Fallout

Fallout
Nikki Tate

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2011 Nikki Tate All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Tate, Nikki, 1962-
Fallout [electronic resource] / Nikki Tate.
(Orca soundings)

Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-273-6

I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings (Online)
PS8589.A8735F34 2011A    JC813'.54    C2011-903356-9

First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011929242

Summary:
After the death of her sister, Tara struggles to deal with her guilt through slam poetry.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed
this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
^®
.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by
dreamstime.com

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

14 13 12 11  •  4 3 2 1

For those who stepped back from the edge
and turned to the future.

Rain bashes lilies

left at her headstone

smashes petals

leaves them ugly, forlorn.

Didn't she know

how flowers melt into accusations

how they paint ragged smears

over granite

over grass

over graves?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

My sister, Hannah, bought a bottle of vodka from some guy she met outside the liquor store. I doubt Hannah knew his name. She probably didn't care. Hannah, by that point, didn't care about much.

She was fifteen, which is why she needed this guy to buy the booze. Maybe he felt sorry for the girl with the crutches. Maybe he thought a drink would make her feel better. Maybe she paid him.

The police found the bottle. It was half empty and still inside a brown paper bag. What's amazing is the bottle wasn't broken. Not like Hannah. A kid with crutches is no match for the front end of a bus.

What was she thinking before she took that last step? Did she think about me? Mom and Dad? Did she wonder if it would hurt? Did she think about the mess she would leave behind? Or did she just take a deep breath and step out into traffic?

My sister took a lot of secrets to her grave.

I wasn't there when Hannah stepped in front of the bus. In my nightmares, though, I stand behind her on the curb. Then, I push her.

The bus brakes squeal. I scream, “Stop!”

Every dream ends with me on a stage. I am naked. All I have to protect me is my poetry. I yell poem after poem at the audience, trying to make them understand.

I killed my sister.

She won't let me forget.

Chapter Two

“Put your hands together for Tara Manson!”

I step into the spotlight. The audience is out there, though I can't see them.

This moment is mine. I can say anything in my poems.

Have you ever faced fear

and jumped

into churning waters

So deep there is no bottom?

I have. At the waterslides.

There's always a chuckle after I say that line. Maybe I look too heavy to be a waterslide type. Whatever. It's my job to deliver the poem. The audience hears what they want to hear.

I change my voice so I sound like I'm in a commercial.

Splash Kingdom!

Your fun in the sun

place to plunge

in and away from

what really matters.

Then I go back to my normal voice.

So what

if the phone ringing

in your beach bag

needs to be answered.

Here, I point at the audience.

No. You don't get it.

Not like a hey, hi, how's it going?

    
see you later, whatever

kind of call

but a message you need to get now

not tomorrow

not some other time

but right this second or

someone will die.

Then I start again, softly.

When fun calls

it's wrong to ignore

sun and sweat

skin on skin

his lips on mine

my lips drinking him in

this wild ride down

slippery when wet

curves ahead.

Fun is all good, right?

Here's where I speed up and get louder.

THIS is all that matters

because we only live once

and all that living

is churned and pushed into

one glorious afternoon at the

   
waterslides.

You hear what I'm saying?

How can they hear what I'm saying? I can speak fast and loud, but they can't
really
know what it was like that day last summer. One year ago—today. The whole, long, sun-baked day David and I played, splashed, laughed…while Hannah was—

The sound of fingers clicking moves through the audience. They think I've lost my place. This is their way of telling me to keep going.

Plunge feet first

Down Big Mountain

Time Tunnel

Jumbo Splash

Race and giggle

catch each other

and sprint to the snack stand

hot dogs and plastic cheese.

I ignore the ringing phone, for once.

Turn my back on her, for once.

Snap it shut. Click it off, for once.

Toss it under a damp towel

and forget

that outside this moment

in my heat-soaked day

a tragedy unfolds

one phone call away.

The applause washes over me. I dip in a modest bow.

Rick, the host, shakes my hand. “Careful going down the steps,” he says. “Judges, let's see your scores for Miss Tara…”

He calls them out. The low score is a 7.1 and the high an 8.9. That should be enough to get me through to the second round of the poetry slam.

When I touch my fingertip to my cheek, it's wet. When I touch my fingertip to my tongue, I taste salt.

Chapter Three

Outside the Koffie Klub it's muggy. I'm still not used to this humid Ontario summer weather. On the west coast it cools off at night. Not here in Camden.

Mom and Dad both called while I was at the poetry slam. Their numbers glow from my cell phone.

I know why they called. It's the first anniversary, and I should have checked in. But it will be awful to talk to them. We will have to remember what we don't want to remember. What we can't forget. It's not like we haven't been warned. The counselor also told us that it's normal to imagine the worst when we don't hear from a surviving family member. Surviving. Barely.

I flip through the list of missed calls again. David's number isn't there. He's probably thinking about the same thing I am—that day at the waterslides. Like me, he's probably replaying that moment in the day when I could have stopped her—and didn't. He was there. He knows. The knowledge binds us together even though he's in Vancouver and I'm here.

People shuffle in and out of the Koffie Klub. Sweat leaks from my pits. My bra strap has glued itself to my back. I can't go too far, but I need to move.

This month is a big one for poetry slams. Four cafés are hosting a series of competitions. They'll add up points to see who will be on the team going to Nationals. The team is organized by the Camden Slammers, a group of local poets who make the local slams happen. The slams are so popular they make almost enough at the door to pay for an all-expenses-paid trip to Corinthian for the winners. Corinthian is a small city that's being swallowed by Toronto. It may not be that far away, and putting us up might mean hostels and cheap food, but there are plenty of us who would love to go.

On good days I imagine inviting David to meet me in Corinthian. Who am I kidding? David won't be in the front row, clapping.

Anyway, I'm not good enough to make the team.

“Don't go too far! You have another round!” Amy, one of the slam organizers yells after me. She waves when I turn to look back. “You and Ebony do the next one together, right?”

“I know!” I shout. Even if I want to walk forever, I can't let Ebony down. We've worked too hard. Returning phone calls is going to have to wait.

Poetry has taken over everything. My friendships. My spare time. My dreams. I get in trouble at the bookstore when I scribble in my notebook instead of doing my job.

Maybe I don't get paid to write poetry, but if I don't write down my ideas, they are gone. I bet half the people who work in bookstores are writers. I don't say this to my supervisor. Sometimes it's better to keep your head down and your mouth shut.

Back in the café, Ebony and I wait in the shadows at the side of the stage. Round two is about to start.

“Don't think about who's watching,” Ebony says. “The judges like whatever they like.”

She's right. The judges flip their plastic number cards as they listen to the poets. They hold up the scores just like in figure skating. We are here to share poetry, yes. But we are also here to win.