How I Fall (20 page)

Me, smiling again:
Friends. Is that what we are?  :)

Her:
After this day? After fate, and Laura London and Miss Brown intervened? I guess we have to be friends. For awhile, anyhow? As long as neither of us starts talking about FEELINGS again. LOL

I’m completely disappointed, but I know she’s right, and it seems much safer to go with her ‘no feelings’ idea.

Me, one fake:
LOL,
then,
Swear you will wear the tiger beanie tomorrow to the bus stop?

Her:
Is the hat some sort of friendship test? A requirement?

Me:
It is. For Laura.

Her:
BLEH. Okay. I promise. For Laura. Because who could ever disappoint that girl, but if I show up at the stop and you are not wearing your tiger beanie. There. Will. Be. Blood.

I laugh out loud, happy to think I’ve just orchestrated our first official bus meet-up. I decide to plant some seeds for lunch:
Exactly. And, of course, personal photos and our love for Ireland aside, we need to talk about your project.

She takes the bait:
OUR project. And Laura’s, too, I mean. The three of us…should talk…we should talk—a lot. How about at lunch? In the digi-photo room, okay?

My heart swells because it sounds so perfect that she’s typed the word ‘us’ to me—even if her ‘us’ includes one girl too many.

I grin at my answer before hitting send:
Yes. Lunch. Us. Going to be awesome.

I’m so elated about this text conversation, I manage to push away the part where I usually sit in this car wondering and worrying if my parents are still going at it in the kitchen, but if Ellen keeps texting me back, I will happily sit here all night.

Coco wakes up when I tip the rear-view mirror and grin at my reflection. “Coco, I’m so gone on this beautiful girl. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” Coco yawns, but looks at me like she understands and stretches forward so I can scratch her a bit between her ears as the next text comes in.

She’s typed:
Patrick—my best friend—he thinks he’s already in love with Laura. Do you know him from the team?

Me:
Yes. I know him, of course. He seems cool.

I frown, slightly envious that she called Patrick her best friend, but I’m relieved she’s confirmed that she and Patrick are definitely only friends.

I add:
He should think twice before he falls for our little pixie, though. She could be one dangerous girl. And I’m not just talking about the possibility that her glitter might be flammable, either.

Ellen:
Right? The way she rallies people around her craziness might accidentally get a lot of people…arrested…or worse.

Me:
LOL. What’s worse than getting arrested?

Ellen: A
wheelchair is the only worse thing I can think of.

I’m slightly humbled that she trusted me with that little bit of information. I can’t think of a good thing to answer back but finally I type
: Danger all around. Between Patrick losing his mind over Laura and all of us stuck in the promised tiger beanies…

She types:
Don’t remind me. I’m completely terrified about how tomorrow is going to go. Are you? Afraid? Maybe it’s just me and my aversion to animal prints.

I crack up but for my answer, I stick to the truth even though she has no idea my answer centers around her never texting me all cute like this again:
I’m scared to death about tomorrow.

Her:
Tired. See you in the morning.

Me—grinning like mad and making a little notch in my invisible ‘goals’ checklist—I type the words I’d hoped to type:
Night, Ellen.

Ellen:
Night.

It takes every ounce of my strength to not text back three million smileys.

ellen

I’ve pulled the beanie on and off three times, ending with it ‘on’ as Patrick and I trudge slowly down the three blissfully flat streets of Lakeshore Drive before we turn and take the hill down to the bus.

Patrick convinced his mom to drop him off extra early this morning so he could
bring me breakfast
. He always does this after I fall. Even though none of what happens to me is ever his fault, he thinks he can make it up to me somehow, and all by using Tim Hortons snacks and matching products! In Patrick’s mind, the little boxes of Timbit donut holes work to erase all little day-to-day injustices, but for big events like what happened yesterday, he’s gone big. I’ve got maple frosting donuts—four—so I can share them with my best friend—something Patrick believes erases all bad memories.

I grin at my very pretty, brand new, orange and red, Tim Hortons ‘Fall Maple leaves and Pumpkins’ mug that’s been filled to the brim with a Pumpkin Spice Latte, and I tend to agree. 

