The Upside of Falling Down

by Crane, Rebekah

  I get him into his room and set him down on the bed. His shoulders hunch over as he shakes out of his suit jacket. He holds it out to me.

  “You can throw this out.”

  “Pardon?” I say.

  “My father might like a suit, but no good has ever come of it for me. It’s more like a straightjacket.” Kieran shoves it toward me. I take it and hold it in front of my exposed lower half. He pulls the tie from around his neck and hands it to me, too.

  “Are you going to take your pants off next?” I ask. “I feel like only one of us should be pantless right now. We’ve only known each other for a day.”

  Kieran laughs. “You’re funny, Bunny.”

  “Bunny?”

  “Because you look like an Easter egg.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense that bunnies bring eggs, either. They’re mammals.” Kieran flops back on the bed. “Life doesn’t make sense. We stuff ourselves into suits, and then we stuff ourselves into coffins. It’s the ‘pig and cow parts’ of life.”

  Kieran breathes heavily. For just a moment, sleep seems to settle him, but then he grabs his head and closes his eyes. “The room is spinning.”

  I sit him up, worried he might throw up. He takes off his shirt, handing it to me, and now he’s half-naked—that makes two of us. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I turn away from him. But when he bends down to untie his shoes, he loses his balance and begins to fall headfirst. I dive to catch him, ditching the clothes in my arms. He drags me down, and now we’re both in a heap of tangled limbs on the floor. My hand lands on his chest—warm skin to warm skin. I yank it away, embarrassed.

  “I’m drunk,” he says, slumping back against the bed.

  “Does this happen often?”

  He blows out a long breath and says, “Only like”—he holds up three fingers—“two times a year.”

  After I’ve untangled myself from him, I offer to help him take off his shoes. When I hold them up to ask whether he wants me to keep or toss them, Kieran is staring over my shoulder at the dresser.

  He pulls himself off the floor, walks clumsily over to the dresser, and picks up the picture I saw earlier, the one of the boys in school uniforms.

  “Are those your friends?” I ask, pulling my sweatshirt over my knees.

  Kieran nods. “From boarding school.”

  “You look like troublemakers.”

  “We were.” His slight smirk fades too fast. “Ask me the question again, Bunny.”

  “What question?”

  “Keep or toss?”

  So I say, “Keep or toss, Kieran?”

  He nods repeatedly. “Toss.” Then he stumbles from his room, back down the hallway, and into the living room.

  I follow close behind, wondering why he would want to throw out the picture and making sure he doesn’t knock anything over as he moves, bouncing off the walls and the tables.

  He stops in front of the fireplace, gripping the mantel. His attention returns to the picture. “Toss.”

  He throws it into the ashes, and it shatters. The noise startles me, and the sound of breaking echoes in my head, reverberating through me. A consuming pain overtakes my whole body, like I’m being pressed between two walls. Suddenly I feel helpless, like I’m falling and being crushed at the same time. My knees buckle.

  Kieran turns around quickly. “Are you OK?”

  I’m the unstable one now. Kieran grabs my arms to steady me, but it backfires. We stumble, arms flailing, bodies twisting, limbs intertwined, until we fall back on the couch, Kieran with a thud and me in a straddle on top of him, disoriented. I attempt to right myself, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Siobhan’s voice slices through the room. Kieran is passed out underneath me, without his shirt on. And me without pants. This entire scene looks horrible. When I try to climb off him, I do it clumsily, my hands pressing in places they shouldn’t. My sweatshirt gets hooked in his belt, and I have to unbuckle it to remove myself. The process is long and embarrassing, and Siobhan watches it all with narrowed, vicious eyes.

  She shoves me out of the way before I can explain, before I can make her understand that this is all just a mistake. She edges herself under Kieran’s body and pulls him off the couch.

  I move toward her. “Let me help—”

  “Not taking advantage of him, are you?”

  “I swear—”

  “You’re a bloodsucking leech with a bad haircut and a liar.” Siobhan’s words sting with full venom. “Stay out of our business, Yank.”

