Fault

Part 5

Fallon Connelly 11:15 a.m.

Price coughs into his hands and then grips his abdomen in pain. I don't need to be a doctor to know that isn't a good sign. We've helped him over to a bus shelter so he can sit down.

Marc is still with us. I imagine it's because he feels accountable for my hands.

"Shouldn't there be police here by now? Ambulances? Fire trucks?" Marc holds the bus sign pole and leans out into the street.

"They probably can't get through," Cal says, gesturing to the deadlock.

"Sure, then that helicopter should come back, drop people in or something," Marc says.

Cal gives me a look like Marc just messed up his ABC's and I give him a purposeful blank stare in return. Maybe I'm imagining Cal's anger toward me and maybe the reality is that I'm the one who's angry. Things were fine until he decided he wanted more from us.

"Hey, how bad do you think this is?" Marc runs a hand through his crow-colored hair and sweat spikes the strands.

"We're not doctors," Cal says.

"I'm not talking about Mr. Price. I'm talking about the quake. Is it this bad everywhere else?"

As if on cue we hear a siren off in the distance, but it fades almost immediately. I'm jolted by Marc's question. The apartment I share with my mom is on the fourth floor of a rundown red brick building. If my high school couldn't stay standing, our apartment complex didn't have a chance. A throbbing starts at the base of my skull as I remember our last time seeing each other earlier this morning.

I was pulling on a sweatshirt just as Mom shuffled out from the bedroom.

"There's bread on the counter if you want to make toast," I told her as I shoved notebooks into my backpack.

She yawned and nodded, slipping past me on her way to the cabinets. Her eyes were bloodshot and they shuttered from the ceiling light. She smelled like a bar room floor.

"What time did you get in last night?" I asked.

"Don't start with me, Fallon," she grunted, opening a cabinet door and pulling out a tall glass.

I zipped up my bag and swung it up onto my shoulders before drinking the last of the milk in my cup. If I thought Mom would wash the dishes I would have left it. Instead, I walked to the sink to rinse it out. At the same time, Mom pulled orange juice out of the fridge. I watched her hands tremble as she poured it.

"Don't start with me," she mumbled again.

I shook my head and made for the front door. As I left she pulled a frosty bottle of vodka from the freezer.

"I'm sure the earthquake only affected this street," Cal says, answering Marc and bringing me back.

I recognize the bitter tinge in Cal's voice, but I also know that underneath it he's worried about his parents and his little brother. Not everyone has a messed up family.

Cal's tone isn't lost on Marc. He lets go of the pole and comes up beside him, and I see Cal straighten to his full height, which is a good two inches taller.

"I know you," Marc smiles. "You're Horsey, right?"

"Dorsey. The last name's Dorsey." Cal's jaw flexes beneath his skin. The nickname Horsey was given to him on his very first day and it stuck so well that you could poll our grade and most of them would think it was his actual last name. I always thought it lacked imagination, any schmuck can rhyme something that simple, but Cal took it to heart.