The Girl Who Fell

by S. M. Parker

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Hurt you? Can’t you see I love you? You’re the one threatening to call the police. What am I supposed to do? Just walk away? I don’t walk away from love, Zephyr. I’m not a quitter. We planned a life together. We planned it. You don’t get to ditch that.”

  He stands then, towers over me. I scramble to sit up, a trickle of blood seeping into my mouth.

  “Who do you think you are to dump me? You’re lucky I even looked at you.”

  I used to think I was lucky. Now I wish I never imagined what Alec smelled like or what his skin would feel like under my fingertips.

  Time slows. His foot leaves the ground. It moves back, away from me. Gains momentum. Too quickly. His shoe thrashes into my ribs and I double over from the pain firing up the side of my rib cage.

  And there is a brilliant flash of light, from the pain or something else I cannot say, because I am being pulled. Up. Up. By my hair. The pain is excruciating. Alec laughs, “I always like it when you wear your hair up.” And then, release. I hit the floor hard and I am grateful. Until another kick smashes against the back of my thigh.

  My brain screams, but I can’t make a sound any louder than a moan.

  “That’s it, Zephyr. Moan for me. Tell me you like it.”

  Kick.

  An anvil to my chest. I tuck myself into a small ball, bracing for the next jolt, fearing where it will land, how much it will hurt.

  When I hear the sound of bone meeting bone I wince and tears squeeze out of my eyes. It takes a few seconds to realize the blow brought no pain. Am I numb? Is this the blessing of adrenaline? I scramble to the edge of the room, find my stick. I hoist myself to stand even though my entire body wants to give over to gravity and crumble. I try to see clearly, but the dark only sprays a heap of shadows.

  I raise my stick, fix my grip.

  There’s a moan.

  Someone yells a muffled “Fuck!”

  The unforgiving ice of air joins us.

  Knuckles crack, a body falls. Two bodies on the ground together. Wrestling. Grunting. Punching.

  “Zephyr, get out of here.” It is my father’s voice. Impossible, but here. Oh god. He can’t see me like this. He’ll kill Alec. And go to jail for it. I can’t ruin him too.

  “Go to your car. Call for h—”

  One figure rushes another. Strangles Dad’s word. I grab for the flashlight, shine the light along the two figures. One has gone limp. It is my father, his strong frame wilted.

  Alec scrambles over the threshold and onto the porch. He comes for me and I drop the light. “Stay back.” I raise my field hockey stick over my shoulder. I can see he’s winded, that Dad slowed him. Blood trickles from his mouth, but I taste it on my lips. “How did you think this was going to end?”

  He snickers. “You still don’t get it, Zephyr. This isn’t going to end.” And I hear the promise in his voice. The way I used to.

  He leans forward, lunging for my waist as I draw my stick back, back, back, over my shoulder. My muscles ripple with familiar momentum. My hands lock into the grip. My left foot plants forward, knows its place. I lean in. I focus on Alec’s middle, the stomach. I can hit the wind out of him, make him choke on the airlessness. Then it is not my muscles that engage, but my heart, my memories—all of the want that Alec distorted rages inside of me and I ready.

  One arm straight.

  One elbow bent.

  I fix my stance.

  I swing from behind my ear and hear the whoosh of air as the stick cuts through the atmosphere. I bend my legs and arms, all to make contact with Alec’s core. The place where I traced the cut of his muscles, the soft of his skin.

  He collapses as he comes at me, one arm ducking into the fold of his waist.

  I clench my grip, raise the stick overhead again. I watch my target. Alec. I want to hurt him, hurt him the way he’s hurt me. I want to stop him from ever hurting me again. I swing my stick down hard and the force meets Alec’s back with a focused whack. I hear the crack of bone, the screech of his pain.

  I step over him quickly, my stick again at the ready. But he doesn’t move. Only his lips. I hear it clear. The I love you.

  Around me, the woods are silent except for a crow who caws from somewhere in the trees. I hear its mate answer. Their speech is a cold, desolate chorus.

  And then there is the light that burns behind me, an approaching car shining its white glow over my father and Alec. Both slumped mere feet from my own. I drop to my knees and cradle my father’s head, telling him everything will be all right.

  And then my mother is next to me. And she holds us both.

  Together, she and I promise my father that everything will be all right.

  The New Beginning

  I pull on my jersey, number 11. Twenty-three was available when I made the team. So was five. But eleven was the number of years it took Sudbury to win a state championship and that feels worth remembering, even now. I tuck my shirt into my uniform skirt and my fingertips float over the tiny scar on my hip. Small and thin. This raised wisp of flesh stretches out from the past. My fingers go to this abrasion often, purposefully. This line in my flesh, it will grow old with me.

  Reminding me.

  I lace up my cleats and walk out of the gym. My superstitions no longer with me.

  Drums and horns from the Boston College band invite players to the field, spectators to the stands.

  “Ones!”

  I turn to see Gregg with his arm slung around a girl. And as they get closer, as I see her clearly, I scream. I can’t help it.

