How I Fly (7 page)

Harrison bites his lower lip as if what I’ve said is about to crack him up.

A long, loud bell sounds the beginning of the hour. Harrison quickly hops over to tuck his crutches next to the spot where I’ve leaned mine against the wall before he hops back to slide into Lola’s seat. It’s not lost on me how cute his tall crutches look next to my smaller ones, and as Lola takes her seat with a view, I can only hope that she—and Laura and Patrick—are seeing the cuteness of what’s going on down here as well.

As Professor Perry takes the front of the room, he calls out, “Good morning. Now that everyone’s settled, I’m Professor Perry. Before we begin, I’d like to see a show of hands as to how many of you are hoping to apply for the WOA Senior Scholarship that would guarantee a four-year full ride scholarship to this institution after your graduation?”

He blinks as half of the room, including me and Harrison, quickly put up our hands. “That’s what I thought. Because I don’t want to waste any—
and I mean any
—of my valuable class time talking about the scholarship, I’m going to lay it all out now.” Professor Perry seems to be counting heads as he’s talking. “I’ll have a special syllabus for all who dare to apply in a couple of days. And it’s not to be taken lightly. Make sure you note every single rule and every single deadline that will be on that syllabus. You are all very good at photography. It’s why you are sitting here. So we need other ways to single people out of the pack, and it’s a very rigorous selection process that starts even today, with your ability to meet and impress me.”

I shoot Harrison a small under-the-table thumbs-up. He glances down, and without moving his head, I see him crack a half-smile. Professor Perry crosses to stand right in front of us, so I quickly get my pen moving on my open notebook with notes.

*Writes: Four-year full-ride scholarship. Follow Rules. Meet Deadlines. We are all on display starting now.*

“In addition to nearly perfect behavior and work, it is also very important you meet or beat every single date on the syllabus, or you will not be instantly out of the running for the scholarship.” People behind us groan and shift in their seats as Professor Perry goes on, “This is the most competitive arts scholarship in all of Canada. The fact that you are sitting in this room means you’ve got what it takes to get here. The question is: How badly do you want it?”

*Writes: Or how badly you need it? I need it. I need it. I will win.*

“Your participation here is only part of it. Once selections for the top three students are made at the end of the summer, there is a necessary interview that will happen after your transcripts and grades have been reviewed during your senior year. Any questions?”

A guy bravely calls out, “Sir, did you say there are three spots or are only the top three from this class considered?”

“There are three scholarship offerings of various levels, but they do amount to full-ride scholarships. School, room, and board. We used to allow students outside of this program to apply, but it took up too much administrative time. So, with the best of the best already in attendance here and awaiting their senior year of study, we decided to use the WOA summer workshop as a way to speed up the selections. Every summer I’m truly impressed by the creativity and the absolute determination our winners have executed to claim their spots. So…” Professor Perry spreads his arms wide and looks up at all of us. “Good luck. And let the games begin.”

Harrison scoots his chair closer to mine and whispers, “Damn. I didn’t know this was also a
drama
class.” He slides a flat piece of foil-wrapped mint gum across the table to me.

Even though I don’t really like gum, I take it because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I also return his eye roll with a small one of my own. But when I look up, I find Professor Perry standing right in front of me with his hand out, and he’s frowning because he must have clearly seen my rude expression.

Harrison’s suddenly taking notes and pretending he wasn’t just speaking to me.

I don’t blame him, because I actually would like to disappear right now.

Flushing, I place the newly unwrapped gum in the professor’s outstretched hand.

“Second order of business.” The professor’s voice has turned scathing. “For those of you who did not check the website this morning, let me be clear with some of my other expectations.”

Professor Perry twitches his fingers impatiently, and points to the little ball of gum wrapping on the desk. Quickly, I add the garbage to his hand, flushing more.

“You are all now in a
university
setting, so it’s time to grow up.” The scathing tone switches to sarcasm. “Your
mommies
won’t be standing at the door to kiss you goodbye or to read the rules of this place for you. I’m not going to feel sorry for you even if you’re stuck in the front row with your sad little crutches. And I won’t tolerate any disrespect or chattering while I’m lecturing.”

The room grows completely silent. I figure they’re amazed from watching the rainbow of color crossing the back of my overheated neck.

“So if you’ve been a little lax on what’s important here—and that’s not going to parties or fixing your
hair
…”

I try to hide my extra-nice French braid, and flip it so it falls down my back and out of his sight. Can he tell that I did spend a lot of time on it because I wanted to look good for the first day of class? Should I wear messy buns for the rest of the week? As if the professor can read my mind, he shakes his head like he thinks I’m already a lost cause.

