The Fall (10 page)

She complained, “I don't think I can stand another year of school.”

(Wow, the wind is violent now. A big tree branch just fell on the neighbor's car! I hope the power doesn't go out. Wait, I'm going to find a flashlight just in case.)

Hold on.

(Back, whew: And it took forever! Did you notice? Carry on!)

She used to say how much she hated getting out of bed in the morning. Not a big deal, everybody says that. But there's a storm outside and I'm here in my room listening to music, remembering.

Another thing before I go: I'm also
not
remembering. Which freaks me out. She's slipping away. I forget more each day. Some details are hazy, the way she—

(Crap. Knew it! The lights just went out. Darkness.)

 

THE DAY I HEARD THE NEWS …

Life rolled on like a nursery rhyme.

Diddle-diddle, Fiddle-fo-fum. Ma's

tea kettle boiled and blew, the merry

mailman came, our black lab barked,

and the dish ran off with the spoon.

Nothing and everything changed.

I sat in my idiot room, still dis-

believing text messages of shock

and swoon. I powered off the phone.

Waited there on the edge of my bed,

feet pressed to the floor in fear

I'd otherwise float into space,

& just vanish too, like Morgan.

I stared at my dumb white hands,

the tips of my awful fingers, thinking

only this:
Useless. Useless. Useless.

 

THE GIFT

It came in the mail about two weeks after she died. A tattered paperback. Well worn, as if it had been read a few times, folded, mangled, left in the rain. Corners of the pages had been turned down. On the inside front cover, I read her name in black marker: MORGAN MALLEN.

My heart was in my chest, the usual spot, but it felt like it had swollen to twice its size. Bloated, belly up, like a sick fish. I felt unable to breathe, stuffed with crap, a closet too jammed with junk.

(Sorry, I suck, can't describe this feeling. Is anyone ever happy with their words?)

I was afraid to turn the pages. Would there be a note for me? Some message for my eyes only? Flipping through the first few pages, I didn't find anything. It was just a book in an envelope, addressed to me.

Morgan had talked about it before. And I think—now that I can think, now that my brain has awakened—it's possible that she wanted to give it to me in person. She hinted about it, how I should “definitely” read
The Bell Jar
someday. Morgan said that it was as if the author, Sylvia Plath, had somehow peered deep into Morgan's own soul. She quoted the book once, as far as I know.

We were talking things over in our usual spot, on the log in the woods. This was back when we were still friends, before she found out that I was one of the trolls on her web page. Morgan was unhappy that afternoon, and sat there like a bump, wishing it were not so. She said, “If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed.”

I thought those were such sad words. “You can't look at life that way.”

Morgan kind of shrugged. “I didn't make it up. Sylvia Plath wrote it in
The Bell Jar
.”

“Great, remind me not to read it,” I said.

She looked at me for a moment, as if a bird had landed on my head.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just … nothing.”

And now the book had found its way into my hands. How was that possible? Was regular mail that slow? She must have mailed it more than two weeks ago. It couldn't have taken that long to reach me. A mystery.

I studied the front cover, and the back.
Not yet,
I thought,
I can't.
I didn't dare. I didn't want to know.

But Morgan wanted me to have it, her gift to me, from one world to another.

I started to read.

 

DAD SAYS

My dad shrugs, says:

“Sometimes

You zig, other times

You zag.”

Point being, my dad says:

“We all stand one day

On the crossroads,

and we have to decide

About this life.”

I get it now:

With each action

I create my new

Self.

 

Get ready.

Because tomorrow I'm gonna zag

(just when you thought

   I was going to zig).

 

PUBLIC SPEAKING

It was a big deal in school this year. Talking, talking, talking. We had to work on speaking in public—and we were graded on it too.

Most of the talks were dumb, some weren't. On rare days, kids actually said things worth hearing. I secretly admired that.

The courage.

