“What do you mean?” I frown, crutching across the room to my dresser.
“Our digital photography program is not the only residential summer group. I’ve checked it out. The future engineers group is also in our dorm.”
Mom’s glower flips to a small grin. “Oh? You only said
boys
before, but maybe I wouldn’t be opposed to Ellen dating an
engineer-type-boy
.”
“Mom! Really?” I give her my
please-stay-out-of-this-conversation
look.
Laura starts hopping up and down, scattering clouds of glitter off her blond hair like she always does when she’s excited. “Oh, yes. Genius boys, and enough to go around. Probably there could be one even for the likes of me.”
“And genius
girls
will also be in
residence
,” Patrick adds, glowering at Laura’s over-elated expression. Patrick’s been trying to convince Laura to go out with him since last autumn, but she refuses to be anything more than a
friend
. It’s a situation that’s slowly killing the poor guy, because he’s so obviously in love with her.
“The boy-to-girl ratio in engineering is nine boys to one girl. Just mentioning it,” Mom adds.
I slap my hand to my head. “Oh my God. Really, all of you stop it.”
Patrick waggles his brows again. “But wait, there’s also a group of
environmental studies
students staying in our dorm.”
Laura claps her hands. “That will mean some handsome hippie guys all playing guitars, I hope. Choices. Choices!”
“Or sexy hippie
girls
who want to bring attention to global warming while wearing those naturally woven see-through halter tops, you mean?”
My mom and I bite back laughs as Laura and Patrick begin to circle each other like boxers in a ring.
Laura puffs an annoyed breath up into her bangs. “They don’t all wear those see-through hippie-things, you ninny-bogtrotter!”
“They don’t all play clichéd guitars.”
“Whatever
.
”
“Whatever.”
When the moment gets too awkward and long, Patrick drops his crossed arms and forces his gaze away from Laura. “Well, again, this is not about me or you. It’s about
Ellen.
And I hope she falls for one or two of anyone there! Mrs. Foster, eight weeks is a really long time. This should be a perfect chance for her to get a short-term
friend with benefits
-type guy.”
“You did
not
just give me that advice.” I blink, feeling heat crash into my cheeks.
Laura’s nodding and about to agree when Mom stalks to the door. “Patrick! No one is having any
benefit-type friendships.
” Mom’s coloring halfway to purple as she stutters, “How can I drive you to Toronto and leave you to live on your own after that comment? I feel like I should go call your mother and lock the three of you in your rooms. Do you think I don’t know what
friends with benefits
means? Because I do!”
Patrick pales. “Uh. No. It is just a silly and overused, very inappropriate expression that I should not have joked about. And we are not going to be on our own. There are resident dorm…monitors who will…uh…watch us,” he adds lamely.
Mom goes on, “Patrick, you are supposed to protect these two innocent girls, yet you are giving terrible advice before we’ve even hit the highway.”
“Mrs. Foster, don’t worry. I’m not so innocent,” Laura adds. “And Ellen, well, she’s—”
My brows shoot up in warning and I shake my head, hoping she’s not going to say more. Sadly, Laura does not know when to quit.
“You know it’s going to be me and Ellen taking care of Patrick, anyhow. He’s going to be a complete mess without his mother, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Laura, for the exact information I needed to feel even more worried about all of this. You three grab the suitcases and the last of the stuff by the door, and meet me by the garage before I change my mind. I’m going to take some headache medicine.” She stomps out of the room.
“Oops.” Laura grins. “But that word sets me off. I’m not innocent! Patrick knows! Ellen, you know! I’m, like…extreme. I suppose I should not have told your mum about my ways, though.”
“Please. Make her stop.” Patrick colors bright red and then starts laughing.
I shake my head. “Showing someone your underwear while looking at tattoos is not extreme.”
“Yeah, because you got caught, busted, and shipped to Canada before ever crossing the second-base line,” Patrick says.
“And after your celibacy-driven no-date rule for the last six months, I’ll bet you and I are both now listed on the Last Living Virgins in Canada list.” I grin.
“I am not.” She’s blushing a little and avoiding Patrick’s eyes. “I’ve got Tumblr. I’ve seen and know everything.”
