How I Fall

by Anne Eliot

  “Dad. Please. I was not.” I swap the focus of my thoughts and hope for a convincing concerned, but just worried enough expression. “In all honesty, I was going through all the homework I’ve got this week. There’s this chemistry lab and huge tests coming up before the game. All I can do is apologize because you are right. I was not thinking. So glad you blew the whistle when you did. Totally irresponsible of me…just…I’ve got lots to juggle right now, and I’m wiped from waking up for the 6AM weights. Sorry.” I glance around at the team. “Sorry if I let any of you down.”

  A few of the team members look away from me awkwardly. Others grumble and shuffle their feet, because they know I’m eating crow-apology-pie so my dad will finally shut up.

  Dad crosses his arms and shakes his head but at least lowers his voice. “I’ll say it to you all again and again. This is a perfect example of what can happen if you’ve got your heads out of the game! This is why girlfriends, parties, after school jobs—anything outside of schoolwork that’s going to pull you out of the game—is strictly forbidden during the season. School work and practice is to be your only fun. This team is on the edge of greatness as long as you bozos don’t lose focus. Thankfully we’ve got the long, three-day weekend ahead so you all can rest. Then you’ve only got to hold it together for three more weeks after that. Can you all do it?”

  The guys shuffle their cleats muttering, “Yes, Coach.”

  Dad goes on, “Patrick—everyone new for that matter—if any of our key offense comes at you defenders during a scrimmage, you’ll all step away or do a double-touch take out, not a tackle. We don’t want to lose key players over practice games. Got me? That was a really close call.”

  The rest of the team nods and laughs a little while some grumble along with me about the homework we’ve got building up.

  “All right, then. Quiet down.” Coach Gruber slides his clipboard under his arm. “We’ll cancel the morning workouts for the rest of the week until after the holiday weekend. I need you all rested up for this game. Deal?”

  A cheer roars up and Coach continues, “Now hit the showers and get the homework going and turned in. I don’t want to have key players out because of grade eligibility problems! Which reminds me, everyone must turn in your community service project specs to the principal by tomorrow. You need to have some of those hours worked before Christmas this year so let’s all try to use one or two of those long weekend days to volunteer some, okay?”

  The team grumbles more and marches toward the locker rooms.

  Dad scoops up the team’s First Aid kit and shoulders a bag of footballs and falls into step beside me.

  “You talk to Miss Brown about that community service project she had lined up with that handicapped kid? Feel free to thank me any time for making that stupid school requirement easy on you.”

  I bite my lower lip and decide to go with an annoyed stance on this one. “Yeah. Dad. About that. You know it’s going to take up all of my free time? All of it?”

  He pauses to wait while I empty the large Gatorade dispenser so I can haul it back into the locker room with us.

  “Free time you can have after you’ve signed a contract to play college ball. Miss Brown seems to think it will get you your 100 required community service hours without causing a dent in any of your practices and that you will be completely done by Christmas, so you need to buck-up, son, and log as many hours as possible.”

  I set the bait for my later plans. “Dad, I’m supposed to pull two full days already this weekend. Then I’m going to be stuck driving that kid around, waiting for her to do who knows what? Long weekend afternoons spent doing nothing—even some evenings—editing photos. Are you sure this is a good use of my time?”

  “Just bring books along and study. One day, son, you’ll be happy we did all this. Just get it done.”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m not going to be happy about it,” I grumble, hiding my urge to grin underneath what I hope looks like a pained expression.

  Dad nods as if satisfied because he thinks I’m being tortured at his request.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  The guy has no idea he’s finally given me everything I want.

  I pull a dejected nod and a long sigh. “Yeah. I will but you aren’t going to be seeing much of me for the next few weekends. I’m talking like eight hour days plus every lunch hour.”

  “Good. Then you will be done by Christmas.” It’s an order, not a statement.

  “Yes, sir.” I sigh painfully again, and bite back another smile and resist the urge to hug him for the first time since I was a little kid. I wonder if this moment is as close as me and my dad will ever intersect on the subjects of life and the dreams I have for myself. If he found out just how light my heart feels right now, he’d stop the whole thing, I’m sure.

  I hug the cooler instead while I think of Ellen Foster’s beautiful smile. I can’t believe the girl’s number is actually folded up and waiting in my backpack! And I really can’t believe my dad’s just given me the green light to spend long weekends with her taking photographs!

  My heart races and I have the urge to pat myself on the back. Despite the backwards way everything happened, all my goals have actually been met today and beyond!

  I’ve gone from zero contact with my long time crush to being assigned to help her photograph ice-coated trees on the lake! And since the day’s not over yet and since I’m doing so well, I’ve set an additional goal. One that makes my stomach twist into knots.

  I vow to text Ellen Foster some sort of ‘good night’ before I fall asleep.

  ellen

  Because of the cold snap and the lingering ice, the Golf Course Estates exercise room was almost completely empty when I showed up for my PT.

