Fallout (58 page)

I NOTICE THE WALLS

Are eerily bare. No photos. No

paintings. No cheap ceramics.

Apparently Tanya isn’t much into

the Martha Stewart school of

homey decor. Fine by me.

Even the Christmas tree, leaning

into one corner of the living

room, is noticeably bare.

I can’t not ask, “What, did

someone steal the ornaments?”

Tanya giggles (and I’m starting

the hate the grate of her laugh).

Oh, no. I’ve just been so busy

we haven’t put them up yet.

Maybe we’ll do that tonight.

Sorry I brought it up. The last

thing I want to do is hang gaudy

crap on a fake evergreen and

pretend like I’m part of a fake

family. Fake. Fake. Fake.

I pad along the fuchsia shag,

thinking about the tatters

of my real family. Dad in jail.

Kortni, happy not to have me

there. Mom. Mom. Where is she?

A RIPTIDE OF SADNESS

Pulls at me, but I will not cry.

Must not show weakness as

I meet my new fake sisters.

This is your room
, Tanya says.

It is not much bigger than a closet.

Take that bed over there.

She points to a small twin under

the window. The matching bed against

the wall is currently unoccupied.

Tanya gestures toward it.
You’ll

bunk with Simone. Not sure …

Simone?
she calls.
Come meet Summer.

A door (bathroom?) opens

somewhere and a wraith—

pale as death—appears suddenly,

followed by two darker-skinned

girls, probably sisters. Real sisters,

part of my new fake family.

Good, you’re all here
, says Tanya.

Summer, this is Simone, Eliana
,

and Rosa. Get acquainted.

SHE GOES TO SAY GOOD-BYE

To Shreeveport. I maintain silence,

cross the room in three steps, claim my bed.

I guess I should unpack my clothes.

Having been on both sides of the “get

to know your new foster sister” dynamic,

I choose the respectful route and turn

to Simone. “Are there empty drawers?”

All three girls drill me with their eyes,

and the air, hanging thick with unasked

questions, prods my temper. “What?”

Nothing
, says Ghost-girl. Simone.

Lainie had the right side of the dresser.

Her voice is wimpy, and I’m not surprised.

She sounds like she looks—washed out.

I suspect the answer, but ask anyway, if only

to break the insufferable silence. “Who’s Lainie?”

Young Rosa (maybe ten?) rushes

to respond,
She used to live here
,

but she ran away. Walter says

good riddance, but Tanya …

Shh. You talk too much
, scolds Eliana,

who is thirteen or fourteen and definitely

carries an air of older sibling.
Lainie

had … issues.
She spits the last word.

I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t we all?”

That shatters the iceberg, or at least

chips it heavily, as everyone contributes

to a chorus of giggles. We’re not exactly

friends, and trust will never happen

here, but at least we don’t hate one

another. And while the mood is halfway

relaxed, I might as well ask, “So what’s

with Walter?” Tanya is easy to read.

The communal amusement vanishes.

And though no one says a word,

I have all the answer I need.

WE CHANGE SUBJECTS

And within twenty minutes, I know

most everything there is to know about

Eliana and Rosa Garcia Famosa.

Their father came from Cuba to

the United States via Mexico, where

he met some very bad people who

he later went into business with.

In Texas, he fell in love (my take:

lust) with their mother, Irena, and

together they came to California,

where the girls were born. Irena

Famosa expected her husband to work

in the lush fields of the San Joaquin,

but Ignacio Garcia chose easy

riches, moving methamphetamine

for a Mexican cartel. One day

he went away and never came back.

Irena grieved for a time, but met

a new man. A very jealous man

who suspected her of things she

never did. He killed her anyway.

END OF STORY

Except for the fact

that this happens to be

the girls’ fourth foster home

in six years, and Rosa can’t

remember her mother’s

face. Sad, I suppose.

But “sad” is a main

ingredient in every foster

kid recipe. We must choose

to accept it, or go off the deep

end ourselves. I could

easily dive in

over my head right

now. The others wait for

my story, but this will not be

a straight exchange. “I’ve been

with my dad, but he just

went to jail for DUI.”

Familiar excuse. Nods

all around. And Mom? Why

is it always easier to talk about

Dad than her? “And my mother

has pretty much written me

off.” The truth bites.

I KEEP UNPACKING

As I talk. It doesn’t take long.

My history or unpacking. Everything

I own pretty much fits in three

drawers plus five coat hangers.

Too aware of the three pairs

of eyes, inventorying every article

of clothing and five favorite

books, I find a way to keep my

cell phone discreetly stashed.

Some things need to stay secret.

All I want to do at this moment,

though, is pull out the phone, dial

Kyle’s number, hear his satin

voice promise he’s waiting for me.

Is he waiting for me? Or has he

completely forgotten me already?

IMPOSSIBLE, I KNOW

But even considering it makes me

want to pace. My heart accelerates,

like something wild, snared. Caged.

I can’t let the others see it. As nice

as they seem, if they intuit weakness,

I have rewarded them with a weapon.

I deliberately plop down on the bed,

calm my arterial stutter. No pacing

now, damn it. Now or ever, not here.

Instead, like an imprisoned wildcat,

I lock eyes with the human just

beyond the bars. The one staring

at me with interest I cannot tolerate.

“What about you, Simone? Why are

you here?” Come on, Ghost-girl. Tell

me your story, although I’m half-afraid

to hear it. Half-afraid. Half dying to, because

the eyes mine are locked to are haunted.