“Okay, internet bad girl. We believe you.” Patrick’s laughing more now, wheeling my suitcase back and forth. He clearly doesn’t believe her.
Making sure Patrick’s watching, I hang my necklace on the dresser’s huge square mirror, trying not to wince as it clinks against the glass. I hate how it looks off my neck.
Laura comes over and gives me a hug. “That’s our wee Thumbelina. You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course I am. Thanks to Cam, I had a memorable first kiss and second kiss, and without him we wouldn’t have won this amazing summer scholarship. You’re both right that I should move on. I’m really ready for it. And…Cam…he was a great first boyfriend experience overall, don’t you th-th-th-think?”
“Ellen, please don’t,” Patrick whispers, stepping around my bag and coming over to hug me, too.
With a huge sniff, I chin up. “I was all good until I stuttered on that last sentence, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah.” He hugs me tighter.
“For the record, I’m only crying because my leg really aches right now.” It’s another lie, but because it’s the lie I’ve told all along, he doesn’t call me on it, only layers on his wry smile.
Laura pipes in, “Well, if we’re talking on the record, I’d like to mention it was the worst ‘first boyfriend’ experience ever recorded, what happened to you. And should I ever see Cam Campbell’s ridiculously handsome face ever again, I mean to smash it with both of my fists and scratch out his stupid eyes. If-you’z-don’t mind a wee-street fight, that is.”
I crack a smile through my tear-heavy eyes and hug her. “Laura, how is it people from Ireland can utter such violent and inappropriate things and still seem so c-c-c-cute all because of an accent?”
She hugs back and says, “It’s just a front. I won’t actually
murder
anyone.”
Patrick snorts. “That’s because you have this way of accidentally killing people by simply crossing a room.”
“And you’re next on me list, Paddy.”
“I know.”
I meet Patrick’s teasing gaze in the reflection as Laura hands me a tissue, and he says, “None of us have brought up the fact that
he
just might be in Toronto when we get there. There were four slots given over to our project, and one slot did have his name on it. If he shows up—damn—Ellen, I don’t know what we’re going to do if we see him again.”
My chest twists with longing, hope, and all kinds of fear, because Patrick’s right. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face. “It would be a strange miracle if he showed up.”
“A strange nightmare, you mean?” Laura flips her curls back.
“Guys, please. We all used to be friends, and if he is there when we arrive, I want us all to stick with the idea that we could at least be friends again. I’ve been through hell, and I have a feeling he’s been there, too.” I meet both of their gazes. “You know with his dad in the mix it must be true.”
Laura nods. Patrick simply crosses his arms, not agreeing or disagreeing with me, just listening.
“There will be no violence, no Irish banshee sightings, and a whole lot of trying to understand each other. Though the chance is dangling out there, I know him well enough to know he’s not going to be anywhere near the Western Ontario Arts School.”
“Why?” Patrick asks.
“He wouldn’t want to hurt me anymore. There’s no way he’ll show up unless he’s forced to or unless he’s figured out a way to not make it painful.”
“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
I shake my head—like I’m answering “no,” but really I’m simply avoiding his gaze because there
is
something I’m not telling Patrick. Cam just might arrive to our summer school program, but it’s such a long shot that I don’t think Patrick needs to know about it. Considering Patrick’s wound so tight already, any additional information might send him over the edge of crazy. I say, “Let the record show that these are the
last
tears to be cried over my ex-boyfriend. I’m different now, and I’m ready to move on. Whomever—and wherever—Cam Campbell might be, even if he’s checking into his own dorm room right now, I’m sure he’s working through all of it, too, and we have to remember to just be…cool.”
“Good. Fine. I’ve heard you. Now…let’s just
go
.” Patrick yanks the suitcase handle way too hard, as if just the thought of Cam has pissed him off beyond any ability to talk any further. He heads into the hallway, dragging my suitcase behind him. Glancing back at me and Laura, his tormented eyes shout all the words I’ve heard him mutter for months. That he might kill Cam Campbell on sight. That he wishes he, like all of us, could turn back the clock and make it all better. That he’d do anything and everything in his power to make me happy and to keep me safe from having my heart broken again ever. That he’s the best friend in the whole world. That he loves me.
