Falling Under

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Hi, Faith.”

  She screams.

  “Shh,” you say, and put a finger to your lips.

  “What are you doing?” she says.

  “I saw you,” you say.

  “Saw me what?” She looks down at her bare upper thighs.

  “I saw you. You were even on top.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I saw you kissing her. Touching her. You looked the opposite of disgusted to me.”

  Her blonde hair is not so pretty from this angle, but even with her Guess jeans around her ankles and pink Calvins inside them, everything else about her is perfect. Except she’s a liar and a fake and she’s ruining Bernadette’s life.

  “What the hell do you want?” she asks,

  “Tell the truth. If Bernadette’s a lesbian, then so are you.”

  “SHHH! Shut up! I’m not.”

  “There’s no one here, and I can see the door,” you say.

  “I’m not,” Faith whispers. “I’m not like that. She might be, but I’m not.”

  “Then you need to take it back.”

  “Can I please have some privacy?”

  “Say you were lying. No one needs to know what part you were lying about.”

  She tries to laugh, but it comes out like a sob. You’d feel sorry for her, but your pity is spoken for.

  “Or you could say it was a joke,” you say.

  “Who’d believe that?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t care, either. But it’s going to be a long year for you if you don’t fix this. My life isn’t so great right now, and I have lots of time to hound you. And I could tell everyone what I saw.”

  “They won’t believe you. I’m more popular.”

  “Then you have more to lose.”

  She stares up at you with tears in her eyes.

  “Please,” she finally says, “you don’t understand.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Now she starts sobbing for real.

  “If my parents find out...People will forget, but my parents...Please don’t tell.”

  “Sorry. No deal.”

  You leave her weeping and go back to class.

  ***

  Alone in her bedroom on the weekend, Faith English ingests so much rum that she passes out. Her parents find her and rush her to the hospital where she has her stomach pumped. You hear about it Monday morning and feel sick all day. They say her parents are sending her away to boarding school.

  You’re early for school on Tuesday, and therefore see a pinched, dark-haired woman emptying Faith’s locker. Unable to stop yourself, you approach.

  “Are you Faith’s mom?” you ask.

  She turns with narrow, glaring eyes.

  “Sorry, I...” My God, she looks like she wants to kill someone. “I just wanted to know; is Faith all right?”

  “Are you a friend?” she asks.

  “Sort of.”

  “You’re name?”

  “Um, Mara. Mara Foster.”

  She gives you a long, measuring look and suddenly you feel overly conscious of the pink streak in your hair and the deliberate rips in the knees of your Levis.

  “I wonder,” she says, “do the parents of this school have any idea what kind of evil their children are getting up to?”

  Evil?

  “Um...”

  “Do your parents know?”

  Shit. She knows about Bernadette. She knows about you threatening Faith. She’s going to kill you, brand you, chase you with a hot poker...

  “The Lord will punish,” she says. “The Lord will punish you.”

  Uh oh, she certainly knows something.

  “Look to your salvation, the fires of hell are nigh.”

  You flinch. If her eyes were the fires of hell, you’d be burning right now.

  “Cigarettes! Whoring and drinking! Satan’s music!” she says, and then points at Faith’s Bon Jovi poster. “Now I know. Faith was an innocent before she came to this school, and she will be an innocent again.”

  Yikes.

  “Listen,” you say, “I don’t think Faith was, ahem, whoring or smoking or—”

  Her arm whips out and she points a finger at you.

  “Jezebel! Stay away from my daughter.”

  “Um...”

  She moves closer and stares fiercely up into your eyes. The smell of mothballs and stale sweat nearly overcomes you. “Stay away. You and all of your friends—tell them to stay away from her.”

  You blink.

  She turns back to the locker, rips down the poster. Pulling out two chemistry books from the shelf, she jams them into her purse.

  You should be running, but you just stand staring.

  Mrs. English slams the locker door. The sound jolts you. You are backing away when her hand reaches out like a claw and clamps on to your arm.

  “I want my daughter back,” she croaks, and tears come to her eyes. “Give me my daughter back.”

  Your veins turn to ice as you pull your arm away and take another step back.

  “Give me my daughter back!” she repeats, louder this time.

  Oh my God, oh my God. You keep moving, but she follows you.

  “GIVE ME MY DAUGHTER BACK!”

  You bump into someone behind you and then pivot and run as fast as you can, out of the school, into the yard and all the way to the bus station.

  You can’t stop seeing her, those eyes ripping into you with their pain, her voice on the verge of lunacy. Too late, your heart is filled with horror for Faith, who must be living in her own kind of hell.

  Chapter 17

  The sun is beating down on my face, the sheets are sticking to me, I have to pee, and my stomach is growling.

  What day is it?

  I shuffle to my desk and check my computer for the date. I’ve been sleeping for over twenty-four hours. Again.

  I scream when I see myself in the bathroom mirror.

  My hair is gone.

