Fallout - Couverture souple

Hopkins, Ellen

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 1416950109 ISBN 13 : 9781416950103

Editeur : Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2012

Synopsis

The riveting final chapter of the Crank trilogy, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Ellen Hopkins.

Hunter, Autumn, and Summer—three of Kristina Snow’s five children—live in different homes, with different guardians and different last names. They share only a predisposition for addiction and a host of troubled feelings toward the mother who barely knows them, a mother who has been riding with the monster, crank, for twenty years.
     As each teen searches for real love and true family, they find themselves pulled toward the one person who links them together—Kristina, Bree, mother, addict. But it is in each other, and in themselves, that they find the trust, the courage, the hope to break the cycle.
     Told in three voices and punctuated by news articles chronicling the family’s story, Fallout is the stunning conclusion to the trilogy begun by Crank and Glass, and a testament to the harsh reality that addiction is never just one person’s problem.

A propos du livre

À propos de l'auteur

Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of fourteen young adult novels, as well as the adult novels Triangles, Collateral, and Love Lies Beneath. She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra, a nonprofit youth housing and resource initiative. Visit her at EllenHopkins.com and on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter at @EllenHopkinsLit.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

We Hear

 

 

That life was good

before she

met

                                            the monster,

but those page flips

went down before

our collective

cognition. Kristina

                                            wrote

that chapter of her

history before we

were even whispers

in her womb.

 

The monster shaped

                                            our

Lives, without our ever

touching it. Read on

if you dare. This

                                            memoir

 

isn’t pretty.

Hunter Seth Haskins

SO YOU WANT TO KNOW

 

 

 

All about her. Who

                                            she

really is. (Was?) Why

she swerved off

the high road. Hard

                                            left

to nowhere,

recklessly

indifferent to

                                            me,

Hunter Seth Haskins,

her firstborn

son. I’ve been

                                            choking

that down for

nineteen years.

Why did she go

                                            on

her mindless way,

leaving me spinning

in a whirlwind of

                                            her dust?

IF YOU DON’T KNOW

 

 

 

Her story, I’ll try

my best to enlighten

 

you, though I’m not sure

of every word of it myself.

 

I suppose I should know

more. I mean, it has been

 

recorded for eternity—

a bestselling fictionalization,

 

so the world wouldn’t see

precisely who we are—

 

my mixed-up, messed-

up family, a convoluted

 

collection of mostly regular

people, somehow strengthened

 

by indissoluble love, despite

an ever-present undercurrent

 

of pain. The saga started here:

 

FORWARD

 

 

 

Kristina Georgia Snow

gave me life in her seventeenth

year. She’s my mother,

 

but never bothered to be

my mom. That job fell

to her mother, my grandmother,

 

Marie, whose unfailing love

made her Mom even before

she and Dad (Kristina’s stepfather,

 

             Scott) adopted me. That was

             really your decision, Mom claims.

             You were three when you started

 

             calling us Mama and Papa.

             The other kids in your playgroup

             had them. You wanted them too.

 

We became an official

legal family when I was four.

My memory of that day is hazy

 

 

 

 

at best, but if I reach way,

way back, I can almost see

the lady judge, perched

 

like an eagle, way high above

little me. I think she was

sniffling. Crying, maybe?

 

                               Her voice was gentle. I want

                               to thank you, Mr. and Mrs.

                               Haskins, for loving this child

 

                               as he deserves to be loved.

                               Please accept this small gift,

                               which represents that love.

 

I don’t really remember all

those words, but Mom repeats

them sometimes, usually

 

when she stares at the crystal

heart, catching morning sun

through the kitchen window.

 

That part of Kristina’s story

always makes Mom sad.

Here’s a little more of the saga.

 

Chapter one

 

 

 

 

It started with a court-ordered

summer visit to Kristina’s

druggie dad. Genetically,

 

that makes him my grandfather,

not that he takes much interest

in the role. Supposedly he stopped

 

by once or twice when I was still

bopping around in diapers.

Mom says he wandered in late

 

to my baptism, dragging

Kristina along, both of them

wearing the stench of monster

 

sweat. Monster, meaning crystal

meth. They’d been up all night,

catching a monstrous buzz.

 

It wasn’t the first time

they’d partied together. That

was in Albuquerque, where dear

 

old Gramps lives, and where

Kristina met the guy who popped

her just-say-no-to-drugs cherry.

