Fallout (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

It started with a court-ordered

summer visit to Kristina’s

druggie dad. Genetically,

that makes him my grandfather,

not that he takes much interest

in the role. Supposedly he stopped

by once or twice when I was still

bopping around in diapers.

Mom says he wandered in late

to my baptism, dragging

Kristina along, both of them

wearing the stench of monster

sweat. Monster, meaning crystal

meth. They’d been up all night,

catching a monstrous buzz.

It wasn’t the first time

they’d partied together. That

was in Albuquerque, where dear

old Gramps lives, and where

Kristina met the guy who popped

her just-say-no-to-drugs cherry.

Our lives were never the same

again
, Mom often says.
That

was the beginning of six years

of hell. I’m not sure how we all

survived it. Thank God you were

born safe and sound….

All my fingers, toes, and a fully

functional brain. Yadda, yadda …

Well, I
am
glad about the brain.

Except when Mom gives me

the old,
What is
up
with you?

You’re a brilliant kid. Why do

you refuse to perform like one?

A C-plus in English? If you would

just apply yourself …

Yeah, yeah. Heard it before.

Apply myself? To what?

And what the hell for?

I KIND OF ENJOY

My underachiever status.

I’ve found the harder you

work, the more people expect

of you. I’d much rather fly

way low under the radar.

That was one of Kristina’s

biggest mistakes, I think—

insisting on being right-up-

in-your-face irresponsible.

Anyway, your first couple years

of college are supposed to be

about having fun, not about

deciding what you want to do

with the rest of your life. Plenty

of time for all that whenever.

I decided on UNR—University

of Nevada, Reno—not so much

because it was always a goal,

but because Mom and Dad

did this prepaid tuition thing,

and I never had Ivy League

ambitions or the need to venture

too far from home. School is school.

I’ll get my BA in communications,

then figure out what to do with it.

I’ve got a part-time radio gig at

the X, an allowance for incidentals,

and I live at home. What more

could a guy need? Especially

when he’s got a girl like Nikki.

PICTURE THE IDEAL GIRL

And you’ve got Nikki.

She’s sweet. Smart. Cute. Oh,

yes, and then there’s her body.

I’m not sure what perfect

measurements are, but

Nikki’s got them,

all wrapped up in skin

like wheat-colored suede.

Delicious, from lips to ankles,

and she’s mine. Mine to touch,

mine to hold. Mine to kiss

all over her flawless

deliciousness. Plus,

she’s got her own place,

a sweet little house near campus,

where I can do all that kissing—not

to mention what comes after

the kissing—in private.

I’m done with classes

for the day and on my way

to Nikki’s, with a little extra fun

tucked inside my pocket. Yeah, I

know getting high isn’t so

smart. Ask me if I care.

I AM GENETICALLY PREDISPOSED

To addiction. At least that’s what

they tell me, over and over.

The theory has been hammered

into my head since before I could

even define the word “addiction.”

Your grandfather is an addict and

your mother is an addict, so it’s

likely you will become an addict

too, unless you basically “just say

no.”
Much easier said than done,

especially when you’re predisposed

to saying, “Hell, yeah!” Anyway,

I’m more of a dabbler than a dedicated

fuckup. A little weed, a little coke.

Never tried meth. Don’t think I ought

to take a chance on that monster.

Catching a buzz is one thing. Yanking

the devil’s tail is just plain stupid.

NIKKI ISN’T HOME YET

I let myself in with the key

she leaves stashed under the plastic

rock by the door. Good thing

she doesn’t own much in the way

of expensive stuff, something

I’m sure the neighbors are well

aware of. This isn’t a bad street,

but it’s heavily stocked with students,

many of whom have forgotten

the Golden Rule, if they ever knew

it to begin with. Inside, the window

shades are cracked enough so light

filters through. A thin beam

splashes against the hallway mirror,

lures my attention. When I turn

to find it, the eyes reflected

in the glass are completely unique.

“Piebald,” Mom calls them.

Green-dappled gray. Definitely

not Kristina’s eyes. What I want

to know now, as always, is whose?

I’VE ASKED THE QUESTION BEFORE

“If Kristina is my biological

mother, who fathered me?”

Who

was her man of the month?

I’ve been told she slept

with more than a few,

but which

was

the one whose lucky

sperm connected with

the proper egg? Whose

genes sculpted the relief of

my

cheekbones, the stack

of my shoulders, the stretch

of my legs? Do the eyes staring

back at me now belong to my

father?

IN MOM’S BOOK

The story goes Kristina was

date-raped by some low-life

druggie lifeguard dealer.

When I asked if that was true,

Mom would only say that

the book is fiction,
based
on

fact, and that they aren’t one

hundred percent sure about

my paternity. But I think she

was trying to spare my feelings.

Who wants to believe they

were conceived of a rape, even

if the rape might have been

somehow solicited? What kind

of guy keeps going when

a girl says no way? And if a guy

like that really is my father,

could I have inherited a rape gene?

NOT THAT I’VE EVER ONCE

Insisted “yes” when a girl said
no
.

I’m not that kind of guy.

I’m smart.

(Except when loaded.

Then I can be kind of stupid.

At least till the buzz wears off.)

I’m witty.

(Except when I don’t get

enough sleep, which is often.

Then I lose my sense of humor.)

I’m compassionate.

(Except when someone

acts like a complete idiot.

Especially in my face.)

I’m understanding.

(Except when it means I can’t

have my way, so I try to avoid

people who won’t let me have it.)

I’m kind.

(Except for those days

when, for no apparent reason,

I hate pretty much everyone.)