Falling Over Sideways

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  Oh my God, I thought. Ryder is being openly nice to me. Is this yet another psychological trick? Or could it be that Mrs. Selinsky was right about this friend thing? Because if so, that’s kind of disturbing.

  I felt my old instinctive anger start to well up. “For your information, Ryder, I’ve been practicing. I’ve been playing the sax for my father, like, daily for weeks now. He enjoys my playing. I’m not some pathetic charity case who needs special favors from—”

  That was when I noticed. Ryder had been smiling at me—not grinning or sneering maliciously, but actually smiling. And now his smile was fading fast.

  What am I doing? I thought.

  “Hold on, Ryder. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump on you. I just have a lot going on right now.”

  “I know.”

  My mind flashed on the things Regina had said to me after the meeting with Mr. Thompson. “Can I ask you something? Why did you stop being friends with me in sixth grade? I mean, we used to laugh together all the time in elementary school, and then all of a sudden, we got here and BAM! You suddenly decided you were too cool for me.”

  Ryder’s face turned red. “That’s not what happened at all.”

  “Well, that’s how it seemed to me.”

  Ryder looked down at the floor, and exhaled slowly. Then he breathed in and, still without looking at me, said, “No. It was the third day of band camp. The band moms were measuring us for our uniforms. You had already gone, so you were standing around talking to Roshni and Jennifer when it was my turn. The lady measured my height, and then my arms and legs. Okay, whatever. But when she did my waist, she started muttering and looking at the papers she had—I don’t know, the lists of uniforms in stock or something. And then she shouted out across the whole cafeteria, ‘Hey, Liz, we’re gonna need some extra fabric for this kid’s pants!’ ”

  That sounded pretty traumatic. But I didn’t see what it had to do with me.

  Ryder looked up from the floor and locked eyes with me. “You don’t even remember this, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “You giggled, Claire. You and Roshni and Jennifer. You all covered your mouths like you weren’t laughing, but you were. And I just had to stand there like a fat little dork while two other moms came over and had some stupid band-uniform crisis conference right in front of everyone. I just wanted to die. That’s when I stopped being your friend. When you stopped being mine.”

  Tears sprang up at the corners of my eyes as suddenly as though somebody had just slapped my nose. It was weird—I had never been much of a crier until eighth grade, but since September, I had been weeping out of control at the slightest little disturbance.

  It’s amazing what nonstop trauma will do to a person.

  Anyway, I reached out and took Ryder’s hand. “I’m sorry, Ryder. I’m sorry it happened to you, I’m sorry I laughed, and I’m sorry I don’t remember it. That must have been terrible.”

  He looked down at our hands in shock. I was afraid for a moment that he might faint. His face had already been pretty flushed, but now it looked like someone had rubbed cherry juice all over him or something.

  Finally, he started giggling. It was so bizarre and unexpected that I did, too. The giggles built into a wave of laughter, which crested and built again into another one. We didn’t get ourselves back under control until I was out of breath and Ryder was wheezing like a leaky balloon.

  Then he gasped, “Ah, it wasn’t that bad. At least I got a custom-made band uniform out of the deal. The fit was snug, yet breezy. So, do you want the extra time before auditions, or what?”

  “No,” I said, and I could feel a real, honest, happy smile pulling up at the sides of my mouth. “I want to kick your butt fair and square.”

  “Wait a minute, Storky. You think you’re going to kick my butt? You and what secret woodwind army?”

  “Ryder, you have not yet begun to appreciate my reedy wrath. Prepare for total saxophonical devastation. I’m talking epic, massive alto obliteration.”

  “From you? Please.”

  Three weeks later, when auditions rolled around, I got second chair. Ryder got first. I said, “Congratulations.”

  Ryder replied, “In your face!” But he was smiling when he said it.

  “Fish! Spit! Fit! Shiff!”

  Dad was throwing his hand-exercise balls all over the basement, shouting nonsense words, when I walked downstairs. When he noticed my presence, he said, “Claire, help me!”