 

 

 

 

Our lives were never the same

                         again, Mom often says. That

                         was the beginning of six years

 

                         of hell. I’m not sure how we all

                         survived it. Thank God you were

                         born safe and sound. . . .

 

All my fingers, toes, and a fully

functional brain. Yadda, yadda . . .

Well, I am glad about the brain.

 

                         Except when Mom gives me

                         the old, What is up with you?

                         You’re a brilliant kid. Why do

 

                         you refuse to perform like one?

                         A C-plus in English? If you would

                         just apply yourself . . .

 

Yeah, yeah. Heard it before.

Apply myself? To what?

And what the hell for?

 

I KInD of enjoY

 

 

 

My underachiever status.

                   I’ve found the harder you

                                work, the more people expect

 

of you. I’d much rather fly

                   way low under the radar.

                               That was one of Kristina’s

 

biggest mistakes, I think—

                   insisting on being right-up-

                               In-your-face irresponsible.

 

Anyway, your first couple years

                   of college are supposed to be

                               about having fun, not about

 

deciding what you want to do

                   with the rest of your life. Plenty

                               of time for all that whenever.

 

 

 

I decided on UNR—University

                   of Nevada, Reno—not so much

                               because it was always a goal,

 

but because Mom and Dad

                   did this prepaid tuition thing,

                               and I never had Ivy League

 

ambitions or the need to venture

                   too far from home. School is school.

                               I’ll get my BA in communications,

 

then figure out what to do with it.

                   I’ve got a part-time radio gig at

                               The X, an allowance for incidentals,

 

and I live at home. What more

                   could a guy need? Especially

                               when he’s got a girl like Nikki.

Autumn Rose Shepherd

Sometimes I See Faces

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow familiar,

but I don’t know why.

 

I cannot label them,

no matter how intently

 

I try. They are nameless.

And yet not strangers.

 

Like Alamo ghosts, they

emerge from deep

 

of night, materialize

from darkness, deny

 

my sleep. I would call them

dreams. But that’s too easy.

I Suspect

 

 

 

 

 

One of those faces belongs

               to my mother. It is young, not

 

 

much older than mine, but weary,

               with cheeks like stark coastal

 

 

cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed

               with drifts of mink-colored hair.

 

 

I don’t look very much like her.

               My hair curls, auburn, around

 

 

a full, heart-shaped face, and

               my eyes are brown. Or, to be

 

 

more creative, burnt umber. Nothing

               like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken

 

 

about her identity. Is she my mother?

 

               Is she the one who christened me

 

Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty

name. Wish I could live up to it.

 

 

Aunt Cora Insists

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am pretty. But Aunt Cora

is a one-woman cheering section.

Thank goodness the grandstands

aren’t completely empty.

 

I’m kind of a lone wolf, except

for Cherie, and she’s what you

might call a part-time friend.

We hang out sometimes, but

 

only if she’s got nothing better

going on. Meaning no ballet recitals

or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day

to distract her from those.

 

But Aunt Cora is always there,

someone I can count on, through

chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.

Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”

Generally

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things feel

                                            about the consistency

                                            of milky oatmeal.

                                            With honey.

                                            Raisins.

                                            Nuts.

Most days,

                                            I wake up relatively

                                            happy. Eat breakfast.

                                            Go to school.

                                            Come home.

                                            Dinner.

                                            Homework.

                                            Bed.

Blah, blah, blah.

 

But sometimes,

                                            for no reason beyond

                                            a loud noise or leather

                                            cleaner smell, I am afraid.

It’s like yanking myself

from a nightmare only,

even wide awake,

I can’t unstick myself

from the fear of the dream.

I don’t want to

leave my room.

Can’t Bear the Thought

 

 

 

Of people staring, I’m sure

they will. Sure they’ll know.

Sure they’ll think I’m crazy.

 

 

The only person I can talk to

is Aunt Cora. I can go to her

all freaked out. Can scream,

“What’s the matter with me?”

 

 

             And she’ll open her arms, let me

             cry and rant, and never once

             has she called me crazy. One

 

 

             time she said, Things happened

             when you were little. Things you

             don’t remember now, and don’t want

             to. But they need to escape,

 

 

             need to worm their way out

             of that dark place in your brain

             where you keep them stashed.

 

Summer Lily Kenwood

Screaming

 

 

 

 

 

I learned not to

                                            scream

a long time ago.

Learned to

                                            bite

down hard

against pain,

                                            keep

my little mouth

wedged shut.

