Fallout (9 page)

SO FAR

I’ve refused.

Refused the meth.

Refused the scene.

Refused Kyle’s kiss.

Well, sort of.

Once he cornered me.

Once he held me close.

Once our lips connected.

Matt was gone.

Away from school.

Away from town.

Away from me.

I almost gave in.

Almost relented.

Almost submitted.

Almost said okay.

But I remembered.

Kyle is a stoner.

Kyle is a player.

Kyle is Matt’s best friend.

I THINK OF THEM BOTH

As I lie in bed, body

asking for sleep

while my brain insists on

flashing

cerebral photographs.

Phffft.
Matt and me,

last summer, making

out

like there was no tomorrow.

Love that phrase. Because

without tomorrow,

what’s wrong with

some

spectacular today?
Phffft.

Kyle, touching me,

in a totally different

kind

of way than Matt could

even imagine.
Phffft
.

Matt, a solid dream

of a

guy telling me,
I love

you
, as we lie together

in a tall field of wheat.

Warning!

The next photo is X-rated.

And when I wake, I am still

warm from the night before.

MAYBE WHAT I NEED TO DO

Is make us a threesome.

If I belonged to some weird

religious sect, that’s what

I’d do. Except don’t all those

weird religious sects expect

two girls to a guy, instead of

the obviously better way to go?

What is wrong with women,

anyway? Two dudes. One you.

Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m

talking about. It’s stupid

as hell to think that way,

but WTF? It’s my effing

daydream, isn’t it? I keep

dreaming it right through

breakfast. On the short bus

ride to school. But then, as

I pace the sidewalk, waiting,

a sudden realization hits. Two

guys. One girl. Can’t do that.

If I did, I would be my mother.

I WATCH THE PAIR

Of them now, coming up the walk, cutting

through the herd trying to make first bell.

Matt is two inches taller. So why does Kyle

loom larger? Why should that matter at all?

Kyle spots me first, waves. There is much

in his smile that Matt can’t see. But I can.

Matt says something to Kyle, slaps his shoulder,

turns away from him, heads toward me.

I love the confidence in his stride,

goal in sight, no hint of hesitation

until he reaches it. Reaches me.
Hey.

Not exactly eloquent, but that’s okay.

Lips have better uses. The kiss they bring

is autumn rain—wet, warm, wished for.

Matt bracelets me with strong arms.

He smells clean, but not perfumed,

like Tide detergent and Ivory soap.

I am safe here against his chest,

where his heart thumps desire.

This is all any girl could want.

So why do my open eyes stray over

his shoulders? And why am I satisfied

to see Kyle staring back at me?

He gives a little shrug, continues

inside, just as the first bell blares.

Matt pulls away reluctantly.
Guess

that’s our cue, huh?
He gives me

another quick kiss, slides his arm

around my waist, hustles me toward

the door and the long row of lockers

just beyond. At the far end, Sierra

Freeman has cornered Kyle. Only

his body language loudly says he’s

not exactly frantic to get away.

MATT WALKS ME

To my first-period class—

AP English. Thank God

for advanced placement.

The regular curriculum

would drive me bonkers.

I taught myself to read

before kindergarten.

I lived with Grandma Jean

and Grandpa Carl then,

and books were everywhere.

Grandpa helped me learn

to count. After that, math

was easy. Two grandparents,

take away one (goddamn

cigarettes got him too young)

leaves one. And when that

one goes just a little crazy

having lost her husband

of thirty-nine years,

two grandparents take away

one equals zero. Anyway,

words and numbers have

always been easy for me.

And even without people

who care, my grades rock.

Matt, who is clueless

about much more than

my relatively curvy

exterior, likes to tease

me.
Who knew a brainiac

could be so much fun?

is one of his favorite

lines. “Fun,” meaning

I let him cop regular

feels of those curves.

He knows I take all AP

classes, but somehow

has no real idea just

how brainy I am. Okay

by me. It’s an advantage.