  “Sure,” I said, starting to pick up the balls. “What can I do?”

  “Don’t give me back the … silver torture things! Jesus. Just tell me the word. I just can’t think of what you say when … you’re throwing stuff and yelling. It sounds like ‘pit’ or ‘ship’ or something, but I can’t get it. It’s right on the tip of my … mouth thing. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t just toss stuff around and scream, ‘Slip!’ all the time. That’s not … satisfying.”

  I was like, Dude, can’t you just learn your curses from the other kids on the kindergarten bus like a normal person? But obviously, that wasn’t an option. So I said, “Okay, Dad. Here’s the deal. I’ll teach you the word if you get through your whole workout today without quitting on me.”

  He thought about it for a while, and then said, “Deal.”

  We almost made it, too, but then three-quarters of the way through, Dad slipped off his balance ball and fell over onto the carpet. “I hate that stupid thing!” he barked. “I hate all of this. I can’t get through my exercises without screwing up.”

  “Well, Dad, you know what Miss Laura says when I feel sorry for myself at dance?”

  “What?”

  “You can cry or you can hold it in. But either way, the only way you’re going to get what you want is to bust your butt until the dancer you are is the dancer you need to be.”

  “You know I’m not dancing in your show, right?”

  I kept talking. “That’s not the point, Dad. The point is that if you quit, you’re just going to be a bitter old crippled guy. I don’t care if you limp. I don’t care if your hand shakes. But you’re acting like you’re broken inside, and that’s not who you are. That’s not who you were before. That’s not MY DAD! Now please get up and get back on that ball.”

  He stared into my eyes for the longest time without saying a word, but I didn’t look away. Eventually, he got back up, and balanced for maybe twenty seconds. Then he did the exercise again.

  I felt like I’d been holding my breath for months without even realizing it, and now … just the slightest bit … I could start to exhale.

  But I was still crushed that I didn’t have a partner for the Dads’ Dance. I slept over at Katherine’s house one night during Easter break, which was right before the fathers were supposed to start rehearsing. Both Katherine’s and Alanna’s fathers offered to ask whether they could somehow do a double dance with me and their daughters. I told them I appreciated the gesture but that if I couldn’t dance with my own father, I didn’t see the point.

  Mostly, I was just afraid I would be one of those embarrassing girls who breaks down and cries onstage while the whole audience sits and stares.

  Katherine and Alanna were totally sympathetic, of course. Then we went upstairs, climbed into our sleeping bags, and ate junk food in the dark for hours. I loved just being there between the two of them, until Alanna asked me, “So, Claire, I don’t mean to be bitchy or anything, but why have you been so distant lately? We haven’t seen you outside of dance for months. You’ve been ignoring texts, which you never, ever used to do, and you’re not talking to either of us about anything real. I mean, we all know you have a ton going on, but you know Katherine and I are here for you, right? We’re supposed to be your besties. You can tell us stuff. You can trust us. You’re not supposed to hide your problems. Unless it’s something we did. Have we been rude? Have we been bugging you too much?”

  Katherine said, “Is it because we didn’t text you after your school lockdown? See, Alanna,
I told you we should have texted her. Claire, Alanna was like, ‘Give her space,’ but I knew you’d want support. It was probably pretty traumatic, right? God, I’m so stupid.”

  “No, it has nothing to do with anything either of you did. Mostly, it’s just been weird for me because … ” And then I suddenly had to stop talking because I got all choked up.

  Instantly, Alanna’s arm encircled me from one side, and Katherine’s hand was stroking my hair from the other. “Because what?” Alanna asked. “You can tell us anything.”

  “Because you were both in the high school classes, and I wasn’t. I thought you were making new friends, and you wouldn’t care about me anymore. I mean, not on purpose or anything, but … people drift apart all the time. And the high school girls’ lives just always sound so glamorous and grown up when you talk about them. Meanwhile, I’m in, like, Training Bra Dance 101.”

