Free Fallout by Ellen Hopkins Page A

uneven sidewalk
    tries to trip me. The step
    sags beneath my weight.
I don’t
    want to see what’s
    beyond the door, but
    it opens at the bell. I
need it to
    be nice inside.
    I need something
    solid to
hold on to.

CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE
    But it isn’t horrible. My nose
    says so. It smells of cinnamon
    apple room freshener—fake
    but not bad. You couldn’t call
    the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.
    Everything shrieks “seventies.”
    Red/purple shag carpet. Thick
    velour drapes. Linoleum in
    the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen
    and bathrooms). Dated. Used.
    I notice all this without stepping
    foot through the door. Too many
    people in the way right now.
    Ms. Shreeveport has to work
    her way past a short, too-perky
    blonde and a bear-sized, bear-
    colored man. Brown hair.
    Brown skin. Brooding brown
    eyes. George Clooney,
    he ain’t. Wonder who he is.

FINALLY, I’M IN
    Introductions are passed round.
Blonde, with a loopy smile.
Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.
Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport
says, And this is Mr. Clooney.
Bear finally opens his curtain
of silence, corrects, Call me Walter.
    I stand in wordless defiance.
Bear asks Shreeveport, She’s
not, like, a mute, right?
    I am so loving him already.
Shreeveport says, Of course
not. Say something, Summer.
    I use sign language: “Hi.”
Blonde (Tanya) takes the high road,
giggles. Ha. Hi to you, too.
Shreeveport does not find it
funny. Please don’t be difficult.
Bear (Walter) asserts control.
No such thing as difficult here.
    I push back with a silent “Bet me.”
Tanya ignores my defiant look.
Come meet the other girls.
    I shrug, start to follow her.
Shreeveport doesn’t quite drop
it. Cooperation is important.
    I grab my bag, turn shadow.
Walter goes all syrupy.
There’s a good little girl.
    I try not to notice the way my skin crawls.

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