  Worse than gone—I look like a drunken elf has ridden a lawnmower all over my head.

  Clearly I’ve had a blackout or a psychic break of some kind.

  And then it all comes back—the blob, the paint, the scissors, the glue—and I groan.

  Whatever I did back there in the studio, it’s guaranteed to be frightening. I don’t even want to see it.

  Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Maybe.

  In the kitchen, my message light is flashing. I play two messages from Bernadette, one from Dad, and then (thump, thump) one from Hugo.

  “Hi, Mara. Thanks for, uh, having me over and...all of it. Now that we’ve got each other’s digits, maybe we could make a real plan? Tomorrow night? Call me.”

  Oh boy.

  I eat some leftover gnocchi and then, avoiding one problem with another, call Dad.

  “Hola!” he says.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Buenos dìas,” he says, mangling the accent on even this simple Spanish.

  “Aren’t you jolly.”

  “Yes I am!” he says. “Shauna and I are moving to Mexico.”

  Uh oh.

  “You are?”

  “Sì. We’re buying a house in Puerto Vallarta.”

  Purchase of property anywhere, much less in Mexico, is both unlikely and unwise when you’re my dad.

  “Really,” I say.

  “So we’re learning Spanish,” he says.

  Yep. I hear “Yellowbird” in the background and I’m sure “Wantanamayo” isn’t far behind.

  “And we’re doing the cha-cha.” Dad says. “Or is it the merengue?”

  This is going to be good.

  “So why don’t you bring your boyfriend over later. We’re having—”

  “Let me guess. Margaritas?”

  “Banana daiquiris, actually,” he says.

  “Well, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Not for a few years.”

  “Well, get one, sweetie! Get one a
nd bring him over. We’re having a party! Invite Bernadette and her latest chippy if you want.”

  “Chippy?”

  “Chicky, chippy, whatever. Call her.”

  Double groan.

  “Shauna would love to see you, too, honey.”

  “I’ll see,” I say, and get off the phone before I have to hear any more.

  I fret and pace. I do laundry, clean the kitchen, wash the front hall, check e-mail, read the news.

  Lunatic art in the studio.

  No hair.

  Bring your boyfriend.

  Frightening.

  I eat chips until my taste buds are burning, then give in and call Bernadette.

  “You have to come to Dad’s with me tonight.”

  “Hello to you too,” she says. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Uh...” I glance toward the back of the house and the studio, which I’ve been avoiding. “I’ll tell you later. Dad’s learning the cha-cha and moving to Mexico.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “They’re having a fiesta tonight, and I think I need to check on him.”

  “No kidding. Sounds fun though.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well, it sounds like a better idea than…what was the last one?”

  “Co-ed strip clubs,” I say, and wince.

  “Right,” Bee says, “Mexico sounds innocent in comparison to that. I’m in.”

  “Thanks. Can you come over here first?”

  “What time?”

  “Now?”

  “Now?” she repeats.

  “Now-ish?”

  “Some of us work,” she says.

  “Some of us make excuses to leave early whenever it suits us.”

  “Well,” she considers, “it’s three now...”

  “You can bring a chippy,” I say.

  “A what?”

  “Dad’s word, he said you could bring a ‘chippy.’”

  Bernadette snorts. “Cute.”

  “And I might invite a boy,” I say.

  “A boy?”

  “A man...guy...person...”

  “A man-guy-person?”

  I clear my throat. “A date.”

  “What!?”

  Ha, that’s got her.

  “What date? What guy? Start talking!”

  “And I might need some help with my hair.”

  “Okay, what is going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here,” I say.

  “Give me an hour.”

  While I wait, I listen to Hugo’s message a few times and memorize all his phone numbers.

  I walk to the studio door, but can’t bring myself to go in.

  Great use of Sal’s money, Mara. Great way to use up a month’s worth of supplies. No doubt the avant-garde of Toronto’ll be peeing their pants to see my split ends displayed on canvas.

  I roll my eyes, shake my head and try to forget about it.

  “You’re kidding me,” Bernadette says when she sees my hair. “Did someone attack your head?”

  “Elves.”

  She marches past me and into the kitchen.

  “Scissors,” she says.

  “Can we do that later?”

  “Okay,” she says, and frowns at me. “So, the man-guy-person...Is he the reason you cut your hair?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Who is he?”

  I duck my head and mumble, “Hugo. The guy from Sappho.”

  “Holy shit! I need a drink.” She goes to the cupboard and takes out Sal’s grappa.

  “Hey, it’s not such a big deal.”

  “Uh, the world is shifting on its axis here. You’ve massacred your hair and you’re suddenly interested in a guy. It’s a big deal.” She takes a swig directly from the bottle and nearly chokes. “Jeez, this stuff is strong!”

  “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Hair, Hugo. Dish.”

  I still don’t know how to explain the hair, so I tell her about Hugo. She grills me for details until she has the whole story, minus my troubles leaving the house and the painting marathon.

  “So you like him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you want to invite him to your dad’s?”