“Let’s just hope to God he’s not there.” Laura’s eyes are also full of doubt, anger, and some nervous fear. She pulls the hoodie off my shoulders because it’s slipping while I’m attempting to tighten band on my long braid. “Can’t have you tumbling down the stairs on them crutches just before our new life is about to start.” She tosses me one last look as she heads off with it, my backpack, purse, and laptop bag. “Hurry up, or I’ll send caveman Patrick back here to drag you down.”
When the hallway’s gone completely silent, I hastily grab the necklace off the mirror. I won’t put it back on—and I will try really hard to get over him this summer, even if he does show up—but nothing can stop me from taking this to Toronto. I wrap the twine gently around the pendants and tuck the charms carefully into a little bundle before shoving the whole thing deep into my jeans pocket just as Mom calls up, “Ellen? You coming?”
“On the way!”
I turn my crutches to face the door, pausing one last time to look around my room.
*Prays: Please. Please let Cam be in Toronto. And if he’s not in Toronto, let him finally text me to tell me that he’s okay.*
Ellen
“You can stand down, Patrick. He’s not here,” Laura calls out, rushing up to where Patrick and I are waiting by the entrance of the Western Ontario Arts School’s auditorium. We were told to report here after saying goodbye to whoever dropped us off. Laura takes one of Patrick’s hands and unrolls his fingers. “Unclench your fists and stop glowering at everyone. He’s
absolutely
not here, nor is he going to be. I’ve confirmed it two times over.”
I guess I’ve been holding my breath ever since we came in here, because Laura’s words have released the vise grip that I didn’t know had clamped my lungs. I start taking much-needed deep breaths, and though the news brings up the usual, endless feeling of heavy sadness I get when thinking about Cam, I find I’m relaxing as waves of relief hit me.
*He’s not here. He’s not here, and you’re okay.*
“How do you know?” Patrick asks Laura, but his eyes don’t leave the sea of summer students standing in the various registration lines. Every time the main doors open, he flips to such high alert while checking the new faces entering the room, I think he’s going to snap.
Laura sighs, forcing Patrick’s eyes off the door by reaching way up and grabbing his face to turn his gaze on to her. “I asked. I simply said I was looking for Camden Campbell’s dorm room because he’s on our same project. Said I needed to meet up with him to get to work. The registration guy assured me no one by the name Campbell was registered for the program. He even made a call up to the main office to be sure he was not going to be a late arrival. Okay? Not. Here. Not coming.”
Patrick breathes his own sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good, because I really have to go to the bathroom, and I was afraid to leave her alone.” He motions to me as if I’m some sort of inanimate object.
I punch him in the arm and act like my heart isn’t sinking like a dead weight with the additional information about Cam not coming at all. I’m actually proud my voice holds steady when I say, “Go do what you need to do, and then get your dorm assignment. From what I can tell, the lines are alphabetical by program. Boys on one side, girls on the other.”
“Okay, but don’t wait for me. I’ve already located a line that says Foreign Exchange Students. I mean to get lost there and ask a bunch of stupid questions to all the pretty girls who are willing to pout their lips and say adorable, hopefully French things to me.”
“Fine. Go.” Laura shrugs, staring at the exchange student line herself. “See if you can’t accidentally score one of those handsome UK boys, preferably the one who’s wearing the sexy football shirt for me or Ellen.” She points to a tall, broad-shouldered grizzly-bear-sized hottie. “Better, get him as your roommate. In your messed up, Canadian use of the English language, football means
soccer
in all civilized countries.”
“Don’t even start.” Patrick shakes his head.
Laura ignores him and goes on staring. “Lord, but that’s a Glasgow Rangers shirt. I hope he’s truly Scottish, because Ellen…you’ll swoon when you hear him talk if he’s legit.” She pushes Patrick toward the line without once taking her eyes off Mr. Sporty. “Go on then, Patrick. Make new friends, and we’ll be just fine making ours.”
Patrick sighs and stalks away, his shoulders still set and tense—but I know that’s all because Laura’s just thrown salt on his stubborn wounded heart.
“Poor Patrick. You’re too hard on him.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Laura mutters, “I can’t ever date that black cloud of OCD worry, and you know it. He’s positively already loony on how much he loves and worries over you, and you’re just in the friend zone. If that guy actually falls in love-love, he’s going to become so overprotective he’ll lose his mind. Imagine marrying the likes of him. When his wife has wee-little babies. He will put razor wire up all over the planet and make all helicopter mommies feel shame for not being good enough.”