“And students. I’d have you all please note, those exotic-looking exchange students have been on this campus every summer for the past five years. Their addition to our summer curriculum has made our summer programs a lot of needed money, but they’ve also been the death of many of our WOA photography students’ dreams and grades. Think very carefully before you engage with people who believe it’s a good idea to drink and dance the summer away. You and those foreign students have very different goals.”

A few people laugh quietly behind us.

He crosses his arms, and paces the length of the floor in front of us. “So, to repeat. You’ve had your first and final warnings. Know everything. Check everything; be responsible for yourselves and for your work.” Unfortunately, he turns his attention away from the group and is now focused back on me. It’s all I can do not to squirm in my seat.

“Ellen Foster. The
first
and most important item on my list of website directives for today stated there is to be absolutely
no
food or drink, and not even water is allowed inside this room.”

“I’m so sorry, sir.” I say it clearly, owning my stupidity as my heart sinks to my feet. “Very. Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure that’s true, Miss Foster. Because when you leave this classroom today and you get your head where it needs to be, you’ll notice that on that same list of today’s directives that I took the time to type out, in bold, and with all caps, not to mention using
red text
: ABSOLUTELY NO GUM WILL BE TOLERATED AROUND MY TECHNICAL EQUIPMENT EVER. Consider this entire classroom technical equipment.”

As he stalks away to brush my offensive, law breaking gum into the trash and return to his podium, a few people mumble and shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Harrison bumps my leg. I’m too petrified to turn my head in his direction, so I dart my eyes to the side and get that he’s looking at me with a pale, very apologetic face. His eyes say he’s sorry and he’s written the same on his notebook, but I’m not going to utter another word to him, look at him, breathe or blink until this class is over.

Then he’ll have to wait until I’m finished banging my head into some metal post or on a concrete floor for while I check that website then yell at myself for not being better prepared.

Cam

After Mom and I hugged, and Mom had wiped away her tears, Judge Chambers, without even taking his seat again, requested I meet with him privately. We’ve exited through the wide doors behind his seat and have ducked into one of the windowless conference rooms lining a back hallway.

He sits and opens a file folder that’s over an inch thick with my name on it.

“I want you to tell me about the girl.”

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“Ellen Foster. Tell me about her.”

“Ellen Foster? What’s to tell?” My heart starts thumping painfully, like a gun going off inside my chest.

“Whatever comes to your head. This is not a test. Just…talk.”

I swallow, daring myself to remember her, wondering just how much it will hurt to open up the memory box I swore I’d never visit again. “Well…she’s an amazingly talented artist. She can see the world in ways you can’t even imagine until you see it in her photographs. And I mean, like…parts of your heart can be found in a simple, reaching tree branch. Or a dream you didn’t know you had is inside a tiny cloud crossing the sky, loneliness and tears in a full glass of water, or faces that aren’t real but somehow captured inside the reflections and colors coming off an icicle. Oh, and ice. Photographing ice is her favorite thing.”

“What else?”

I relax back into my chair some, working through the images of Ellen coming in to my mind.

“Sir. It’s difficult trying to explain her to you, because you know too much about me thanks to that file sitting in front you, yet you are a person I hardly know.”

“Try. Go on.”

“Ellen moves people. And after you see the world how she’s seen it, after you know her some, you can’t un-see the beauty she’s shown you. I know that might not make sense, but I still walk around finding whole universes inside everything I never would have noticed before I…before we…just…
before
.”

I shrug, deciding I don’t need to tell him everything. “She’s also got amazing determination—and she’s not a pushover in any way. She uses her wit and her intelligence as sort of a mask to keep people at a distance. I do a similar thing, only I retreat and don’t engage.”

“Why is that—why do both of you have that in common?”

“I suppose you can guess my need to stay alone came from living with someone like my dad.” Judge Chambers nods, like he might understand. “I kept people away as a way to protect them, really. Ellen, she pushed people away not because she wanted to—she’s actually really social—but she does it to protect herself. She’s been mocked and bullied a ton thanks to her Cerebral Palsy. Her limbs, her hand and her foot—all on her left side—it all hurts and doesn’t work quite right. And I’m not talking a twinge here and a twinge there. I’m saying that it hurts her all the time. She fights against it like a warrior, yet she somehow manages to still…smile and live and not let it get in her way. I actually looked up to her for that, because I’m not so good at smiling in the face of adversity. I tend to have tantrums and lose my temper. She’s a better person than I am, that’s for sure.” I sigh as I tap my fingers against the edge of his desk. “Is that enough?”