“Thanks for this,” I say, still admiring my mug as we pause so I can rest.

“Always. And forever.” He smiles. “Do you see any rocks—any good rocks, I mean?”

I don’t have to answer. He actually knows I won’t.

This is the part of our walk when Patrick flings rocks high and far toward the lake to make it seem like we are not stopping so I can rest—but rather—stopping so he can work on his throwing skills. The pebbles he chooses to throw easily clear the man-made shoreline embankment protectors that line this entire section of Lakeshore Drive. They’re made up of a combination of huge boulders, old chopped-up concrete slabs and these rusty, finger like metal structures called ‘groins’. The groins go way out into the water and divide the shoreline into small beaches which creates small individual beaches. They also stop the sand from washing away. Each long groin-finger is about one foot wide in total and, when the waves are high, the groins are covered or half buried with water. When it’s less choppy it’s fun to sit on Lakeshore and watch people use them to fish, or in summer, watch the kids walking out on them so they can dive off into the deeper part of the lake.

I’ve never gone on them, but one summer when I’m strong enough…I hope to.

“Dang, it. We’ve got time for me to do about three more.” Patrick kicks at the grass next to the road so he can find more pebbles. He’s never satisfied with his rocks doing a simple successful splash into the water. He’s trying to skip them—impossible from this distance—but it’s so
him
to ceaselessly give it a shot. He’s tried since we were kids and I never stop watching him. I also never tire of how he finishes throwing rocks. Like right now, he’s saying, “Next time. I know I’ll get it next time.”

“Next time.” I nod, loving that even though he might never skip one, trying for the impossible is the only way to live. I’ve started to feel slightly guilty that I haven’t told Patrick about Cam or all the details about what happened yesterday.

Patrick knows that I fell in the puddle only because I had to tell him something to explain my outfit and Laura London’s tiger clothing yesterday. I also told him that Cam Campbell was the one who helped pick me up and get me on the bus, but I withheld telling him the
other stuff.

*Wonders: what is the other stuff?*

I puff out a long breath of air and almost laugh, trying to come up with sentences for Patrick that might explain exactly what I’m thinking…exactly what information I’ve withheld from him. But I’ve got nothing. Because any hole I should fill with information involves things you can’t touch like…butterflies and this endless feeling of awkward happiness.

*Gives it her best shot: So…Patrick. There’s tons about yesterday I didn’t mention. Like…for example…uh…I think I can see inside Cam Campbell’s soul. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that after I fell, he scooped me up and treated me like some sort of fragile lost-princess which felt way better than I could have imagined. I snuggled up next to him on the bus and I stared at his beautiful eyes and loved every second being wrapped up safe and warm next to him. And I couldn’t take off the track jacket he lent me after lunch to the point where I ate a ton of stolen caramel candies out of the pockets after I brushed my teeth. AND, okay, if I’m going to tell you everything right now, I should tell you that I might have fallen asleep in that darn candy scented jacket! Oh, and after my PT with Nash, Cam and I had this amazing, strange texting session that left me wondering if he might suddenly know more about me than you do, despite the fact that you’re my best friend. So, if that’s the case then what does that make him now? My other best friend?’
*

I shake my head and sigh, peering at Patrick through my bangs.

Yeah. I’ve got nothing to say.

He scoops up a rock, but pauses instead of throwing it. “Why so quiet today?”

“No reason. I could say the same to you,” I evade.

“Yeah…it’s true…as long as your silence is not something about me?” He frowns and my stomach clenches with guilt.

“You know it would never be about you.” This is where having a guy best friend is not always perfect. Even a guy as awesome as Patrick will never understand my sensation that I snuck into Cinderella’s ball and woke up with my feet stuffed into glass slippers that I know do not belong to me—and even though I can’t wear high heels at all, ever—these seem to fit very well.

*Hides pretty glass slippers in her bag. Hides pretty glass slippers under her bed.*

“If all were normal, you’d be taking photos right now. And you’re not, so something’s up.”