  “Claire,” Alanna said, “you’re an idiot.”

  Ah, comforting, I thought.

  “What kind of shallow dance drones do you think we are?” Katherine asked.

  Alanna continued, “We’re not your friends because of what class Miss Nina puts us in. We’re your friends because we love you.”

  “Yeah,” Katherine said. “You freaking bonehead.”

  One day when I was getting set up to play sax for my father before dinner, my mother called me up to talk with her in the kitchen. “Claire,” she said, “I don’t know what you’ve been doing to motivate him, but it’s been miraculous. Everybody is noticing: the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the speech therapist. He’s been taking walks around the block the past few mornings, by himself. That’s a first. He’s even starting to work on learning to read again. For a long time, he wouldn’t even look at words on a page. Oh, honey! I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. I know we haven’t gotten to spend much time together this year, and I haven’t been telling you this from day to day, but you are doing an awesome job.”

  “Of what?”

  She thought for a moment. “Of becoming you.” Then she took me into her arms and gave me a bone-crushing hug. “So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” she muttered into my hair. “I think I’ve found a partner for you for the Dads’ Dance. I know it won’t be the same as having your father up there, but still … I know this person wants to make the offer.”

  I pushed her away so I could look at her face. “Who are we talking about, Mom?”

  Matthew stepped around the corner from the living room and said, “Yo.”

  “But—” I started to say.

  “But what?” Matthew said.

  “Well, you’re not a dancer.”

  “Oh, and before this, Dad was secretly taking ballet lessons in an underground bunker?”

  “No, but you … you don’t have time. You’ve been having so much trouble managing everything as it is. You even had to dump your girlfriend. I can’t ask you to do this. It’s too much, Matthew.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll meet a hot junior at the rehearsals. This could be an extremely efficient use of my time.”

  “Oh, gross.”

  “No, seriously, I want to do this for you, Claire. And the big dress-rehearsal week is after school ends, right? So it won’t be such a big deal. I’m taking my road test in a few weeks. We can drive to rehearsals together. Come on—it’ll be excellent!”

  I knew Matthew hated dancing, and I knew how much he guarded his time, so I knew what this offer meant to him. I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “But you better take the rehearsals seriously. Dancing is hard.”

  “Oh, please,” he said with a smirk. “How hard can it be? They let you in.”

  At dinner one night in late spring, I said, “Hey, Dad, maybe you should write a book about this. I mean, you’re working on reading and writing, right? That would give you a goal. And your story might really—I don’t know—inspire people.”

  “Sure, Claire,” he said, attempting to bring a spoonful of peas to his mouth and dropping several of them. “Who wouldn’t want to be … like me?”

  “No, I’m serious. Look how far you’ve come.”

  “Maybe. But maybe you should be the one to tell this story.”

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “Because you and your brother are the … what do you call it? The heroes.”

  “Oh, come on, Dad.”

  “I’m serious. You could call it The Drool Diaries.”

  “Stop. Just stop.”

  “All right. The title needs … work. How about something simple, like Piggy?”

  “Yuck.”

  “I’ll keep working … on it.”

  The other thing he kept working on was losing his limp. He told me his physical therapist was so impressed by his progress with balance that he got a new exercise: stepping across the room by stomping down with the heel of one foot first, then whomping down forcefully with his toes, before doing the same with the other foot. It kind of looked like he was trying to be Frankenstein or a zombie or something, but he said it would strengthen his legs and improve his coordination.

  I hadn’t seen him work so hard on anything, so I didn’t complain. But I really hoped he wasn’t going to be walking like that in public.

  Speaking of going out in public, one night after dinner, our mom had gone out to the grocery store. Dad suddenly turned to Matthew and said, “Let’s go get … round … umm … donuts! Come on, Claire! We can surprise your … wife. No, your mother!”

