Fallout by Ellen Hopkins

crash.
    The tension in the room, god-awful
    heavy just two seconds ago, falls
    away, like shedding a heavy robe.
Eliana and Rosa rush out the door.
I start to follow and suddenly Simone
transmutes, phantom into flesh. Wait.
I can’t tell you , she whispers. Ever.
She is human after all. Real. As real
as the fear alive in her eyes.
    I nod my head. “I know.” I know
    because I never told either. Her
    story is mine, only with a different “he.”
    I understand as only someone who
    has been there can understand. We
    have something in common after all.

APPARENTLY I MADE TANYA FEEL GUILTY
    Because by the time
    Simone and I
    reach the living room,
    she and the girls are
    elbow deep in red and
    green and gold.
Rosa’s eyes are wide.
Ooh. Look. Can
I hang this pretty one?
Lights first , commands Walter,
untangling a long
strand. Then ornaments.
    It all looks so normal—any
    family anywhere—
    it’s almost enough to
    make you forget
    how abnormal this “family”
    really is. Two
    artificial parents; two
    orphans. One
    total mystery. And me.

LIGHTS, GARLAND, AND ORNAMENTS HUNG
    The tree still looks sad to me.
    It’s not that the decorations
    are old (and they are). It’s that
    they were all arranged without love.
    This isn’t the first loveless Christmas
    I’ve spent. Foster homes, however
    solid, are all barren of that emotion.
    You don’t dare care about someone
    you probably won’t know in a year.
    But I’ve had beautiful holidays
    with both sets of grandparents—
    Carl and Jean. Scott and Marie.
    The ones with Grandma Marie
    were especially special because
    Hunter was there too. My brother.
    The one I hardly ever get to see.
    But when I do, he’s always pretty
    much amazing to me. Because
    he gets to be with his sister (me).
    The one he hardly ever gets to see.
    Those Christmases I understand
    the power of family. My three
    brothers will be there this year.
    I so wish I could be there too.

THE ONLY PLACE
    I’d rather be is with Kyle. He’s all I can
    think about as I help make dinner,
Tanya chattering away about how much
you’ll love Roosevelt and church on Sunday.
All I can think about at the table, Walter
griping about the goddamn power bill.
All I can think about as Simone and I
load the dishwasher in total silence.
    Wonder what he’s doing, as I brush
    my teeth, get ready for bed. Wonder
if he’s thinking about me, too, as Eliana
borrows one of my well-loved books.
Wonder if I’ll ever see him again as Rosa
practices for her Sunday School pageant.
Wonder if he’s written me off already
as I crawl between the scratchy sheets.

IT IS WALTER
    Who comes to handle the lights-out
    bed check. He knocks, but doesn’t
    wait for an invitation to enter.
    Simone, in a short, gauzy nightgown,
    barely covers her long legs, and Walter
    is all eyes. I swear, he starts to salivate.
No. No way. Not her. And not me.
Good night, ladies. He flips off the lights,
closes the door. Did Simone notice
the demon-wolf in his eyes? Her voice
drifts toward me on dark wings of night.
I hate him. He reminds me of my brother.
    Without telling me, she has shared
    her secret. A half-dozen questions
    pop into my head. Real brother? Step?
    When? How? Who told? Why did
    that mean she ended up here? But in
    the long run, the answers don’t matter.

BEFORE TOO VERY LONG
    Simone’s breathing falls shallow.
    Rhythmic. She’s wandering deep
    within some sort of dream. A good
    dream, I guess. She laughs softly
    in her sleep. Do I ever find happiness
    in my dreams? I rarely remember
    them. Sleep will not come easily
    for me tonight. Not in an unfamiliar
    bed, in an unfamiliar room. The night
    itself is a different shade of dark.
    Loneliness strikes suddenly,
    a cobra sinking its fangs into my
    heart, venom pumping. My eyes
    spill into the strange, lumpy,
    bleach-perfumed pillow. Salt soak.
    I should be used to this by now.
    Should expect the slow opening,
    the hollow place inside. I am oddly
    not afraid, though I recognize
    the thirst in