How I Fly

by Anne Eliot

  Thank God tonight is the closing bonfire, because I quite honestly don’t think I can take any more of this.

  When I get back to the university dorms I’m going to get my mom, or the damn judge—or anyone who will listen to me—to find me a different living situation, because I am so done living with Harrison Shaw. Done. If they can’t, I’m going to sleep on Patrick’s floor or in a janitor’s closet. Anything. But I need some distance from this terrible thing that is watching Ellen Foster fall more and more in love with a person who sucks, and who is not me.

  Of course, all this has messed with my head in so many ways.

  We’re supposed to have taken at least four hundred submit-worthy shots of the lake or the town by now. The topic was wide open, like sunsets, sand grains, trees or water or the boardwalk, or small-town life or—whatever. Sadly, I think I’ve logged only twenty shots that I would claim as mine. The joke about those shots is that they’re ones I’ve taken of Ellen with my telephoto lens. They’re awesome, but I can’t even turn them in for fear Professor Perry would select them to display on the giant techno-screen back in the classroom, which would alert everyone to my stalker status.

  At least Patrick is with me on slacking off on his work. He made the mistake of telling Laura our suspicions about Harrison so she could help us keep an eye on the guy if Patrick and I can’t be around. Instead of gaining the eyes and ears we’d hoped for, that discussion only earned both of us one of her lectures about me being jealous and irrational while she went off on Patrick about how he might need serious therapy for his overprotective tendencies.

  She even said Patrick was using worrying over Ellen as an excuse not to get his own girlfriend, while I was using Ellen as an excuse to simply not live my life at all.

  Damn if that didn’t hit me like a punch in the gut. Because—hell yes, I’ll admit it—Laura’s right. I’m so jealous and so full of longing for what I can’t have—what and who I can’t touch—what I’ve got no right to be a part of anymore—that I feel like I’m shattering into thousands of pieces as I watch Harrison Shaw take what he doesn’t deserve.

  So…yes. Sign me up for therapy, please. I’ve got no life because Harrison Shaw somehow stole it. Worse…he may have already stolen what simply can’t be recovered.

  Ellen used to be so shy, and I know for a fact that before I went away she hadn’t ever done anything past kissing—past kissing me. And I knew that because I was her first real kiss. This thought that eats at me while I watch her and Harrison and all of their public displays of affection is making me wonder—obsess—over things I’ve got no right to even think or care about.

  My feet whirl under me.

  But I do. I think. And I care. And I think. And I care.

  Think. Care. Think. Care.

  Like I said. I’m done.

  Tonight, I’m not going to the bonfire. There’s simply no way. Going to that would stir up memories and emotions that need to be shut off and finally put away. I’ve already hinted to Professor Perry that I’m not feeling so well. Patrick and Laura know my deal, and they’ve both promised not to say anything other than I needed to get some work done.

  I figure it’s all for the best. I’m so behind. With the entire class down at the beach partying with the exchange student class, I’m going to do my own investigation of the little stream and the park area. I’ll snap shots of some of the frogs, too. Maybe get some distance shots of the lake and then the sunset…and hopefully catch some of my own light-trail shots off those cool fireflies. I’ll stay out there until I’m so tired that my back aches from bending over and holding the camera at odd angles. I’ll hold out and do some time-lapse stuff of the moon, the stars, and the lake at night so that when I’m finished my eyes hurt from staring at the shots in the dark.

  I’m going to drag blankets out there in case it gets cold. Hell, I’m going to sit there and take shots of the hours before sunrise, and then the sunrise itself. I want to be so tired when I fall into bed that I can only see and think about only black nothingness if I should fall asleep. So tired that when we clamber on the bus tomorrow and Ellen’s tucked in Harrison’s arms, I can sleep through the whole ride home.

  Ellen

  As Harrison and I make our way on to the deeper sand, I realize that I’m not going to the bonfire.

  I’m not going to the bonfire, and I’ve got no excuse to give Harrison that makes sense. Not one that I’m willing to share with anyone, that is. Harrison, the guy who’s supposed to be my boyfriend, the guy who’s been so attentive and kind to me all week. The same guy who has just waited for me to crutch myself at the usual snail-slow pace down this the beach as far as I can possibly go.

  Only now, I can’t go one more step.

  I’d like to blame the sand. I’d like to blame the fact that my leg is, in fact, having a nice CP spastic event right now, but it’s not that. It’s because yesterday, while I’d started pre-packing some souvenirs I’d bought, the necklace I made from Cam’s beach glass fell out of my suitcase. Instead of putting it away, I’d put it on and I never took it back off. All day long, and now each time I’ve moved my crutches into the sand, the thing’s been clinking against me under my shirt like it’s trying to have a conversation with me.

  When I stop crutching along, I feel like I’ve suddenly become hypersensitive. I swear I can actually smell the burgers cooking on the barbecues from here. The bonfire’s already glowing with small flames right behind where Harrison’s still making a beeline for the beach, and all of our friends are down there already. All of the WOA photography students, as well the exchange students, are spreading blankets, reserving spots, some playing volleyball, others clustered and laughing around the picnic tables.

  Before I’d decided I couldn’t go, my stomach was actually growling, and my eyes were already tracking how the small lake waves were glistening under the late afternoon sun. The scene is so beach-barbecue perfect that my head started shaking. Not from the CP; rather, it was simply itching to pull out my iPhone so I could get some photographs.

  I could hear laughing and singing, and Harrison was looking back at me smiling, a smile that had its usual suggestive twist to it that said maybe he wanted to kiss me by the fire later—and then the beach glass pendants clinked and clinked under my shirt, ruining everything.

  That’s when my leg started to hurt, then ache and spaz out to the point I need to ask for help. And watching Harrison walk away from me, with his cute plaid shirt tied around his waist…I just can’t.

  I can’t. It would mean asking for a piggyback ride.

  And I don’t want a piggyback ride from Harrison beside the shores of Lake Huron.

  And I mean…at all. Ever.

  How could everything have been so right? But then suddenly flip to all wrong like this?

  *Mind spins. All I can think is: Cam. Cam. Cam!*

  As Patrick and Laura sprint on ahead, I involuntarily lock on to the idea of Cam being somewhere in the crowd I’m facing. I’ve already pictured him, sitting alone at the bonfire—or worse, cuddled up with another girl. I can feel how his eyes will slide over to me in that way he watches me, all while pretending not to watch me be with Harrison.

  I’ve already pictured his expression will say, This is how things should be. When suddenly I understand that this is not how things should be. Not at all.

  Harrison finally realizes I’m not behind him, and stops in his tracks as well. He groans and flips back around. “Ellen. What’s up? Is it the damn CP again? Is it?” Without letting me answer, he adds, “God, do I hate Cerebral Palsy and what it does to you. So much.”

  “I—I—so—do I. I hate it too.” I sigh, trying to gather my thoughts. “But it’s not the CP, actually, it’s—” I stop myself before saying something too hasty or thoughtless. But as if my body knows what’s about to go down, my eyes won’t stop searching behind where Harrison’s standing for…

  *Mind spins again: Cam. Cam. Cam. Cam!*

  Harrison sprints back to me. “He
y. That came out sounding all wrong. I’m sorry. Are you mad that I said I hate Cerebral Palsy? Don’t be, please. I’m an insensitive jerk. You know that.”

  I can’t look at his face, because I’m the actual insensitive jerk who’s still hung up on tracking the location of my ex-boyfriend and chanting his name inside my head, all while I’m standing here trying to avoid a perfect and romantic date with my current boyfriend.

  I’ve done this to Harrison day in and day out since we arrived at Grand Bend. So, yeah. I’m the jerk, because I’ve let this boy kiss me almost every day and smiled at him like he meant more to me, when I knew deep down that Harrison’s kisses aren’t enough to erase the love I still have for Cam from my head.

  *Thinks again: Cam. Cam. Cam. Cam.*

  I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  “Say something. I know what I just said sucked. I said I’m sorry. Don’t pout.”

  “No. I’m not pouting. You were honest. And thanks for coming back.” He watches me twist my ankle around and around. “My calf is frozen. I have to stop here for at least five minutes.”

  He sighs, and glances over at the bonfire then back at me, as if he’s trying to choose between me and the bonfire.

  “Five minutes?” He grimaces at my calf, which has now balled to the size of an angry grapefruit. He sighs again. “Ugh. You said it wasn’t the CP, but it is. God…but I do hate it,” he grumbles. “How can you stand it?”

  I keep turning my foot around and around, holding the balled-calf leg high in the air. “Harrison. You’re only just asking me this? Really?”

  He flushes. “What? It’s a fair question. Now that I’ve left my crutches behind, I’ve had all this guilt, because it’s really hit me how you will never—and I mean never—just be…better.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” I laugh incredulously, but restrain myself from adding, Duh. Duh. Duh. DUH!

  “No. I know you know. I guess I simply needed to stay it out loud,” he adds quietly.

  I frown and pause. The ankle turns to let the leg thump back onto the sand. “Why?”

  “Because every day this week when you’ve kissed me and when I’ve kissed you back, I thought how much I was falling for you. But then every day when I’m walking around with you like this, I’ve honestly been so frustrated.”

  “Wow. Okay.” I blink. “Maybe I’m thinking about the same thing. If we’re suddenly being so honest, I have to tell you I think something’s off between us.”

  He blinks back. “Damn. Ellen. This is not how I’d planned things to go—”

  “Planned things?”

  “No. Wait.” He shakes his head and starts again, “I mean, I fell for you way more than I thought I ever would. I’m always so black and white, but with you, I’ve become all gray, and I don’t even recognize myself—shit—I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.” He runs both hands through his heavy brown hair, and I feel really bad because his normally sparkling brown eyes seem so flat and worried.

  I need to let him off the hook and fast, because my mind has been whirling with this terrible, unkind response that I won’t dare utter: If it makes you feel better, despite the decent kisses, I fell for you way less than I thought I would. Less. Less. Less! And do you have any idea why? Cam. Cam. Cam. Cam Campbell. That’s why.

  Instead I say, “No. I—I totally understand. I do.” Then I use a breakup line I’ve heard in hundreds of movies and hope he takes the bait: “And whatever is going on between us, let me say…it’s not at all you…it’s me.”

  “Oh no.” He groans again, not at all understanding that I’m trying to dump him, he adds, “Ellen, it’s me. Not you. Where you bring out the best in me, the Cerebral Palsy brings out my worst. I’m an ass. Through and through. Just like now for this bonfire—I actually almost groaned out loud when you stopped walking!”

  I smile. “You did groan out loud. The CP also brings out the worst in me. Does that make me an ass, too?”

  “No!” He stares up at the now orange-lit sky. “And that’s the other thing, where I know admitting that I hate CP turns me into an ass—it makes you into this perfect saint.”

  I cross my arms against my chest. The necklace that started all of this clanks next to my skin, making me flush bright red. “I’m no saint. Please don’t say that, because half of why we can’t connect is because I think I hold back. I hide stuff from you.”

  *Thinks: Like this necklace. Like my heart!*

  He shakes his head. “Ah, well, maybe I do the same. But what I’m hiding is not like what you’re hiding. You’re so good—at your life, at kindness, at patience and photography and simple hard work that pays off. I can’t even deal with how you are sometimes.”

  “What?”

  “For example, you’re hiding all kinds of pain from me right now. I can’t even fathom how much pain you deal with every day, and yet you just…hide it all.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “That’s just it. I’m afraid to ask because it will make me feel terrible, which I know is not the point, because that proves just how selfish and self-centered I am. Without my crutches, it’s like I don’t know how to act naturally around you anymore. I don’t know how to fit in when you’re always preoccupied with the CP. You’re always wondering things, like, how will I stand, and how will I sit, and how will I safely cross this crowded room? Or how can I make this moment unnoticeable to everyone who might be looking, because it will make them feel sad that I’m not okay. Those big black eyes of yours plus that elfin face draws everyone to you like you’re some sort of magical being—and with the photos you so effortlessly produce, even I’ve started to believe that you’re some sort of wizard or witch or saint. I swear.”

  “Okay. Stop. None of that’s true.” My heart twists.

  “Yes it is. And the way you almost kill yourself to make others feel better about your Cerebral Palsy all while hiding your daily—tortures? It’s like your own personal psychosis. Like how you pause so your leg can rest when you’re in a crowd by acting like you’re just taking photos for a second so no one will know that you need a rest. How you try really hard to hide your twisted hand behind your back so people won’t see it—all because you think it makes people feel uncomfortable to see it. It’s like I can’t ever measure up or compete with any of that—”

  “Harrison…that’s just me, trying to live my life. It’s not a game to win.”

  He blinks and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. All of life is a competition—at least it is to me. It’s how I’m made. Being around you all the time has shoved this idea into my head that I’m this complete failure when I’m standing next to you. So…yeah. You always win.”

  I roll my eyes to the back of my head, because he sounds crazy. But then I wonder if he’s partly right about some of what he’s said. Only, right now I should tell him he sounds crazy, but I do not want to hurt his feelings because I’m dumping him.

  He lowers his voice. “Ellen, you make me question everything about myself inside and out. I crave to be closer to you—and then I also want to push you away so I can get on with my own future.”

  “Okay. So which is it, then? Closer…or away?” I sigh.

  “I think we both know. Don’t you know?”

  I nod. “I only know I don’t want to go to the bonfire with you.”

  “And I want to go to the bonfire, with or without you. Only, I want to already be there, not here having this lame conversation.”

  “I figured. So…how about just we go with away and officially break up. No hard feelings?”

  “So, easy as that?” He raises his brows high when I simply nod again. “With no tears or drama and no hard feelings?” I keep nodding, which makes him chuckle and say, “Well. This is a first for me. What will we tell people?”

  I shrug. “The usual? The truth. That we want to be just friends. That it was too much with the workload and the scholarship pressures.” I wink. “Especially if you think we’re in competition with each other
.”

  “Hey now. You could still get third place.” His eyes flash, and I suddenly get why he and I have never quite meshed. He might be in competition with everyone around him, including me, but I’ve only ever been in competition with myself.

  He adds, “Do you think we can do this cleanly—without making any huge waves on the bus or back at school? I know you and Professor Perry haven’t quite hit it off. I wouldn’t want this to make that worse for you.”

  “It won’t. Professor Perry and I are good now. He’s interested in my work, not my love life.”

  “Right. Good point. I just want to make sure people don’t gossip about us. I know you hate that. Maybe I’ll ask if Laura will switch and take my seat up front so you’re not all alone. Is that a good idea?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and I wonder if Harrison’s calm bravado here is simply another one of his acts.

  Maybe he is a little sad and doesn’t want me to know?

  “I’m pretty sure I can ask my own best friend to do that,” I add, feeling a little nostalgic about him. After all, Harrison Shaw is guy I guess I will call my second boyfriend.

  I let out a long sigh as he looks away from me again and over to the bonfire. “Permission to show off my broken heart so I can milk my new single status tonight?”

  “Oh my God. You are an ass.” I laugh, instantly releasing any and all shreds of guilt I’d been holding—he’s so…Harrison! What was I thinking? The guy has no masks. What you see is what you get. I wonder then what number girlfriend I was to him. Number…two hundred?

  As if to prove me right, he laughs, completely not offended, and says, “I’ve never denied that. And now that I’m back in the game, I’ve got to get back in shape fast.” He wiggles his brows, grinning shamelessly.

  “Just make sure they all know I dumped you, because that’s the story I will be using very loudly.”