  I nod.

  “Hmm,” she says.

  “What?”

  She gets up and starts looking for food in the fridge.

  “Are you sure you’re not trying to scare him off?” she asks, and wrinkles her nose at the contents of my crisper. “You eat like a rabbit.”

  “He doesn’t scare that easily.”

  “So I’m right!” she says.

  “No, not anymore. I was, but I’m past it.”

  “Right,” she says. “You’ve never officially been on a date, and the first time you plan one, you’re inviting me along—with or without ‘chippy’—and taking him to meet your Dad, who’s—”

  “Nuts,” I supply.

  “Slightly unstable,” she says. “Let’s be nice.”

  “Okay.”

  “Not to mention you’ve cut your hair so you look like a prisoner of war. And you’re telling me you’re not trying to run him off?”

  “Well, when you put it that way...”

  “Exactly. So, if he doesn’t run screaming?”

  I look her in the eye. “Then I’m in trouble.”

  “You’re in trouble already.”

  She has a point.

  “So, when’s he coming over? We’ve got to fix your hair.”

  “Oh, I haven’t, um, called him back yet.”

  Bernadette buries her face in her hands and moans.

  “I know, I know. I memorized his number though.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s very helpful, Mar, good job.”

  She picks up the cordless and passes it to me.

  My insides clench but I take a deep breath and dial his home number.

  He answers on the first ring.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Bee gives me the thumbs up.

  “Mara? Hi!” he says. “You called!”

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “Umm...fine. Good.”

  “Good.”

  “Listen,” I say, “I’m not great with telephones.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised,” he says, and laughs. “What’s up?”

  “Um. Are you busy tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Why?”

  “Uh, my dad is having a party, and I wondered if you wanted to come. With me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and Bernadette too,” I add.

  “Your friend from the bar?”

  “Yeah, she’s coming too.”

  “Perfect,” Hugo says.

  “Great. See you later then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay bye,” I say, and press the end button.

  Whew. Wow.

  I did it. I rock.

  Except Bernadette is laughing and pointing at me, and not in a ‘you rock’ kind of way.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t...” She cackles and slaps her thighs.

  “What! I didn’t what?”

  “You just...” she tries, and then shakes her head, unable to speak. She points at the phone.

  It rings!

  I frown at her and pick it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mara? Hugo.”

  I turn back to Bernadette and make shushing motions.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “What’s that noise?” he says.

  “Oh, that’s Bernadette. She, uh, has a condition.”

  “Ah. Is it a laughing condition?”

  “Yes, she’s been possessed by a hyena,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “I was so excited you called, I didn’t realize until I hung up that—”

  “You can’t make it.”

  “No. I mean, yes, I can make it.”

  “Oh. You don’t want to.”


  “No! I want to,” he says. “Jeez.”

  “Oh. Okay, good.”

  Bernadette has stopped giggling so she can eavesdrop.

  “So what is it then?” I ask.

  She sidles up and puts her ear near the receiver.

  “I just need to know where and when.”

  “Huh? Oh. OH!”

  Bernadette covers her mouth and bolts into the dining room.

  I am pathetic.

  “So if you really want me to come,” Hugo says, “you’ll have to give me the details.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Do you want me to come to your place?”

  “Sure. Oh, and do you like Mexican food? Because I think that’s going to be the theme.”

  “Mexican’s great.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you.” I say. “Bye.”

  “Wait!” he says. “What—”

  “Time! Shit! I’m sorry.”

  I double check that he has all the info he needs and we say our goodbyes.

  Bernadette peeks her head back around the corner, a huge grin on her face.

  “So?” she says.

  “So?”

  “So you have a DATE!!!!!” she shouts and then starts jumping up and down.

  I do.

  Oh, my God, yes I do.

  I feel a bit queasy.

  “Oh, and I invited Faith,” Bee says.

  “Faith?”

  As if Hugo wasn’t enough. I’m going to throw up for sure.

  Chapter 18

  You go straight from school to Bernadette’s.

  What you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it are still a mystery, but whatever it takes, you will get your friend back.

  Please, please.

  Bernadette’s mom answers the door and gives you a warm smile.

  “Hello, dear,” she says.

  You stammer your request to see Bernadette and wonder if Mrs. Delavier knows anything is wrong.

  “Come in, come in,” she says. “We’ve missed you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Perhaps your visit will have a beneficial effect.”

  “Sorry?”

  “On Bernadette’s health.” She gives you a long look.

  You put your shoes by the antique umbrella stand.

  “I hope so,” you say, but it’s hard to speak when you’re trying not to cry.

  “I think she was sleeping, let me check,” Mrs. Delavier says, and then slips up the staircase and out of sight.

  Alone in the entryway, you look around in an effort to distract yourself. Bernadette’s house is usually soothing, with its dark, comfortable furniture, the shelves spilling over with books, the baking aromas, and the scattered evidence of the Delavier family hobbies.