The judge leans forward and stares at me like he’s waiting, searching me out. He fiddles with some of the papers in the folder. “Although it’s nice to hear about Ellen and her art… you’ve left everything about her that brought
you
in front of
me
out of the conversation.”

I run a hand through my hair, and suddenly I’m unable to meet his gaze. “Oh. Right. You want me to talk about…me…and breaking Ellen Foster’s legs and the huge cluster I made of my life and probably her life after all that?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” I square my shoulders and meet his gaze dead-on, pulling in a breath for strength, because I get that whatever I say here is going to decide my fate. “Well, first, let me tell you that I loved her. Still love her. She was my girlfriend when that all went down, and we were both head over heels. I swear we were.”

“I believe you. All that you’ve already said supports that.”

“Then you’ll have to know I’d never willingly hurt her. But sir…” I pause to take in another long breath, even though it suddenly burns. “I
did
hurt her.” I search out the depths of his eyes that are hiding behind his thick glasses before going on. “Every night, when my head hits the pillow, I don’t need to go to sleep to find the nightmares that wait for me about her and that day. I’ve got the sound of Ellen’s head hitting the bleachers to haunt me. Much worse is the permanent memory of how it sounded and felt while her precious and very skinny legs snapped under the weight of monster-clod me and that idiot, Tanner Gold. I suppose you know we were all suited up in our football gear and how we crushed her into the pavement.”

He nods, eyes growing heavy and sad. “I know all of it. I’ve seen the photos, the video that went viral, and Ellen’s x-rays. It was terrible.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I’ll
never
forget how it felt to pull her limp and weightless form into my lap and see her lashes closed against her too-pale cheeks. She was so damn still. To me, she looked like she might not ever wake up again.” I pull in a shaky breath. “Judge Chambers, my heart, my soul, and anything that was good inside of me actually burned up from the inside out. When I held her like that, when I saw her legs all bent and twisted in ways they should never have ever been and all because of me, sir…I literally became a different person. Then and there.”

My voice breaks, but like always, I keep the tears at bay.

I don’t deserve to cry.

The judge sighs heavily. “But we’ve all agreed that it
was
an accident. Ellen fell into the middle of you boys. She said she fell. I’ve got a deposition from her in this file. It was an accident.”

“I realize that.” I look away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “But had her head hit any harder, it could have killed her.
I could have killed her.
”

The judge lets out a long breath. “That’s all true, son, but you didn’t. I’d read versions of this story, heard phone testimonies from many witnesses, and I’d even watched the God-awful YouTube video that’s still online where it looks like you and Tanner are rushing her for fun. I was ready to believe the worst about you, go with the story just how the newspapers reported it, but then your social workers kept pestering me month after month. And I received phone calls and letters from Mrs. Foster, Ellen’s mom, as well as Ellen’s physical therapist, and then your teacher Mrs. Brown. She, of her own accord, backed the story that your mom was telling our courts about your father and the ways he tried to control you against your will. I’m sorry about your dad and I’m sorry the accident with Ellen happened, son, but none of it was your fault.”

“I’m happy those people spoke up for me, but in my mind and in my heart, I’ll spend a lifetime believing it was my fault. I’m like my dad. I’ve got that same horrible temper, I think.” I shake my head, still hardly able to breathe from reliving everything. “I’ve had tons of time to think about it. In one quick sweep, I took away everything that beautiful and amazing girl ever worked toward. Do you know that since elementary school she’s been trying to keep herself out of a wheelchair and crutches? The day I wrecked her, she’d been walking without a cane for months!”

“I’m not letting you carry this blame. Her physical therapist told me she should have had that cane with her at all times. She was being stubborn, and possibly even vain.”

“She wasn’t. She’s the least vain girl I’ve ever known! I broke her good leg and her bad leg. And now, all these months later, I don’t even know how she’s doing. I can only hope she’s able to walk straight again.” I stare down the judge. “And if she can’t, well, I’m asking you to find some sort of prison that you can lock me into for the rest of my sorry life so I can somehow pay for taking that away from her.”

I blink at him, watching as he shakes his head at me like I’m mental.

