Fallout by Todd Strasser Page A

When he does that, you might catch a frown on Mr. McGovern’s face. Ronnie keeps pressing his fingertips under his nose and sniffing. Paula picks her nose but tries to hide it. Mr. Shaw sticks his finger in his ear and rotates it, digging out wax. Maybe they’ve always done these things in public and I just never noticed, but now there’s nothing else to notice. There’s no outside, no windows, no TV screens. Nothing to look at but each other. There are a few books and magazines, but if someone uses the flashlight to read them, there’s no light for anyone else. We take turns resting on the bunks and sitting on the floor and at the table. We’ve played about a million games of checkers and Parcheesi and Sorry! and Go Fish. When no one talks, we listen to the groans and cries of empty stomachs.
    And I can’t help wondering if we’ve even been down here for three days yet.

Once a week, Janet came to clean our house and babysit Sparky and me so that our parents could go out. She’d sleep on a cot in the laundry room and go home in the morning with a Negro man who drove a dented green car with a cracked windshield. Sometimes when Sparky and I left for school in the morning, the car would be parked in front of our house and the man would be inside it, waiting.
    One afternoon back in September, I was playing with my plastic army men on the white shag carpet when Mom called, “Get in the car, kids. We’re driving Janet home.”
    â€œShe’s not staying over?” Sparky asked.
    â€œNo, your father and I aren’t going out tonight.”
    Mom and Janet got in the front, and Sparky and I sat in the back.
    â€œYou’ll have to tell me how to get there,” Mom said as we backed out of the driveway.
    â€œI’m not exactly sure, Mrs. Porter. Elmore does the driving.”
    â€œOh, I know,” Mom said. “I’m that way when Richard drives.”
    It sounded strange when Mom referred to Dad by his first name. She seemed to know where to go for a while, but then we got to a corner and she stopped and glanced at Janet.
    â€œI think it’s a right turn, Mrs. Porter.”
    It was starting to feel like an adventure. At the next light, Mom asked, “Does this look familiar?”
    Janet looked out the window and pulled her lips in. “’Fraid not, Mrs. Porter.”
    â€œI wonder if we missed a turn,” Mom said. The light changed, and we had to start going again. At an Esso gas station at the next corner, Mom pulled in. “I’ll be right back.”
    While she was in the office, a man in dark-green coveralls strolled past our car. His hands were almost black with grime and grease. When he stopped and squinted at us, Janet looked down. The man took a dirty rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. “Everything okay?” he asked me.
    I nodded. The man glanced at Janet again and then walked toward a car waiting for gas.
    Mom came out of the office and got into the car. “It’s a little farther.” She started to drive.
    â€œA man asked if everything was okay,” Sparky said from the back.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI think because of Janet.”
    Janet stared down at her lap again.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Mom said.
    â€œIt’s not your fault, Mrs. Porter.”
    I wasn’t sure if Mom was sorry that Sparky had said it or sorry that the man had asked in the first place.
    â€œOh, there! There!” Janet suddenly got excited and pointed. “That’s the street!”
    Mom turned so quickly that the tires screeched, and we all slid to the right. “Aha!” She let out a gasping laugh that sounded like half relief and half surprise that the car didn’t wind up on the sidewalk. Lining the street were small brick houses with white shutters. The houses were so close together that there was barely room for a driveway between them. The small yards had low metal fences and gates. In our