Fallout (42 page)

A SHARP WHINE

Slices through the buzz

in my ears. What? Who?

Oh, yeah. Leah. Right.

She’s looking at me like

I’ve missed something very

important.
So is that okay?

Freight train slam. “Uh …

Sorry. What did you say?”

Repeat, then go away.

I said I want to give you

my number
, she says, only

a lot annoyed at my inattention.

What I want is to track

down the bastard-maker.

“Um … I’m not sure …”

I know you probably won’t

ever use it. But just in case.

Or you can give me yours.

“No, no.” The last thing

I need is her calling me.

“Give me yours.” I fumble

around in my pocket, finally

fish out my cell phone. Try

to punch in the numbers

she recites. But my mind

is in a whole other place

and I miss one or three.

Here. Let me do it, okay?

She extricates the phone from

my hand, programs the correct

sequence. As she returns my

cell, she slinks up against me.

Kisses me.
Hope you had fun.

“Fun” isn’t exactly the word

I would use. “Yeah, sure.

Thanks a lot. I have to go, okay?”

She pouts at my abruptness,

but doesn’t argue.
Okay. You

can call me any time, Hunter.

“Good to know. Bye now.”

I turn on my heel, hurry off,

fingers crossed she doesn’t follow.

ALMOST TALENT SHOW TIME

I make my way toward the main

stage, checking out every male

face I see. Some of those guys

probably think I’m gay. Sorry,

dudes. Not looking to get laid.

Already did that. Sort of, anyway.

I chug down guilt. Gallons

and gallons of guilt. Why did

I just do that? Not like I needed

it, couldn’t get that, and better,

from my Nikki. I’m a total

two-timing jerk. And why?

Okay, Leah would tempt most

any guy with a working pecker.

But you don’t have to give in

to temptation, not even bodacious-

breasted, fiery-haired, “won’t take

no for an answer” temptation.

I swear I will never do such

an idiotic thing again. Nikki

means too much to me. I stop,

dig out my cell phone, excise

Leah’s number from its memory

bank. All’s well that ends well.

SPARKS HAS TALENT

So much talent that the city now

hosts two of these imitation bad

reality TV shows every year, on

July Fourth and at Hometowne

Christmas. A group of hopeful

singers, dancers, and baton twirlers

paces on one side of the stage.

The audience is likely all friends

and family members, plus a few

curious onlookers and people

just trying to get inside, out of the cold.

Montana is across the room, in deep

conversation with some guy.

His back is to me, but his posture

tells me much. The guy thinks a lot

of himself. Montana sees me

and smiles. The guy turns his

head to see who she’s smiling at,

and before I can even discern

his eyes, I know they’re piebald.

The question becomes, what next?

COVERING THE SHORT DISTANCE

Across the room makes me

break out in a disagreeable

sweat, despite the chill in

the air. And in my heart.

Coward.

That’s what I am. Afraid

to face down my ghosts,

despite hating the way

they haunt my every day.

Idiot.

It strikes me suddenly

that I could be all wrong

about this guy. So what if

his eyes are sort of like mine?

Dimwad.

Totally. What are the odds

that this is my father, anyway?

Much too coincidental, right?

Yet when I close the gap, I’m sure.

Son of a bitch.

MONTANA, IT SEEMS

Knows him pretty well. They stand,

barely touching. Intimate. Casual.

I hate to interrupt. Hate to know.

Oh hey, Hunter
, Montana says.

This is Brendan.
Bam. The name.

Is it one I’ve heard somewhere?

Brendan looks at me, clueless.

Hey, kid, good to …
He sees …

something. Enough to make him pause.

Montana doesn’t notice.
Brendan

just moved back to Sparks. He recently

got out of the army. Four terms in Iraq.

Her voice is filled with pride and

what I think may be affection.

I notice his outstretched hand.

I know I should shake it, but my own

hand is trembling. Instinct tells me

to run. Far away. Don’t look back.

But I have to play this out for sanity’s

sake. So I clench my teeth, will

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

Autumn
PLANNING A WEDDING

Is supposed to be such a happy time.

Okay, Aunt Cora is not only happy.

She’s downright demented with

happiness. Crazy in love.

I wish I could share her

joy. But I am crushed

by fear. I’ve always lived

with seeds of dread, waiting

to burst forth fruit. Apricots, if

I’m lucky. Peaches, sometimes, or

maybe mangoes. But this time,

the fear seeds have grown into

watermelons. Thick-skinned.

Pithy-fleshed. Weighted

with blood-tinted juice.

I can barely breathe with

them swelled up inside me.

Afraid to go out. Afraid to stay

in. Who knows what uncertainty will

strike next or what will happen to me?

IT’S ALL QUITE LOST

On Aunt Cora, who thinks,

because I’m her maid of honor,

I must be honored. I should tell

her how I feel, but I can’t bring

myself to mute her vibrant aura.

Even I, a total aura neophyte, can

make out the shimmer. Do all

brides wear an opalescent halo?

Liam’s family expected

a June wedding. (How cliché.)

But Aunt Cora didn’t want to

wait. What, did she think he’d

vanish, or curdle like old milk?

Or maybe she was worried

he (or she) might have a change

of heart? I don’t pretend to

understand. All I know is they

settled on a Saturday-before-

Christmas wedding. So now

she not only ruins the rest of my life,

she ruins the Christmas before

the rest of my life. Not to mention

Thanksgiving. Holidays will never

be the same again. Nothing, in

fact, will ever be the same.

No more Saturday-morning

pancakes or Sundays filled

with too many football games.

No more late-night black-and-

white movies or yoga exercises.

No more easy laughter. Aunt

Cora is Liam’s. And not mine.