“Son, you’re not being detained anymore. You’ve done your time. You’ve kept the grades perfect. Aside from that one incident at the school where you stole that cell phone—and now I also understand the reasons behind why you did what you did—your record is impeccable. It was your first offense, and your slate and your record is going to be wiped clean of this. From what I can tell about your character and from this interview alone, I can well trust you’ll never be locked up again. I also have it on good sources that your Ellen Foster is just fine.”

“How can that be?” I hold my breath, searching his face for any hints that he’s just talking shit to make me feel better because I just showed him how truly pathetic I really am.

“Her physical therapist, Mr. Nash.” He pulls out a paper from the bottom of the file. “He wrote a letter explaining all to me from his point of view. He said he spoke from Ellen’s as well. As much as I think this man wanted to kill you, his report states that Ellen being forced back into a wheelchair was the best thing that could have happened to her. The accident allowed her to complete the tendon-lengthening surgery she’d been stubbornly, and
vainly
, avoiding on her left side. This Mr. Nash reported that the surgery was a huge success. Ellen’s still healing, but she is walking better than ever now and shall continue to do so.”

I catch my breath and meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t joke with me about that, would you, sir?”

He shakes his head. “Never. Ellen Foster suffered no permanent damage to her body. But like you…I can imagine she’s got some serious sadness still deep inside her heart from all this, which is why we—myself, and all of the parents and teachers involved—think you and Ellen need to be allowed some sort of closure.”

I shake my head. “No offense, sir, but I think that would be terrible. Every time I’ve been around that girl, I’ve hurt her. And because I’ve vowed to never do that again—and secondly, I’ve vowed to stay provinces away from her—seeing her face to face and looking for closure is going to destroy what’s left of me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I loved her too much, and I think she felt the same. After all of this time, there’s no way I can turn back the clock and make us who and what we once were. She’s moved on, I hope. And I’m about to start a new life with my mom. Can’t we please just let it all be part of the past?”

I lean forward, pleading with him to understand.

“No. You can’t just flip a switch. You were unfairly ripped out of your life and your town, and you need to go back. This Ellen girl is very much connected to your next steps.” He hands me a sheet of paper. The first one’s got an image of the breakup text I’d sent to Ellen Foster from the social worker’s stolen phone.

I sigh. “I suppose I’m not surprised to see this as part of my file because of the circumstances. And it was a terrible way to break up with Ellen.”

“With any girl.”

I grimace. “But if you read this, sir, you will see what I’m talking about. I stated very clearly here for her to move on, and that I wasn’t coming back. I’m not about to break that promise.”

The judge frowns. “Wait. That’s not the paper I wanted to show you. What about this promise?” He reaches over with another sheet, and when I see it, I literally start to choke.

It’s a copy of the love letter I’d written to Ellen when my father had first forbidden me to see her. It had been sent with a gift of some beach glass I’d found for her. And it’s private and embarrassing, and I suddenly wonder just who else has read this letter. “I—um—sent this from my school. How did you get a copy of it?” My voice is shaking as hard as the hand that’s holding the letter, and I know I need to get—and then keep—myself under control.

Does this guy know he’s just shredded my heart into some sort of massive ball of pulp? Does he get that I wouldn’t be surprised if both blood and an ocean of salt water flooded out of my eyes after being forced to look at this damn letter? What is this dude trying to do? Kill me?

“Your mom contacted Mrs. Foster requesting she send anything that could prove to me you’d never hurt her daughter the way your father and the news media was accusing you of hurting her. This letter you wrote proves that. The way you obviously tried to protect her with that inane text message where you broke things off with her was also proof, but the phone call I had with Ellen Foster personally back in April that told me you and she and Patrick and Laura had won the Western Regional Arts Photography Contest—now that was one amazing phone call, indeed. And you’re right. I’ve seen the winning photos. The art is amazing.”

“We…won it?” My heart’s pounding.

“A full-ride scholarship that includes tuition, housing and food that I’m fully intending on forcing you to attend in a matter of days. It’s why your case was moved up to the fast track, son. You’re going back—you’re having a second chance at everything. And this time, your father’s not going to be there to muddy the water. Good that you’re already studying.” He nods approvingly to the book Tom had made me drag in here.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say thank you.” The judge grins. “You also owe Mary and Tom for bending my ear more than once over your case. This interview has me understanding just why even Ellen’s own mother is pulling so hard for you. That’s the most amazing part of this case. Ellen, her mom, that PT fellow, Mr. Nash—all the people who were most hurt by this accident—spoke up for you and begged me to release you in time to attend the WOA Summer Scholar Program.”