  When Siobhan slams Kieran’s door, I lug myself back to my room and curl up in my own bed, pulling the blanket over my ears. There was no time to explain. Everything collapsed on me at once. I went from a bunny to a leech in an instant.

  Pressing my head into the pillow, I try to erase the sound of glass breaking, of objects shattering and coming undone. But everything that happened tonight was a disaster. In one instant my knees became weak, my body rebelling. Then the chaos almost consumed me.

  The harder I try to forget that—forget the sound, the pain, the moment when screaming didn’t help—the more etched in my mind it becomes.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kieran’s clothes are in the trash can the next morning. Another one hundred euros sits next to my bed. My sleep was restless, and my body is tired today. When I hear someone stirring about, I get up, hoping it’s Kieran, hoping he isn’t going to disappear on me again. But disappointment is all I find.

  His bedroom door is open, bed made, like he didn’t even sleep in it. The broken frame and picture sit covered in ash in the fireplace, shattered glass everywhere.

  This time I’m fully dressed when I greet Siobhan.

  A full scowl sits on her face when she finds me coming from my bedroom into the living room. For a time this morning, as I was waking from my light sleep, I allowed myself to think I just dreamed all of this, but like my purple hair . . . it’s permanent.

  “Good morning,” I say warmly, trying to act calmly. “You look lovely today. Lovely. My friend Stephen likes that word. It’s a good word, isn’t it?” Siobhan is dressed in a tight gray shirt, black skinny jeans, and pale-blue T-strap high heels, her tattoos and pregnancy on display. She groans audibly.

  My hair is a mess of tangles, my head still groggy. I wanted to see Kieran this morning, but right now there’s still an opportunity to right myself with Siobhan. I move closer to her, running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to tame it, though I’m pretty sure I only make the mess worse.

  “Can I make you some tea? Everyone seems to drink tea here. It’s . . . lovely.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me with a response, but opens the closet. I’m repeating words like an idiot, my composure slipping away.

  “Or maybe some breakfast,” I say. “Do you like French toast? I like broccoli more than green beans. And romance novels over thrillers. I’d take sex over guns any day.” When I realize that doesn’t help my cause, I curse my slow brain. “Not that I’m obsessed with sex or anything.” My pulse beats in my ears.

  Siobhan closes the closet, putting on a raincoat.

  “What kind of books do you like?” I say. “Oh . . . wait . . . you’re more a magazine kind of girl, aren’t you? I saw a few in your room.”

  Siobhan holds on to the door handle tightly.

  “You went in my room.” It’s a curt statement. “Was that when you stole my hair dye?”

  “I’m sorry . . .” At any second she’s going to walk out, and I won’t have explained anything. But where to start? Why couldn’t it have been Kieran I found this morning?

  I try another tactic. “I like your shoes. I’m impressed you can even walk in them.”

  Siobhan responds, bitingly. “What are you implying?”

  Why does everything come out wrong with her? Why can’t my head clear this morning? “I just mean they’re really high, and it’s impressive in yo
ur current state.” I gesture to her belly. Judging by her sour expression, Siobhan doesn’t appreciate my statement. “I’m not saying this right.”

  “My current state is none of your business,” Siobhan says. “My room is none of your business. Our lives are none of your business. Stay away from me. Stay away from Kieran.” She pauses. “Also, you look like a drunk Muppet with that haircut.”

  The door slams in my face before I’ve spoken a word about last night. All I’ve managed to do is insult Siobhan.

  I’m alone once more.

  French toast doesn’t cheer me up. Neither does a shower. Neither does cleaning the kitchen and baking another batch of sugar cookies. Though after three cups of caffeinated tea, my head is feeling more centered.

  I sweep up the broken glass and the picture frame, tossing the remains in the garbage. But when it comes to throwing out the picture like Kieran said to do, I can’t. He doesn’t know how precious memories are. How hard he should hold on to them. He may not want it right now, but he will at some point. That’s how memories work. Even the bad ones. Without them, how do we know what feels good? I decide I’ll hold on to the picture in my notebook for safekeeping. It’s the least I can do.

