Fallout (Crank 3)

Go on.” At least

my locker door is

between me and Bryce.

Except there, on the ugly

brown linoleum,

my history book and

chemistry notebook

huddle, open-cov

ered.

I’ll have to pull my face

out from behind

the rusting metal

to get hold of them.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!

Blood whooshes in my ears.

WITH MY BACK TOWARD

The disturbing melodrama,

I squat, reach for my mess.

Now a different voice

settles like fog around me.

Here. Let me help you.

I know without looking

who’s speaking. The stupid

thing is, I somehow feel grateful

Bryce is talking to me at all.

Still, I protest, “No, thanks.

I’ve got it.” My tone is not

Christmas fudge sweet.

He holds out a hand, which

I ignore. What’s wrong?