Free Fallout by Nikki Tate Page B

phone rings and rings.
    Ring. Ring …
    Her ringing gets louder and louder until, at the end of the next section, we are speaking together. Our voices are loud and harsh and ugly.
    If you had told me where you were
    would I have left behind
    my beach bag, sunshine, hot dog
    loud music, playground of
    The Now and come to you?
    Rings and rings and rings and
rings.
    And if I had found you,
    would you have told me what you
were about to do?
    Ring. Ring.
    If you had spoken
    would I have believed you?
    Ring.
    If I had believed you
    could I have stopped you?
    Ring.
    Even now, three hundred and
sixty-five
    days later
    and counting
    that phone rings
    Ring.
    and rings
    day and night
    Ring.
    rings through my dreams
    Ring.
    rings in my morning
    Ring ring ring
    ringsringsringsrings
    Will it ever stop, sister?
    The applause is loud when we step back from the microphones. Ebony wraps me in a tight hug.
    â€œGood job!” she says in my ear. “Perfect.”

Chapter Four
    â€œWill you be okay, walking home alone?”
    â€œI’ll be fine.” I wait with Ebony until her bus comes.
    Ebony and I both did well tonight— she was third and I took fourth out of ten competing poets. The scores we got for the poem we did together don’t help us against each other since we both got the same number of points. But the judges usually like good teamwork, so the higher scores are helpful against the other poets.
    There were a lot of good things about tonight.
    Licking whipped cream from my upper lip.
    Giggling at a poem about cats and dogs running big banks.
    Ebony whispering “Perfect” in my ear.
    My good mood should have carried me all the way home. Instead, my phone rings somewhere deep in my purse. It’s so late!
    I’ve changed the ringtone at least twenty times in the last year but it doesn’t help. If I hear the phone, something in my gut squeezes tight. No matter whose number flashes on the display, if I hear the ring I must answer.
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œHoney—hi. How are you doing?”
    She sounds like she’s out of breath.
    â€œFine. Busy.”
    â€œHow is work?” she asks.
    â€œFine. Busy. How about you?”
    â€œI’m leaving for a conference in Denver tomorrow. I wanted to make sure we—talked—before I leave. I’m taking two of the senior sales guys…”
    I tune out while she goes on about work. Then she switches to how she had an offer on the house that fell through. “The wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Such a shame.”
    I hold the phone a little away from my ear and keep moving through the dark streets of my neighborhood. She keeps blabbing.
    She has no clue she has ruined the end of my evening. Will she say something about Hannah? She almost never does. How can she go along with her oh-so-important life and never mention her other daughter? You know, the one who died? Doesn’t she miss her?
    â€œAre you still doing your poetry?”
    â€œHm.” Mom doesn’t care about poetry. She and Dad never went to my slams back when I lived at home. Mom said it gave her a headache to listen to people yelling about all the terrible things that happen in the world. “None of it rhymes!” she complained. Except for the rappers. She hated them too. They talked so fast she couldn’t keep up.
    After Hannah died, I knew Mom wouldn’t want to hear what I had to say. I stopped inviting her and she never invited herself. Then I moved to Ontario.
    She’d probably kill me if she heard the poem I performed a couple of weeks ago. Then she’d have two dead daughters she wouldn’t talk about.
    I can say this because you aren’t here
you’re in San Francisco, New York Saskatoon, God-knows-where
    with your Yes, boss
    how high, boss?
    yes-men
    standing at attention by your side.
    â€œI worry about you, Tara.”
    I bet you do.
    Does it make you feel better
    taller?
    smarter?
    to jet off
    set