On this day I was stressed that I'd be too nervous to speak. That I'd be sweating, stammering, unable to look anyone in the face.

But I was fine.

Better than fine. It felt good. For the first time since all this happened.

Sure, I was anxious before the speech. All day in school I felt tense, jittery. I was there and not there. Until the moment when I opened my mouth, I wasn't sure if I'd have the guts to go through with it. I didn't know how I'd say it. I just had to trust the words would come out okay, that I'd make sense. That maybe somebody would understand. Or not. Who knows.

Maybe I wasn't saying it for my peers in the classroom anyway. I was saying it for myself—my sense of self—and for her.

First period dragged into second period, then third, and fourth, and on through the day. Time marches like a good soldier, stiff-legged, chin up, a weapon on its shoulder. Finally it was time for me to stand up, speak out.

I had an 800-pound gorilla to get off my chest.

I began:

“My name is Sam Proctor. You guys know that already. I'm standing here in front of you, looking at your faces. You can see me, and I can see you.”

Their faces were puzzled, borderline bored. I was losing them already.

“On the internet…,” I said, and momentarily the power of speech halted within me. I saw that one or two pairs of ears had perked up. Everybody liked the Internet. Paula Ligouri's face turned pale, as if she sensed something in the air. Like she sensed where I was going with this.

I tried it again. “On the internet, you don't have to show your face. You don't have to give your name. And you can be as mean as you want to be…”

 

FACE MEETS FIST

In retrospect, I don't think getting punched in the face was that bad. I kind of liked it. I mean, I'm not
recommending
it. “Oh yes, you simply must try the Punch-in-the-Face, it's divine. Far superior to the Knee-to-the-Groin and half the calories!”

Fact: Fergus Tick went
blam
and I went
boom
. Hitting the ground was worse than the punch—no disrespect to Fergus, who packs a wallop, but that concrete was hard.

To my surprise, I did not see stars. Pretty little birdies did not circle my head, chirping tunelessly. None of the typical things I expected after a lifetime's education watching Loony Tunes cartoons. I got hit, I fell, and my coconut throbbed but didn't crack. That was it. Fergus's fist caught me on the right cheek below the eye—Fergus was a lefty, who knew! Maybe a tougher kid staggers back but keeps standing. Not me. I flopped like a spineless jellyfish.

One punch and done.

Message received, loud and clear.

Surprisingly: Fergus was the one who looked frightened, and so did Athena, who stood watching. My confession in speech class shook them up. I had broken the code of silence. I said out loud what I had done to Morgan Mallen. I spoke the unspeakable. I owned the thing that nobody else wanted. And even though I didn't point fingers at anyone else, I could see that it scared Athena to the core.

She didn't look so pretty from my viewpoint on the ground. She looked like she'd just swallowed a poisoned apple. There was something evil in her soul, and she was rotting from the inside out.

The fallout after Morgan's suicide had not been a good experience for Athena Luikin. She'd become damaged goods, like an expensive glass vase dropped to the ground. If Morgan was the dead girl, Athena was the one we blamed. At first, Athena put on a brave face, the tough girl who didn't give a hoot. Over time, cracks appeared. Everyone knew Athena was the one most responsible for harassing Morgan. In a way, she fell victim to her own game. Athena was tagged too. Her tag read: BULLY. One by one, Athena's friends faded into the background until she stood virtually alone, if not for the unwavering loyalty of Fergus Tick.

Rumors went around that Athena was transferring to a private school in another town. “Good,” we said. One morning, a
FOR SALE
sign appeared on her front lawn. There was talk of a lawsuit, damages and courtrooms. The reign of the queen was over.

So there I sat on the ground, head going
boom-ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom
,
fuzzzzzz.

“Get up,” Fergus demanded.

(So you can punch me again? I don't think so.)

“Leave him,” Athena said. “Come on. Let's go, Fergus.”

And go they did.