“I think it’s cute the way he is.”
“Guys like him—they end up behind bars for stalking. I’m sure of it.”
“Guys like him don’t cheat. He’d be so romantic, and he’d make your life perfect.”
“Hmph. Maybe I don’t deserve perfect,” she mutters. “What would I do with perfect?”
I shake my head. This is not the proper time to dig into what that comment means. Nor is this the place to call her a complete idiot for not just falling in love with Patrick and going for the
happily-ever-after
thing. Only, she told me that after watching what I’ve been through I’ve inspired her to wait even longer. We’re still in high school. How can high school love ever work out? I’m a prime example of true love gone bad. Isn’t Patrick just really, truly in love for the first time—like I was? And isn’t he too young to have it as bad as he does for Laura London?
I say yes. Laura says yes.
We’re reasonable, cool women who’ve discussed this topic weekend after weekend during our sleepovers, watching whatever TV marathon we could find. This whole time, we’ve both been happy to be alone. Well, Laura was happily alone and I was just alone, but in a twisted way it was really good fun.
We’re both pretty sure Patrick’s kind of love could go as deep as the love I felt for Cam. Unfortunately, I now believe that kind of love only permanently wrecks you when it’s over. Laura and I also believe that…any and every love is simply going to eventually be over, so what’s the point if the end of love comes with so much pain? It can’t be a good or healthy thing to pursue ever again.
Laura claps her hands together, and her eyes sparkle as she looks at the next wave of summer students pouring in through the main doors and crowding into the lines. “Can you believe we’re here? Soon we shall have matching little wood furniture sets and walls we can decorate however we want! I’m simply dying that my parents allowed me to stay the summer.”
“How could they not? Free education at the most renowned art school in Canada can only help your future.”
“Exactly.” She beams. “If we play this right and if I get all high marks in the program, there’s a chance they’ll let me stay with Auntie Judith and Uncle Yann for our senior year so I can apply here for university. I’m feeling a wee-bit-bloody Canadian already!”
I laugh. “Well, you still sound a lot-bit like you’re still fresh off the bus from Limerick, Ireland, you nut. And since I’ll never let you go back there, let’s just not bring it up. It’s not happening without me causing an international incident. We’ll graduate together no matter what.”
She leap-hugs me, almost toppling me over with my crutches. “Oh, Ellen Foster, I swear I couldn’t love you more. Now let’s get checked in. We’ll take our purses and laptops but leave the bigger bags here. What do you think?”
I love how she’s asked it like I have a choice in the matter. We both know I can’t drag any bags around and use my crutches at the same time. She points way across the room to a sign that says:
WOA Room Assignments.
“We already know we’re rooming together, so it looks like one of us has to stand in that line to get keys and information on where we’re supposed to go.”
I point in the other direction. “And one of us needs to get our dining hall passes so we can eat. And that line, by the way it’s curving down that hallway, is not just the WOA kids; it’s probably all of the programs mixed in. It also looks like it’s going to take forever.”
Laura assesses the huge pile-up of people in the food line. “Well…simply for the fact that you know I love food, and you know I love talking to people, I’m on the dining hall situation. You get the room sorted then let’s meet back here and trick handsome, muscled boys into carrying our bags for us.”
“Deal.”
She skips off, her long blond curls bouncing as flashes of the glitter she always wears in her hair sparkle under the lights. She pauses and looks back at me doubtfully from the edge of the crowd. I shake my head at her worry and wave her on, diving into the crowd on my side.
I love how I don’t recognize anyone in this entire room, and it sinks in that I’m not in my own small town anymore. Finally! No one knows me or my past! No one has any information about my disability or anything about me at all. I’m just one anonymous face in a crowd.
I stare down at my crutches, entertaining the idea that I could actually not tell anyone here that I’ve got Cerebral Palsy. With the Botox injections I had last week, my hand—though sore as heck and still not strong or very responsive—is at least flexible enough to able to grip the crutch handle without looking too twisted, and that flexibility is going to last for at least six weeks. People don’t need to know that I’m swimming and going to the gym very day because of Nash’s rigorous physical therapy program. I can just say I love to work out.
