Free Fallout by Ellen Hopkins

influence
cannot be tolerated. We’ve
found you a new placement.
Unfortunately, it’s in Fresno ,
so you’ll have to change
schools. But at least you’ll
have the vacation to settle in.
    New home. New foster
    parents. New school. Just
    when everything was going
    kind of okay right here. Dad
    and I were communicating.
    Kortni and I were in truce
    mode. I was getting good
    grades. Excelling, in fact.
    Will they even have AP
    classes in my new school?
    And what about Kyle? He
    and I were hanging strong.
    I don’t want to be without
    him. My life will be a well,
    drained to gravel and dust.

TELLING HIM
    Was something like getting a cavity
    filled. Without Novocain. Evil pain,
    the words drilling through the roof
    of my mouth to deep inside my brain.
    It was raining that afternoon, the world cold
    and gray. I haven’t yet shaken the chill.
    Ms. Shreeveport gave me a three-day
    reprieve, time for an early Christmas
    celebration. So much to celebrate
    and all. I didn’t tell Kyle when I called
    him. Wanted to do that face-to-face.
    We were actually belly-to-belly on
    the seat of his truck when I started
    to cry. “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”
I can’t hold you much tighter.
And you’re not going anywhere.
    “Yes. I am. They’re taking me
    to Fresno. To a new foster home.”
He looked down into my eyes.
When? How long have you known?
    “Day after tomorrow. I just found
    out yesterday. It’s because of Dad.”
    He brushed the hair away from
    my face. Dried my cheeks with
the back of his hand. Shook his
head. I can’t let you go. Not now.
You make life worth living.
If you leave, I have nothing.
    I lifted my face. Kissed him.
    “I don’t have a choice. It’s all set
    up. I start school at Roosevelt
    after vacation.” He slumped down
on me. Heavy. Weighted. Then
he started to cry. This is fucked up.
    Which made me cry more too.
    We cried together for a long time.
    Finally I said, “Make love to me.
    I need to remember how it feels.”
    It felt rough. Like punishment.
    Punishment for his own pain.

I REMEMBER HOW IT FELT
    All the way to Fresno.
    Ms. Shreeveport tries
    to make conversation.
    For about fifteen minutes.
I surround myself with
a silence-bricked wall.
Finally she gets it.
You’ve got a lot on your mind.
    Well, yeah. Like not
    knowing what’s coming
    next. Like wondering why
    my life can’t remain static.
    Like thinking about
    Kyle and me, on the seat
    of his truck, learning
    how much real love hurts.
Like remembering what
he said, when our tears
had dried. On the surface.
Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.

I WASN’T IN LOVE
    With Bakersfield. (Only
with a guy who lives there.)
    But I already hate Fresno.
It may be the gateway
    to Yosemite’s stark glory,
but unlike the Sierra
    sneaking up behind it,
the city of Fresno is an
    ucking fugly collection of
east-leaning buildings,
    blade-bare lawns, and
half-digested asphalt.
    Cool enough now, almost
Christmas, but hotter than
    Sahara sand in summer.
Really can’t wait to live here.

RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …
    Do that a dozen or so times,
    you end up in the broken-down
    neighborhood I now call home.
    The houses are fifties era. Built
    around the time kids still did
    duck-under-your-desk drills,
    as if that could protect them
    from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe
    that’s what happened to this
    neighborhood. Wonder if I should
    worry about radiation. Maybe
    wrap myself in aluminum foil.
    At last (so soon?) we pull up
    in front of a totally inconspicuous
    place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”
    Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
    Who paints a house like this?
Doesn’t matter how it looks
outside. It’s what’s inside that
counts. You’ll like the Clooneys.

SO SAYS SHE
    What else would she say,
    anyway? She opens
    the trunk, and I
grab my
    bag. Not much in it, but
    only one thing matters—
    my cell phone. My
lifeline
    to the real world.
    The one I’m about to
    walk into is
pretend.
    The