  I looked at Matthew, and he raised an eyebrow at me. We were both veterans of the dreaded Donut-Tossing Massacre. On the other hand, this time, our father was asking to go. “Sure,” Matthew said, exhaling slowly. “Let me just grab my car keys.”

  Dad ate three donuts that night, and didn’t drop a single one. He did get rainbow sprinkles all over himself, but, hey—sprinkles are messy. That probably could have happened to anybody, right?

  The last few weeks of middle school were incredibly weird. I don’t know how many other people had this experience, but I found myself constantly turning to Roshni and saying, “So yeah. Apparently, that just happened.”

  The whole time, I felt a strange kind of doubleness, as if I was experiencing events while a separate part of me was floating overhead and watching them, detached. I can’t explain it. Life was just super odd for a while. Mostly, I was blown away by the concept of leaving the place. I mean, all these things were happening in my head at once:

  • I felt incredibly old. Like, I am so one hundred percent ready for high school. In fact, they might as well just have me skip freshman year and give me sophomore status.

  • I felt like I was still the tiny pre–sixth grader who couldn’t find the bathroom on the first day of band camp and accidentally opened a supply closet.

  • I was going to miss everybody so, so much. I practically wanted to throw my arms around dear, sweet old Mrs. Selinsky.

  • I was so done that I couldn’t believe I still had to spend another four years with most of these fools.

  • I wanted every second to be burned into my brain cells so I could replay it forever.

  • I wanted to jump up from my desk and scream, Let’s go, already! Geez! If I have to watch another random movie, I’m going to Cabrillo myself right out the window!

  Plus, all the other kids were being bizarre. Regina came up to me at my locker on the way out of the building on the second-to-last day and handed me an envelope. I stood there for a minute staring at her, confused, until she said, “Uh, Starbuck, there’s this thing some people do called The Opening of the Envelope.”

  So I tore it open, and a plastic rectangle fell out. It was a five-dollar gift card for Starbucks, with a Post-it note attached. The note said, Payback for Skittles.

  I looked at her and smiled. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not even like Starbucks?”

  “Oh, come on. You love it. I bet you a million bucks. Am I right?”

  I couldn’t help
myself. I actually giggled out loud. “Oh, God, yes.”

  “Me, too. The pumpkin spice latte—I could drink that thing for days.”

  “Wow, Regina. That’s a pretty girly drink. Do you get it with the whipped cream? Extra cinnamon? Some sugar substitute? A dash of nutmeg?”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Regina likes a girly drink! Regina likes a girly drink!”

  “You know I could still kill you with one finger, Starbuck.”

  “How can you still call me Starbuck when you love Starbucks?”

  “’Cause it’s still your name. Duh.”

  “Well, thanks for the card. And, uh, see you in high school.”

  Then I shocked myself by adding one more thing. “Maybe we’ll have the same lunch. I’ll bring the Skittles.”

  I still had to go to the band room and bring home my sax for the last time, but as I turned the corner, I crashed into Ryder. He blushed furiously, and I realized that he must have been waiting for me.

  I had never really thought about it before, but his crush was kind of sweet.

  “What was that about?” he asked. His voice didn’t have any of its usual sarcasm or fake casualness.

  “What do you mean? Regina was just … well … she had something to give me.”

  “Did she, um, say anything?”

  No, Ryder, when you’re not around, we prefer to communicate through a complicated system of charades and mime.

  “About what?”

  Ryder’s voice cracked. “About me.”

  Now my face got hot. This is so awkward, I thought. He’s afraid she told me about his brokenhearted, suffering love for me! It’s kind of romantic, in a tragic way. How do I let him down gently? We’ve come so far. We’re almost friends again. I can’t ruin things now. What should I—

  “Because,” he continued, “I’m going to ask her out tomorrow. I can’t live all summer without knowing. It’s bad enough I’ve been suffering through lunch for months like this.”

  Of course I did the single most disastrous thing in the world: I giggled.