Ellen Foster, the girl with crutches and an exercise obsession
, sounds way more liberating than
Ellen Foster, the girl with CP
. I’ll just need a story as to how I got hurt.
*Imagines the basketball game where I scored that final two-pointer, but fell after I jumped so high I was able to hang on the net and no one could catch me before I hit the ground.*
*Imagines how I raced track this spring but was just a bit too tired and possibly too short to clear that last hurdle, but I tried for it anyhow.*
*Imagines the huge ladder I climbed, and then fell off while helping the dad-who-doesn’t-exist paint the barn where we keep our pet unicorns!*
As I near the end of the Dorm Assignments line, I pause to remove then loop my hoodie over my shoulders, because I’m hoping it makes me look really sporty. If anyone asks me,
Why the crutches?
I’ll be able to spit out something general without looking like a liar until Laura and I have my actual story straight.
I’m staring down, navigating just where to put the ends of my crutches without smashing someone’s foot, when suddenly they come into contact with someone else’s crutches. I quickly move mine out of the way. Only, the other crutches seem to be doing the same thing, in the same direction. In seconds they’re tangled. Only ten minutes into my new awesome life and my new
I don’t have CP this summer
identity and this kid is ruining it!
As I teeter and struggle for balance, I note the guy I’ve tangled with is wearing the most gorgeous, long-lensed Canon camera I’ve ever seen just as my crutches slip out from under my arms. The guy’s hands flail wide, and I can see he’s trying to stop me from falling, but that causes his crutches to slip out from under his arms. Suddenly, he and I start to plummet at the same time. I feel his arms go around me and take all of my weight. With nothing else to hold on to, I manage to grip my CP hand weakly onto his shirt so my good hand can at least protect the beautiful camera.
The guy huddles me in like he’s some sort of stunt man who’s done this all before. I feel his chest curving around me as we fall. His shoulder, then his back, takes all of the impact off of me as we slam down to the floor. All I can do is pray that my legs won’t get caught or bent.
We roll twice, ending with me on bottom, him on top.
The beautiful camera, still on the strap around his neck, slides safely down next to us. I gulp, trying to get some air so I can sit up, but this guy is rather huge, and the weight of him has pushed all the air out of my chest. Worse, my CP’s got me in its grip. I don’t want to admit any of my problems to him, so I hold silent. The silent part is easy, because in addition to the part where he’s possibly killing me, I’ve also died of embarrassment. He’s pressed every inch of himself into me in a way I’ve never been pressed into anyone before in my life.
The only good part about this is that my bad arm is trapped. Even though I can feel it trying to spaz and shake under him, his weight is hiding all of my awkwardness from view. Breathing a sigh of relief about that small bonus is what allows the first air back into my lungs. My cheeks fire bright red when I realize Camera Guy is very cute. It’s also hard not to notice he smells like pine trees or something super fresh. He’s also got really pretty—er—
handsome
brown eyes.
I try to shake my head and come to my senses, but all I can utter is: “Um…” I glance sideways at people staring at us from the line. “We should…maybe…”
“You saved my camera.
Thank you
.” He smiles, startling me to silence again because he’s so cute. Both of our eyes go to the Canon again. I nod, wondering if I should push him off me. But he sounds so darn nice…he smells so great…and if he moves maybe he’ll notice my CP.
“Um…yeah…um…” I say again, drawing in another pine-tree whiff. (Because stuttering “um” and sniffing people is what you should say and do when random, handsome photographer guys are lying on top of you!)
Finally, he moves to the side as a few people bring over our crutches. Before I can untwine myself from him and his camera strap enough to apologize, or at least make excuses for my classic clumsiness, he slowly pulls me up into a seated position like I’m really fragile. Then he blows a minty whisper across my too-hot cheeks while saying, “Look, I’m so embarrassed about all this. I’m so sorry.” And then, because I’m not startled enough, he adds, “I fall down a lot. Like…it’s a chronic thing for me. Falling.” He looks down at me. “It’s why I’m stuck with the crutches and the metal boot for two more weeks. Will you forgive me? Because if we’re going to be friends after this, I’m going to have to warn you that I will probably be doing this a lot.”