  Lizzie runs to me, arms open. We hug and she feels taller, grander. As if New York has stretched her, making Lizzie as sleek as the city. I pull away and even her face is longer, older. She wears her professionalism in her bones. “New York looks good on you, girl!”

  Lizzie beams. “Yeah, well, I’m sort of head over heels in love with that smelly city.”

  It’s been over four months since I’ve seen Lizzie, though we talk all the time. But to see her, here in the flesh, is huge. “How are you even here?”

  She flicks her thumb at Gregg. “Ask Slice.”

  Gregg’s smile creeps wide across his face. “First game of your college career, thought I’d bring in the big guns to cheer you on.” He gestures to the stands. “Even Olivia and Jimmy are in attendance.”

  That I knew, but still. “You came all this way and I won’t even get to play.”

  “So I’ll watch you warm the bench,” Lizzie says.

  “How thrilling. The scoop of the century.”

  Lizzie lifts her hands, shows open palms. “I’m off duty. I’m here only for you.”

  Like she’s always been. In the days after Alec’s attack, Lizzie brought me information while my parents and the Slicers brought me comfort. Lizzie went to Phillips Exeter and met with Alec’s ex-roommate. The roommate never had a girlfriend in his room, but there was a girl. A girl Alec liked too much. She ended up leaving campus, even after Alec was made to leave. I wish I’d known her. Before.

  And I hope Alec’s far away from both of us now, even though it’s impossible to say for sure. When he disappeared from school, I wondered if he was sent to live in the Far East with his father. Mom’s been convinced he’s somewhere less exotic but even her legal connections can’t pull the strings necessary to know if he’s locked away. He was seventeen, his record sealed.

  Mom convinced me to press charges against Alec. For assault. For battery.

  Dad made his own legal claims without Mom’s prodding.

  Dad and I sat in the police station for hours that night, in separate small rooms. Mine smelled of burned coffee and stale air. That was the space in which I let go of my story, the story of Alec. Officer Lancel listened and never blinked. Made no judgments. She watched me as I wrote it all down on soft, yellow-lined paper. Watched me sign the bottom. My official statement.

  I thought about the girl from Phillips Exeter as Officer Lancel collected my words. I wa
nted her to be with me in that moment. I wanted to know if she wrote it all down too. If she was as scared as I was.

  If I’m being honest, I think about that other girl a lot.

  I wish I knew her. Now.

  I wonder if she has a mark on her hip. If she’s safe. And I wonder if there were other girls before her, and if those girls had people who would listen to them the way I did.

  I want to tell the girls it’s not their fault.

  I want them to tell me I’m not at fault. I want them to hear me say, “I know.”

  I know.

  Coach blows her whistle for us to gather up.

  “Good luck.” Gregg cups my wrist with his hand, rolling his thumb over the sharp bones there. Then his thumb strokes again.

  I lean into him. “Thanks.”

  “Give ’em hell, Ones.”

  I run to my team and take the bench with the other freshmen. Sweat thickens on my palms. Even now it’s hard not to remember that night as I hold my stick. The way I hit Alec, broke his ribs. But when I think of all the other ways it could have ended, I’m grateful for the solidarity I feel with this length of wood. It has saved me, in more ways than one. Even in the days after Alec disappeared, it was everything to sleep with my stick tucked into my covers. Finn snoring at my feet.

  The ref’s whistle blows with another point for Boston College and we stand to cheer. When I sit back down, it is impossible to remain still. I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, my body wanting desperately to be on the field. I watch my teammates rack up points. They are quick and smooth and so professional, nearly shutting out the visiting university entirely.

  When we enter the fourth quarter, Coach yells my name. “Doyle, you’re up!”

  I stand quick, shove in my mouth guard and run into position, my stick tucked across the span of my pelvis. I steal a quick look at the bleachers, how Mom and Dad stand together, in anticipation. I grind my cleats into the grass, knowing this spot on the field is a gift. Our team is so far ahead Coach can afford to send in her B string players. And I’m okay being B string. For now.

  Above the crowd I hear Lizzie’s ranch-hand whistle.

  Gregg calling out my number.

  And all that matters is the grass under my feet, the lights watching the field. My team around me, my parents with me.

  And how good it is to feel worthy.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the cheerleading of my oldest son, who has overcome unspeakable odds and still sees the world filled with love. Thank you for sharing your wisdom. Thank you for teaching me how to never give up. My heart strives to be as kind as yours. I hope that you always see magic in the world. You are mine.

  Thanks goes to my youngest son, who is still so young but has taught me bravery nonetheless. You are joy personified.

  An unimaginably huge thanks goes out to my husband, Keith. For sticking around. For never doubting. You are my North Star and the only person I’d want to hike beside in this world.

  Thank you to my sister, Kerry, for believing in me. Thank you to my godmother, Patricia Collyer, for reminding me always of the healing power of deep, necessary laughter. And to Cousin Nicole for being the hippest girl evah. Thanks goes to Carol Brown and Tom Wright for quietly championing all that I do. And special, loving thanks goes to Lucia Zimmitti, the best writing wife any girl could ever ask for—the best person, really. Zephyr would not be in the world if not for you and your genius.