“I feel slightly queasy, that’s all.” I put my hand up to my forehead to test if I’m feverish. As my fingers brush against scratchy, polyester fibers, I wonder if maybe I just feel sick because I’m wearing the social-suicide, google-eyed tiger beanie instead of a magic ball gown to go with my stolen glass slippers! Anyone would feel sick in this dumb hat. It’s pretty obvious this thing is not going to make the crowd pause, swoon and wonder what far-away land I fell out of, either. Everyone in this town knows the answer to who I am—what I am. Worse, this outfit is going to have me back sweeping-up ashes for my wicked stepmother well before lunch.

I make an overloud sigh—one loud enough to stop the insane thoughts in my head—and yank off the beanie. “What am I doing? Stupid—dumb—everything—ugh.”

Patrick stops with me, raising his brows up high. “Just leave it on, Ellen. It’s charming. And…at this point, you have to wear it.” He eyes the top of my head and points. “Because…
damn
. If not, you’ve got to fix your hair by your ears and your bang-things are all—”

“UGH. Okay. Okay!” I shove the hat back on because he’s right. I can already feel my hair has turned to hat worn frizz-fuzz up front and is sliding out of my braid down my back thanks to the heat and humidity, plus the fading layer of fog off the lake. “Remind me why you are here, irritating me like this?”

“You invited me to help you keep your promises,” he reminds me. “And in return, you’ve promised to introduce me to my future wife. She better show, too.” He runs his hand nervously through his mop of hair that’s as jet black as mine, but his is all thick waves, not bone straight. I’m always jealous of it. His hair looks perfect in any cut he goes for, short or long. He even shaved it once and the effect was still swoon worthy.

He’s going on and on, “I hope she likes me. I mean…what if Irish girls don’t find me attractive? I’ve never hit on a girl from overseas before. And what if she doesn’t like
me
…as a person, because this goes way beyond hitting on a girl. Like…what if I’m not her type at all?” He tugs at his unzipped, black leather jacket, paired with faded black jeans and a black T-shirt. “Is my outfit okay?”

“Please. It’s the same outfit you always wear.” I punch his arm, a little too hard. Without a blink he steadies me before I fall.

“Easy. Just answer. Do you think it’s okay? What if she doesn’t like black?”

“The outfit’s perfect. Black on black, with your black hair, and black eyes and cappuccino skin is perfect. And you’re every girl’s type. You know it.”

He shakes his head. “Whatever. Two years ago when I made my moves you shot me down pretty hard. I’m sure not
your
type.”

I punch his arm again, only this time, much softer. “We were in middle school. Of course I shot you down. You were still a soprano in the choir. Not sexy. And that one time you kissed me…” I pull a face. “It was like kissing a brother.”

“That was a dare. A peck on closed, scrunched up lips with half the class looking on is not a kiss. And you don’t have a brother so how would you know what it’s like to kiss a brother?”

“Yes, I do. It’s you.” I shrug.

“Uh, how about…no. Saying the brother word to a dude is worse than saying we’re best friends.”

“You don’t like being best friends with me?”

“Of course, I do, but…you know guys like me don’t want to be called any girl’s best friend. Not if the girl looks like you. It makes the other dudes wonder about my manliness. Besides…” He moves in close to my face, and whispers, “My
lady skills
are much improved now, in case you ever want to take this out of the friend-zone. I could kiss you senseless—”

I shove him away. “I will hit you a third time—if that is what you want. Honestly, Patrick!”

“What?” He blinks his wide, black eyes, acting all innocent.

I survey him top to bottom, trying to match his poker face, but my cheeks are firing telltale hot. “You actually made my heart beat a little fast right there.”

“
Yes!
” He barks out a happy laugh. “See?” He blocks my path and crosses his arms. “Say it. I’m nobody’s brother!”

“You are nobody’s brother, you shameless player.” I roll my eyes. “That move alone will melt the heart of Laura London.” I laugh. “A girl,
whom
you should note, is going back to Ireland in less than a year.”