Page 124 of 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?

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