  Nash and I, plus all of his golf buddies who come here to exercise and gossip, are the only ones around. They never use the machines I use, so my PT was done in record time. Now I’m loitering in the ladies locker room, watching the fancy flat screen TV and waiting for Nash to finish his own workout so he can make sure I’m home safe.

  This is sort of a standing point of argument between us, because the gate from the employee entrance of this place actually backs up to my back yard. I think I’m just fine to walk home but Nash always disagrees. After today’s workout and how hard my thigh muscles are burning, I’m really not in the mood to listen to any of Nash’s safety-dad speeches so he wins.

  One fall for today was enough. Of course I didn’t tell Nash I fell. Nor will I tell my mom. I was already sad enough about it for all of us combined. Now I’m over it. Any reminders would only cause more grief. Besides, the huge bruises I’ve got now, ones that will take weeks to fade away, are reminder enough.

  I text Nash so he’ll know where I’m waiting: Doing homework. Locker room. Take your time.

  Nash won’t text back. He never does. Not his style. But if I don’t tell him my exact location every darn second, I get a lecture. Nash is the closest person I have to a real dad. His wife and daughter died in a car accident way back before he and I ever met.

  Since then he’s been forever alone—but he’s always with me and my mom. She’s his very best friend but she’s also forever alone thanks to my dirt-bag dad. The three of us are a family of sorts, but don’t get me wrong. Mom and Nash aren’t friends with benefits or anything like that. They’re just friends—two friends who happen to love me tons—and that’s it. I love them back so much it hurts.

  I used to wish Nash could just be my dad. But he’s not, despite the fact that I once proposed to him on behalf of my mom when I was eight. I have no recollection of that. Apparently I invited the guy to have a sleep over with Mom and stay…well…forever.

  Mom says Nash handled it with his typical, quiet class. She tells it that he simply smiled and thanked me. Then he apologized to both of us for being unable to ac
cept my offer.

  So the story goes, he admitted that night how he’d lost every last bit of his heart when his family died. Told us what he had left was too messed up and scrambled to ever try again, so it wouldn’t be fair if he took on another family. I guess Mom said something similar which let him off the hook. I know when my dad took off after my CP diagnosis and never really looked back except to send a few checks my way every year, my mom stopped trusting anyone but me and herself. Not with her heart, anyhow.

  Apparently after all that, I just sighed at both of them like I was a really disappointed parent, and they were two, dumb kids, and then I stood and made us all do a random three-way handshake. That’s where we all swore to be permanent friends at the very least. Then I made us swear that we’d stick together no matter what.

  My handshake worked and nothing’s really changed except the part where Mom does trust Nash now. Of course, like any girl who’s read too many fairy tales and has an obsession with Disney Princess movies, I’ve still got my hopes really high where he and Mom are concerned. It’s their lives, and because they never get in the way of mine, I never call them out on the fact that Nash lives in a big empty house nearby while Mom and I cozy up in our tiny, two bedroom. Every night, at least once, Mom wonders out loud something about what he’s doing, or I call him to come over and eat or watch a movie. One day—probably after I go off to college—they might wake up and realize how silly they’ve been all this time. Old people are slow, right?

  I limp around to the mirrors and shake out my shower damp hair, then run my hands over the backs of the fancy cream colored, locker room couch cushions, leaning on them to make my way around to the front. They’re actually made of some super soft suede. It’s so extravagant to think of a couch like this—one that probably costs more than four months of our rent—is just stuffed into this fancy oversized bathroom under a real crystal chandelier so ladies can read magazines in comfort between their massages and personal trainer appointments. I’d kill to have enough money to buy my mom a couch just like this one someday.

  My muscles are about to die from Nash’s workout, so I sprawl all over the fancy couch with a groan and sigh loudly like this is my own living room. Because I’m sure no one is around, I even risk flipping the channel away from The Cooking Network to MTV before I yank out the envelope stuffed full of Cam’s photos. I vow that as soon as the commercial comes for the Teen Wolf marathon that’s on right now, I mean to torture myself and go through Cam’s shots.

  I grimace, thinking of them and then add to my vow: Unless it’s a good commercial, then I will look at the shots during the next commercial break.

  I clear the magazines off the extra long, extra wide coffee table and stack them on the gold carpet along with the fresh floral arrangement taking up the entire table. I keep one eye on the six-packs flashing on MTV’s best show ever cast—ever.

  *Sighs. Stiles and Isaac, I love you and I always will.*

  When the commercial comes on, I try to be strong and lay out Cam’s photos in two long lines, pretending I’m about to play Solitaire with them. And then, still in denial that I’m about to stare at whack loads of footballs—ugh—I sit back, close my eyes and sigh, groaning a bit as my bad shoulder tightens painfully when I stretch my arms over my head. The two mile elliptical walk, with those arm moving bars that Nash thought I should do to warm up, has taken its toll. I know my arms hurt partly because every time I thought of Cam I pumped them extra fast to make his face disappear from my head.

  Sadly…it did not work one bit.

  His darn eye crinkles and that navy blue line around his irises float in my imagination even now. Hateful, beautiful eyes. I shove my fists into my eyes before I start to ponder, yet again, which reference to the actual color of his eyes that I’d made today is more correct.