  Thanks goes out to the venerable Anna Kathryn Senechal Rodgers, who has the unique ability to make me feel seventeen again. To Ellen McManus, Beth Renaud, and Melissa Gravois—my Saint Michael’s College soul sisters and early readers of some ghastly trunk novels. And to Jennifer Crimi, who proved every day of her life that great things are possible. And to Daniel Murphy, whose joy is not forgotten. Thanks goes to Laurie Smith at SMC’s English department for helping me hone my craft long before I understood writing was a craft. To Joshua Bodwell of Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance for having a big heart, and for corralling all of us Maine writers into a garden of community. To Mr. Leme for teaching me to see poetry in a drop of dew. To Sagamore Beach and its sandbar, flotsam, and restorative power.

  To Patricia and Richard Warren for being tireless supporters of my writing, my parenting, and my choices. Thank you for gobbling up every page I write, but mostly for bringing my husband into the world, a monumental gift for which my words cannot convey my gratitude.

  Thanks also goes out to beta readers of this and other works, including Elizabeth Sherfey, Susan Batchelor, Cassandra Marshall, Dennis Hilton, Kristen Graham, Laura Snyder. To Buddy at the Carleton Inn for making me hot meals during a blizzard so I could finish this novel. Thanks goes to Colette Grubman for loving this book, and for her tireless advocacy to end abuse. To the ladies of Sixteen to Read—thank you for every cheer, every laugh; I am humbled by your talent and grace. And to the debut authors of The Sweet Sixteens—thank you for showing me that all the debut crazy is normal.

  Endless thanks goes to all the book bloggers who have championed this book since it arrived on the YA scene. In particular, Jennifer Gaska, whose kindness should be cloned; Talina Roma, who made space for this story in her heart; Brittany Press, who took this book under her wing; Nori Horvitz, who is both sweet and sassy; and Rachel from A Perfection Called Books, a true blogger bae.

  Thank you to my remarkable agent, Melissa Sarver White, who saw this story’s potential before I ever could. And to my brilliant editor, Nicole Ellul. Thank you for taking a chance on me and championing this book. I’ve got a crush on you, girl! To Regina Flath and her mad design skills. Her cover is an iconic reminder that we are each entitled to our own unique voice. I am so deeply indebted to the team at Simon & Schuster who walked my story into a book. You are all dream makers.

  Enormous thanks goes to Darcy Woods for her effervescent spirit, twelve-year-old sense of humor, and fierce friendship. I like you very much, Darzilla. Just as you are.

  To Marisa Reichardt, a whip-smart woman and immensely talented author. Thank you for all your words, the ones we share in friendship and the ones you set down in your novels. You are a true and rare gift. You are treasured.

  To my father for mistrusting every boy I ever dated.

  And finally to my mother, without whom I would be nothing.

  Author’s Note:

  I am often asked if The Girl Who Fell is my personal story, if I was the victim of the dating manipulation and violence depicted within its pages. The answer, for me, is no. However, I have worked with many teenage girls who had survived stories similar to Zephyr’s. These girls fell victim to controlling partners who wanted to limit their movements, eliminate their friendships, and erode their sense of self-worth. These girls were strong and smart. But in their desire to feel loved, validated, and recognized, they sometimes couldn’t see the dangers in their relationships. For some, they saw (and suffered) the dangers, but were too afraid to speak out.

  It is my hope that readers will identify with Zephyr’s strength in this story. Her worth. The value of her voice. It is my hope that readers will reflect on their own worth. The power and preciousness of their singularly unique voices. And perhaps this book will help readers to see that every girl is important and brave and worthy—and we need not sacrifice these things for the soft and precious gift of love.

  There are resources to help those who may be struggling with similar issues as the ones explored in this book. The volunteers at these organizations will listen. They will not judge. So please reach out for help. For you. For your friends. Sisters. Loved ones. And remember that you are not alone. And love should never hurt.

  Love Is Respect

  loveisrespect.org

  1.866.331.9474 | Text loveis to 22522

  Break The Cycle (partners with Love Is Respect)

  breakthecycle.org

  1.866.331.9474

  National Domestic Violence Hotline

  thehotline.orgr />
  1.800.799.SAFE (7233) | 1.800.787.3224 (TTY)

  Crisis Intervention for Sexual Assault

  Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network

  rainn.org

  1.800.656.HOPE

  S. M. PARKER lives on the coast of Maine with her husband and sons. As a young adult, restlessness drove her to backpack through dozens of countries, adventures she found far less intimidating than high school. She has since devoted her life to education and holds degrees from three New England universities. She can usually be found rescuing dogs, chickens, old houses, and wooden boats. She has a weakness for chocolate chip cookies and ridiculous laughter—ideally at the same time. The Girl Who Fell is her first novel.

  Simon Pulse

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Visit us at

  simonandschuster.com/teen

  authors.simonandschuster.com/S-M-Parker

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition March 2016

  Text copyright © 2016 by Shannon M. Parker

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2016 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.