                                            Fighting

back was useless,

anyway. I was

                                            fragile

at three, and Zoe

was a hammer.

                                            Girls

are stinkier than

 boys when they                         

                                            get

dirty, she’d say,

scrubbing until I

                                            hurt.

And if I cried

out, I hurt

                                            worse.

I’m Fifteen Now

 

 

 

 

 

And though Zoe is no longer

             Dad’s lay of the day, I’ll never

                         forget her or how he closed

                                     his eyes to the ugly things

                                                  she did to me regularly.

 

He never said a word about

             the swollen red places. Never

                   told her to stop. He had to know,

                               and if he didn’t, she must have

                                            been one magical piece of ass.

 

Cynical? Me? Yeah, maybe

             I am, but then, why wouldn’t

                         I be? Since the day I was born,

                                     I’ve been passed around. Pushed

                                                  around. Drop-kicked around.

 

The most totally messed-up

             part of that is the more it

                         happens, the less I care. Anyway,

                                     as foster homes go, this one is

okay. Except for the screaming.

Screaming, Again

 

 

 

It’s Darla’s favorite method

of communication, and not

really the best one for a foster

 

parent. I mean, aren’t they

supposed to guide us gently?

 

                         Her shrill falsetto saws through

                         the hollow-core bedroom door.

 

                         Ashante! How many times

                         do I have to tell you to make

                          your goddamn bed? It’s a rule!

 

Jeez, man. Ashante is only seven,

and she hasn’t even

been here a week. Darla

 

really should get an actual job,

leave the fostering to Phil,

 

who is patient and kind-eyed

and willing enough to smile.

Plus, he’s not bad-looking

 

for a guy in his late forties.

And I’ve yet to hear him scream.

Darla Is a Different Story

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here it comes, directed at me.

                                     Summer! Is your homework finished?

 

Hours ago, but I call, “Almost.”

                                     Well, hurry it up, for God’s sake.

 

Like God needs to be involved. “Okay.”

                                     I need some help with dinner.

 

Three other girls live here too.

                                     And turn down that stupid music.

 

The music belongs to one of them.

                                     I can barely hear myself think.

 

She thinks? “It’s Erica’s music.”

                                     Well, tell her to turn it down, please.

 

Whatever. At least she said please.

And would you please stop yelling?

Gawd!

 

 

 

 

 

My neck flares, collarbone

to earlobes. Like Erica

couldn’t hear her scream?

 

I fling myself off the bed,

cross my room and the hall

just beyond in mere seconds.

 

“Erica!” (Shit, I am yelling.)

“Can’t you . . . ?” But when

I push through the door,

 

the music on the other side

slams into me hard. No

way could she have heard

 

the commotion. “Great

song, but Darla wants you

to turn it down. What is it?”

 

                         Erica reaches for the volume.

                         “Bad Girlfriend.” By Theory of a Dead-

                         man. I just downloaded it today.

 

                         She looks at me, and her eyes

                         repeat a too-familiar story.

                         Erica is wired. Treed, in fact.

I Totally Know Treed

 

 

 

In sixth grade, the D.A.R.E.

dorks came in, spouting stats

to scare us into staying straight.

But by then, I knew more than

they did about the monster

because of my dad and his women,

 

including my so-called mom.

Her ex, too, and his sister and cousin.

Plus a whole network of stoners

connecting them all. The funny

thing is, none of them have a fricking

clue that I am so enlightened.

 

Tweakers always think no one

knows. Just like Erica right now.

“Shit, girl. You go to dinner lit

like that, you’re so busted.

Darla may be a bitch. But she’s

not stupid, and neither is Phil.”

 

                         Here comes the denial.

                         Her shoulders go stiff and

                         her head starts twisting

                         side to side. But she doesn’t

                         dare let her eyes meet mine.

                         What are you talking about?

 

 

 

“Hey, no prob. I’m not a spy,

and it’s all your life anyway.

I’m just saying you might

as well be wearing a sign

that says ‘I Like Ice.’ If

I were you, I’d skip dinner.”

 

                         I turn, start for the door,

                         and Erica’s voice stops me.

                         It’s just so hard to feel good,

                         you know? I do know. And

                         more than that, it’s just

                         so incredibly hard to feel.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Margaret K. McElderry Books
• Date d'édition: 2012
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 1416950109
• ISBN 13: 9781416950103
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 688
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible