Fallout Read Online Free PDF

another one before I eat them all. So he went to your school and you and every other girl thought he was amazing. How did you—?”
    â€œWe were at this dance. A group of us girls—we were all dancing together. Then about four of the soccer players joined us—and somehow David and I started dancing.”
    Ebony waits for me to go on.
    â€œThis is going to sound so bad—”
    â€œI doubt it. We’ve all been there.”
    â€œIt was hot, so after three dances we went outside to cool off. He said he liked the way I moved—”
    â€œOooh…”
    â€œAnd he asked me if I needed a drink—”
    â€œI bet you did—”
    â€œWell, yeah. So we went back to his car and I gulped this beer down way too fast and then…”
    Ebony giggles. “Okay, I get it.”
    â€œI don’t. Not really. I always thought I was the kind of girl who wanted to have a conversation first—Shut up! It’s not that funny!”
    â€œSorry. So you guys did it in the parking lot?”
    My head feels like it’s going to fall off. What am I doing telling her all this? “Well, more or less.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWhat, and?”
    â€œYou must have liked more-or-lessing with him—you kept seeing him, right?”
    â€œYeah. We were together two years.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of more-or-lessing!”
    She’s right. We spent a lot of time more-or-lessing.
    â€œDid you like it?”
    Oh god. Why did I let her start down this path? Yes, I liked it. A lot. It was the best part of our relationship. It wasn’t like he was into poetry, and I don’t think I ever watched a whole soccer game. How sad is that?
    Ebony ignores my failure to answer and keeps right on going.
    â€œBecause there’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Why should guys have all the fun?” She chomps down on another samosa. “Oh. My. God. These are so good. We should try to make them sometime.”
    â€œReally? Do you really think that?” I ask.
    â€œWhat—that we should make samosas? Or that girls can like sex as much as boys? I’m not going to speak for everyone, but sure—I mean, as long as you’re careful and everybody plays nice and you both want to…”
    I can’t believe we’re having this conversation sitting on a Camden park bench. Mom would be horrified.
    â€œNot everybody agrees,” I say.
    â€œWho cares? You’re not trying to make other people happy. That’s the fast road to hell, if you ask me.”
    â€œSplit the last one?”
    We tear the last samosa down the middle and sit side by side, chewing.
    â€œIt’s not fair what some people say about girls like us,” Ebony says, wiping her fingers on her jeans.
    I know exactly what she means. “There’s a difference between lusty and wicked—”
    â€œStop! You should write that down!”
    â€œI’ve wanted to do a poem about this forever,” I confess.
    â€œSay it again.”
    â€œThere’s a difference between lusty and wicked…”
    â€œHow about this— Who says that lusty implies some kind of wicked? Is it better when you start with a question?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œMaybe. Then you could go on with something like, are lusty women lewd or— ”
    â€œLascivious,” I suggest.
    â€œLascivious?”
    â€œToo hot for your own good.”
    â€œHang on. Let’s write this down.”
    I pull my notebook from my bag and open it on my lap.
    We work together for almost an hour, throwing ideas back and forth. Ebony takes the page and writes; I take it back and write. When we’re done we have a long poem in two voices about— well, all kinds of things.
    â€œWe could perform this at Nationals,” Ebony says. “If we both make the team. God, I really hope we both do.”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œLet’s do it one more