I waited for my head to clear. It wasn't so awful. It felt like waking up any school morning, that torturous distance between head-on-the-pillow and feet-on-the-floor.

I needed a hot shower. Or maybe a long hot bath. Morgan once said, “Baths make everything better.” It was time to find out if she was right.

Despite all that, deep down, I felt fantastic. Like a million bucks. Terrific, awesome, happy.

(How weird was that?)

I wasn't on the wrong side of life anymore. I was now an enemy of the bad guys—and it felt great. I tasted something sweet in my mouth, a new flavor, but I couldn't figure out what it was until I spat.

Oh, blood.

 

I KNOCKED

I decided to do it. I had to.

I stood at her front door yesterday.

I breathed in and out, in and out.

Steady as a willow in a hurricane.

And I knocked.

Bark, BARK, barkbarkBARKbark
!

I'd forgotten about Larry. The lunatic mop.

I suddenly, fiercely, insanely wished I had a mint. I breathed into my open palm. Yuck, gross. How was my hair? What was I doing here?

Time passed.

And the door creaked open.

The mother was standing there, wheezing slightly, sizing me up. The expression on her face said,
What now, dear Lord, what now?

 

THINGS I LIKE

This is a list of random things I like.

I like baseball games that last extra innings. “Free baseball,” we call it. I like weekends without homework, watching my little sister sleep with her puffy lips and the saliva dribbling out of the corner of her mouth. I like my bed made with the blankets folded down nice and perfect, just right. I like the cold, numb feeling of a package of frozen peas on my swollen face. I like the last bell of the school day and the sound in the hallways of a hundred lockers slamming joyously shut and the big hum of let's get outta here, let's go. I like funny videos with absurd cats (I realize it's a big joke to some people, but I do). I like memories of old vacations, camping trips and card games and nickel antes. I like the stars in the sky when the night is warm and silent. I like the sound of a swing and a miss on the baseball diamond, the absence of sound followed by a fastball popping into the catcher's leather glove, the
whoosh
-and-
pop
combo. I like that feeling when you see a girl and think, wow, that's all, just WOW, and you know you have to find a way to stand next to that girl somewhere, somehow. I like a brand-new box of my favorite cereal, when I know it was bought just for me. I like turning on the radio and a great song comes on that same instant. I like laughter, and promises kept, and friendly waves across open fields. I even like Morgan's lunatic dog that
barkbarkbARKed
with the soul of wolf.

I like being alive, and today I am, right now, saying yes to life. Yes, yes, and yes.

 

WORDS

Larry pounced on my shoes,
barkbarkbARKing!

“You remember me, don't you, Larry?” I said.

“And you are?” the mother asked.

I didn't have a good answer. And in fact, I never expected to see the mom. That wasn't my plan. Yet here she was, a fairly gigantic woman in a huge floral housedress. She might have weighed three hundred pounds. She smelled of butterscotch and a scent that reminded me of Morgan, the faint whisper of booze.

She eyed me suspiciously, the door only half-open, ready to slam shut.

(I am Sam, Sam I am.)

All I had to do was open my mouth. It's all anybody ever wanted me to do, my parents, Mr. Laneway, Morgan. “Just talk,” they said. “It's easy. Try it. Say one word. Start with your name…”

Seriously?

What good would that do? My name is …

Use.

Less.

Ness.

 

READING

Morgan had marked up
The Bell Jar
here and there, little checkmarks and passages underlined.

I never found my name in it. There was no secret message. Believe me, I looked.

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead” was underlined in red.

There was a loopy star next to “I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.”

(Oh, Morgan.)

Another star: “I had nothing to look forward to.”

It was that kind of book, and I guess Morgan was that kind of girl. There was a sadness inside her, a darkness I couldn't touch. Strange as it seems, all the while I imagined her reading those words, dragging her pen under important sentences, drawing stars in the margins.

Reading is the most alone thing in the world.

But she was with me the whole time.