Fallout Read Online Free Page B

hints
we missed?
    What we wanted to see was
    what she wanted us to see.
    She was getting better
    she’d turned that corner into the light
    right into the coffee shop where
    oh, yes, her friends are waiting
    because that’s what normal girls do
    chat over lattes
    hold the foam add the whip
    skim mocha soy extra hot.
    Sometimes they give each other
gifts, don’t they?
    Only for that extraspecial
    tell ya anything, hon
    never let you go, BFF.
    For her, the world
    the silver horseshoe earrings from
Nana.
    A small gift the least you can do
    a thank-you
    for being there when it mattered.
    Jackie told me they were glad to
hear from Hannah
    she seemed more like the old Hannah
    the can-I-have-a-bite-of-that?
Hannah
    the you’ll-never-believe-what-he-
said Hannah
    the Hannah we knew was in there
somewhere, right?
    Jackie insisted she should have
known
    was closest
    knew Hannah best—
    Didn’t we all think we knew her
best—
    should have known that earrings
were more than earrings
    that small gifts in the hands of
someone on the exit ramp
    are not small at all?
    On the night the relatives start to
arrive
    Jackie hands me the earrings.
    Nestled in their blue velvet box
    like tiny sleeping memories
    they curl tight into silver slivers
    so sharp they bite through my mask
send
    hairline cracks pulsing through
    my carefully made-up calm.

Chapter Ten
    Round three is brutal. I’m up last and have to listen to everyone else. When it’s my turn I clutch the mic and bring it close to my mouth. Too close. There’s a squeal of feedback.
    â€œOwww!”
    â€œTurn it down!”
    Not a good start. I hope the crowd remembers enough of the poem from the last round that this one will make sense. It’s risky to continue a story from one poem to another. Each should stand alone—but these are part of a series and I don’t dare change the plan now.
    The relatives arrive
    trailed by small bags.
    Bump up the stairs
    trundle down the hall
    into the den
    the family room
    my room
    any room
    but her room.
    They come in clumps
    mother father brother
    cousin uncle aunt grandmother
    fold their arms around me
    because now, after her death
    suddenly it’s okay to touch the one who
    doesn’t like to hug.
    They ask, without asking
    What the hell happened here?
    Is it true what I read about the
bottle of booze?
    Is it true she didn’t look back when
she stepped
    out
    into the road?
    They came because
    that’s what happens
    when someone dies.
    They gather to tell stories
    slide trays of food into the fridge
    because food poisoning at a time
like this
    would be unfortunate.
    Who would attend the funeral?
    Unspoken questions like
    Should there be a funeral?
    lurk in the corners
    inhabited by God.
    Nana’s God
    who apparently doesn’t admit
    that some of his fallen angels
    jumped.
    What about the casket? she asks.
    Open or closed?
    The guest list? How public
    do we want to make this thing?
    This thing?
    Hello?
    But how can I say anything
    when she sees the blue velvet box
    on the kitchen counter
    folds her polished fingernails
    over its curved lid and
    hands shaking
    stares as if it might
    reveal secrets
    only she can understand.
    Tears wobble, glassy and fragile
    on her lower lids.
    I reach out.
    Touch her hand.
    The next morning I jolt awake. Someone is pounding on my apartment door.
    â€œDon’t let it get to you,” Ebony says when I let her in.
    â€œEasy for you to say.” Last night the judges didn’t like the “Relatives” poem and I didn’t make it into the fourth round.
    She grins and holds out a travel mug full of coffee. “This should perk you up.”
    â€œSmells good,” I mumble. Ebony did well last night. She’s third overall in the standings. I’m hovering in and out of fourth place. After last night, I’m out, though not by much.
    â€œIf you have a good week, you’ll make it,” she