandparents.

Hey u. CA wud be prettier if u

wur here. ’S cold w/o u.

Abbreviations irritate me. I text

back without resorting to shortcuts.

“Hey, you. Texas is always warm. But

Thanksgiving would definitely be

a lot more fun if you were here.

I’d even cook for you.” I hit

the send button, fall back into

my kitchen fantasy. But not for long.

My cell buzzes again.
Wish u wur

cooking 4 me. Gram’s cooking

mostly suks. Hey, are u a good

cook? Cuz if u r, I think I luv u.

DID HE MEAN

He loves me? Like for real?

Or was he just being funny?

My stomach flip-flops. How

should I answer? Should I answer

at all? OMG. Because I think

I love him, too. But do I dare

tell him that? What if he didn’t

mean it? I might scare him away.

But what if he did and I don’t

let him know I feel the same way?

Why doesn’t love come with

an owner’s manual? Maybe I should

try “funny” too. I text, “No matter

what kind of cook you are, I think

I love you, too.” My finger hesitates

over the send button. I reread

his message. Reread mine, too.

Ah, what the heck? Here goes.

OFF

Through

cyberspace

the declaration

travels. Byte

by byte.

I wait.

One minute.

Two. No answer.

Please, Bryce?

Seconds tick

by. Damn!

Joke.

Just a joke,

Bryce. Please

don’t be mad.

Please don’t

dump me.

Buzz!

I jump. Afraid

to look. But

glad when I do.

Good. C u

Sunday.

I SOAR

Up, up, dangerously close

to heaven, and I’m not

the slightest bit afraid.

I

have never even once in

my life felt like this before.

Like anything is possible.

No matter how messed up I

am,

this amazing guy cares

about me. Maybe even

loves me. That’s seriously

crazy.

My aura must be all the way

past toffee, to coppery.

Gold, even. I have an

in-

sane urge to tell someone

about this. But even Aunt

Cora would have a hard

time believing I’m really in

love.

I CRASH

Back to earth. Back to reality.

Back to Thanksgiving with strangers.

Aunt Cora swore all would be well.

You’ll love Liam’s family
, she promised.

And you’ll feel right at home. I’m even

making my green bean casserole.

Yeah, boy. Thanksgiving would not

be the same without it. Everyone’s

supposed to bring something.

How about your special cranberry

sauce?
asked Aunt Cora, when I

claimed I didn’t know what to make.

I use two secret ingredients—

orange and cinnamon. It’s easy

but tedious, and three hours until

we’re supposed to ring the doorbell,

I should get to getting, as Grandfather

says. Aunt Cora usually helps me, but

she’s already at the Cregans’, dousing

green beans with cream o’ shrooms.