  The morning light doesn’t help my haircut. While I like the color, Siobhan is right—the cut is atrocious. I’m not sure what a drunk Muppet looks like, but judging by my appearance and her disdain, it’s not good. The image of her face as she glared at me on top of Kieran last night comes back in a wave of nausea. Why didn’t I explain myself then? My head was just so cloudy in the moment. Same with this morning. Siobhan makes me nervous, jumbled. I’ve been spoiled with Stephen and Kieran, both of them easy to like and easy to talk to, but Siobhan is my reminder that not everyone is here to help. Some people would rather push you down.

  She could barely look at me this morning. I’m just a bloodsucking Yankee leech and a liar to her. And she might be right, but not about last night. Last night was just a string of bad incidents. If she would just let me explain, I could change her mind about me.

  I can’t stew over it in the cottage all day. I’ll go mad. Two cars sit in the driveway, so wherever Siobhan went, she must have walked in her high heels. If I find her and force her to listen to me, I can fix what happened last night. I wasn’t trying to seduce Kieran. I was trying to help. It was just a big mistake.

  One small problem stands in my way—I have no idea where she went. But as Kieran said, a person can’t get lost in Waterville. All I need to do is look. There must be a clue somewhere in the cottage—a calendar or a datebook. For such a fine house, the place isn’t laden with technology—no computers of any sort, no TV. People come here to escape the world. The lack of connections is a relief. I’m not tempted to turn on the television to watch news reports or search myself on the internet. After seeing myself on the covers of the tabloids yesterday and the disconnected feeling I had about my own face, the internet might put me over the edge.

  Siobhan said to stay out of her business, and while it isn’t completely lost on me that snooping in her room probably isn’t a good idea, the risk will bear greater rewards when I find her and explain.

  I’m not sure what I’m searching for as I go through her closet and the items on her dresser. I’m no good at finding my own memories, let alone someone who clearly doesn’t want to be found.

  Nothing pops out at me, and my caffeine buzz is wearing off. I sit in the kitchen with my fourth cup of tea, thinking and trying hard not to relive last night. Even in Kieran’s drunken state, he was charming, a sharp contrast to Siobhan, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how hot my cheeks were when I touched him. But when he broke the picture, the expression on his face was so sad, such a contrast to how I’ve seen him, even in the little time I’ve known him. Recalling Siobhan’s words, though, squashes my intrigue—their lives are none of my business. She made that clear.

  I banish the night from my mind and go back to my tea, when a magnet on the fridge catches my eye, its skull-and-crossbones design unique, dark—exactly like Siobhan.

  THE SECRET BOOK AND RECORD STORE

  248 SEAVIEW TERRACE

  WATERVILLE, COUNTY KERRY, IRELAND

  The sun seems to shine a bit brighter through the windows. My day may just improve. I write down the address listed on the magnet. While Siobhan could be anywhere in town, somewhere she’s been before sounds like a good place to start. Maybe while I’m in town, I’ll get a proper haircut.

  Outside, the air is a bit warmer than it was yesterday. New buses full of tourists have unloaded in town, filling the quaint streets of Waterville with bustling energy. I stay along the beach, avoiding the crowds.

  I stop only for a short time to search in the sand for sea glass—a peace offering of sorts for Siobhan, to show her that I’m not just here to take from her and Kieran. I may not have money, but I can offer friendship if she’ll let me.

  I search for a while down at the shore, where the waves are lapping only lightly today. A red piece of glass grabs my attention. Among all the gray, it’s colorful. With it in my pocket and a place to start looking, I head into town.

  The Secret Book and Record Store is harder to find, which isn’t surprising, given the name. I walk past it a few times before a small blue door catches my eye. The address is barely visible, and no name is displayed on the outside. A poster reads, “Freaks, Sinners, Faeries, and Zombies, please proceed downstairs. Tourists, be gone!”

  The yellow door directly next to the blue one is for Sheppard’s Hairdressing. A sign in front on the sidewalk advertises the daily deal: “Haircuts, 20 Euros—Mind Reading, Free.”

