Fallout (15 page)

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-encompassing

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

remember.” 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 some-

thing 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 admits,
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.