  *Creates a ballot determined to vote for one: __Gray Felt __Soft Kitten Fur __Flannel __Storm Clouds __Fog __Moonlight __Other. Chooses: All of the above.*

  “No. Stop. What is wrong with me?”

  I open my eyes, even more annoyed and squint-glare at the football photos all lined up out of the corner of my eye until I make my eyes water. I hate being told by teachers what to do, what to study and, most of all, who to work with on group projects. I’m so tired and cranky right now all I want to do is curl up into a ball of self pity and hate his photographs. All while I reiterate just how much I hate group projects. Everyone knows they suck. Suck. SUCK. SUCK.

  “Damn you, Miss Brown,” I mutter, grabbing my phone to procrastinate the whole thing even more by texting Patrick so he can come to my pity party. Where r u? Still at practice…? You will not BELIEVE whose photos I’m being forced to analyze right now. One guess…he’s on your team, and worse, he’s been assigned to be MY community service slave for the WOA project. And did I tell you? The WOA PROJECT IS A GROUP PROJECT.

  I’m doomed, Patrick.

  DOOMED.

  Where are you?

  Your latest crush…Laura London, the tiger girl? She’s also assigned to work with me. ON THE DOOMED GROUP PROJECT THAT MARKS THE END OF MY LIFE.

  Where?

  Are?

  You?

  No fun having this tantrum all by myself…

  Send inspirational quotes.

  Quick.

  Waiting for Patrick to text back, I hear a sound out in the hallway and glance nervously at my laid out homework and the flowers on the floor. If someone comes in here I can only hope it’s not a snide, disapproving someone. Members take priority. If anyone is near me at the club, my mom has asked me to politely vacate the area until they have moved on. If they want to use a machine, I stop what I’m doing and move to the next one. If they want my lane at the pool, I quickly move on to a different work out in an attempt to give them the space they, in fact, own.

  It makes Nash stressed when I do this, because he says I’ve got every right to be here after all this time; but I know I don’t. I’m not a member and Mom’s request saves me more than it annoys me. I don’t want to talk to any of the stuck-up club members, anyhow. I’ve always hated people from the club watching me work out. I’ve been coming here so long, the older members always talk to me as if I’m one of their own. Only not like I’m their own kid—but more like I’m a shared pet—or a baby they know can’t talk back.

  They’re constantly reviewing my progress as if they all take some sort of ownership in how my Cerebral Palsy is doing. Making comments, like, ‘Looking pretty shaky on that bad leg, Ellen’, or, ‘How’s that weak arm holding up—not so good? Only got the small weights today? You backsliding?’ Then there are the ones I call the jolly-jokers: ‘You here again? Ellen Foster—heh-heh—you’re going to wear these machines out, little lady!’ I especially love when they mention how I should ‘put on some more weight’.

  I have no clue how to respond when people say, ‘how lucky I am that I’m at least pretty, or how lucky it is that they let me use the club’. They also say I’m where I am in my life because I’m always such a ‘good, nice, girl’. Only I often don’t feel good or nice when people are talking to me about my CP.

  Most of all, I hate the line about how my mom is ‘such a hard worker for all of them’. That one really makes me want to spit fire and throw rocks, because I know my mom would have taken a different job long ago if it weren’t for me and this club. She kept this almost serf-level job all because of her devotion and worries over me.

  The one that makes me cringe is when someone says stuff about how they love giving out charity to a cause that actually has a real, live, local face on it. Because of course they somehow assume I love being the real live face. Like I signed up to get CP just so they could feel good. My mom, of course, expects me to answer all comments with a: ‘thank you so much for all you’ve done for me’ type of remark and graciously walk away—which, as I get older has become really difficult be
cause I do get the urge to be sarcastic or point out the ignorance and stupidity. But I was raised mom to believe that most people mean well. They just don’t understand CP or take the time to know me or the right things to say.

  I’d never hurt or embarrass my mom, so for her I suck it up. I say thank-you with a smile. Every time. And every time, I know the people here mean well and every time it—and this whole place—feels like someone’s pouring salt into my eyes. Just like getting my mom that fancy couch some day, I am going to grow up to be someone who doesn’t have to hold back. I’ll take my mom out of this small town where we feel like we owe everyone something. Someday soon, I will be strong enough so she and I are out of this constant state of waiting and hoping for me to get better and stronger.

  When it becomes obvious that Patrick is not going to answer, I shoot a fast text to Mom so she won’t worry: Getting a ride from Nash. Tomato soup on the stove top, fresh bread in the bread maker. Don’t wait for me. I already ate some.

  Mom texts back right away: Thanks. Bread’s amazing.

  My phone buzzes like it’s trying to grow wings and fly. I don’t even have to look because by the way the dings are firing in, I know it’s Patrick.

  Finally.

  Patrick: Ellen.

  ELLEN.

  LOVE. LOVE. I’m so in love!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I reply: So you say. So you say…can we please talk about ME not her?

  He answers: She’s the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever seen. This is love. The real love.