  I take it as an omen—the two things I need. Today might be a success after all.

  I push back the blue door quietly. The hallway is a bit dark. Steep stairs lead down into the basement of the building, which smells like old books, cardboard, and incense. At the bottom, bookshelves line a large room along with filled record bins. A man, probably in his midtwenties, sits behind the checkout counter sporting a black Mohawk that’s at least four inches high. He glances up and eyes my purple hair, not a flash of recognition on his face. He goes back to intently reading a book. This store has none of the Irish charm of Waterville. No melodic Irish music with flutes and harps, no thick wool sweaters or Celtic crosses on the walls. But there’s something comforting seeing this. It’s out of place . . . just like me.

  “Hi,” I say to the man behind the counter. “Is Siobhan here?”

  The guy gestures toward the back of the store, where wild clothes and costumes are on display. He doesn’t linger on my face. Another good sign.

  There’s an entire section of wigs, hats, fishnets, vintage dresses, polyester suits, and sunglasses in retro styles. I make my way to the back of the store, acting casual, but feeling anything but, unsure of how Siobhan will react when she sees me, and also pretty confident I’m in for a fight.

  This place is like the world’s best dress-up bin. I try on an orange curly-haired wig and a pair of large round diamond-studded sunglasses that take up half my face. A stand with multicolored boas is next to the sunglasses. I wrap a blue one around my neck.

  “Consider buying the wig. It’s an upgrade from your current do.” I turn promptly and see Siobhan.

  “Found you,” I say, hoping to sound chipper.

  “That implies that I wanted to be found. Which I made clear I didn’t. You can go away now.” Siobhan walks over to a rack of dresses and starts organizing them.

  I follow close behind her. “What do you think of the sunglasses? I kind of like them, but I need a girl’s opinion.”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” Siobhan moves around the rack, keeping her distance from me and her eyes on the dresses.

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Again. You’re missing my sarcasm, Yank. Now, get out of this store.”

  “Are you being sarcastic again?” I smile.

  “No,” Siobhan states clearly. She walks to the front of the
store and behind the counter to organize a display of bubblegum and glow-in-the-dark condoms.

  The guy with the Mohawk looks up at us. I lean on the counter and watch Siobhan, waiting, still wearing the wig, sunglasses, and boa. Being covered up so much escalates my confidence level. When Siobhan won’t focus on me, I turn toward the Mohawk guy.

  “What do you think of the sunglasses?”

  “Totally wicked. Very glam-punk.”

  “Thanks,” I say kindly. His brown eyes crinkle around the edges, making his face soften under his spiky hair. He reminds me of a punked-out Stephen, which is a comfort. “So what’s the book about?”

  He opens his mouth to answer me, but Siobhan cuts him off. “Are you going to tell Clive that you’re addicted to sex?”

  “What?” he says.

  “Purple People Eater, here, is addicted to sex.” Siobhan’s voice is curt. “Though based on what I saw last night, she’s not very good at it. Clumsy, really.”

  “All I said was that I like romance novels,” I clarify.

  “You’re American,” Clive says. He turns toward Siobhan. “Is this the wretched, slutty Yank you were talking about?”

  “Is that how you described me?” I glare at Siobhan.

  “You’re the one who’s addicted to sex, Abby Cadabby,” Siobhan says callously. “I saw it with my own eyes, Clive.”

  I walk over to Siobhan and say, strongly, “I can explain that.”

  “I don’t need the details. I saw plenty.” She turns to Clive. “Her knickers are dreadful. Huge, ugly things.”

  Clive hollers over to us. “So where are you from in America?”

  “Cleveland,” I say, distracted by how badly this is going.

  “Is that by Disney World? I’ve always wanted to go there. Do you happen to know George Clooney?”

  “It’s in Ohio. On Lake Erie.” I rattle off the only information I know about Cleveland, then follow Siobhan to the back of the store again.

  She stops in the used CD section.

  “Please, let me explain what you saw last night.”

  “I don’t need a play-by-play. Now go away.”