How I Fall

by Anne Eliot

  I grin at my very pretty, brand new, orange and red, Tim Hortons ‘Fall Maple leaves and Pumpkins’ mug that’s been filled to the brim with a Pumpkin Spice Latte, and I tend to agree.

  “Thanks for this,” I say, still admiring my mug as we pause so I can rest.

  “Always. And forever.” He smiles. “Do you see any rocks—any good rocks, I mean?”

  I don’t have to answer. He actually knows I won’t.

  This is the part of our walk when Patrick flings rocks high and far toward the lake to make it seem like we are not stopping so I can rest—but rather—stopping so he can work on his throwing skills. The pebbles he chooses to throw easily clear the man-made shoreline embankment protectors that line this entire section of Lakeshore Drive. They’re made up of a combination of huge boulders, old chopped-up concrete slabs and these rusty, finger like metal structures called ‘groins’. The groins go way out into the water and divide the shoreline into small beaches which creates small individual beaches. They also stop the sand from washing away. Each long groin-finger is about one foot wide in total and, when the waves are high, the groins are covered or half buried with water. When it’s less choppy it’s fun to sit on Lakeshore and watch people use them to fish, or in summer, watch the kids walking out on them so they can dive off into the deeper part of the lake.

  I’ve never gone on them, but one summer when I’m strong enough…I hope to.

  “Dang, it. We’ve got time for me to do about three more.” Patrick kicks at the grass next to the road so he can find more pebbles. He’s never satisfied with his rocks doing a simple successful splash into the water. He’s trying to skip them—impossible from this distance—but it’s so him to ceaselessly give it a shot. He’s tried since we were kids and I never stop watching him. I also never tire of how he finishes throwing rocks. Like right now, he’s saying, “Next time. I know I’ll get it next time.”

  “Next time.” I nod, loving that even though he might never skip one, trying for the impossible is the only way to live. I’ve started to feel slightly guilty that I haven’t told Patrick about Cam or all the details about what happened yesterday.

  Patrick knows that I fell in the puddle only because I had to tell him something to explain my outfit and Laura London’s tiger clothing yesterday. I also told him that Cam Campbell was the one who helped pick me up and get me on the bus, but I withheld telling him the other stuff.

  *Wonders: what is the other stuff?*

  I puff out a long breath of air and almost laugh, trying to come up with sentences for Patrick that might explain exactly what I’m thinking…exactly what information I’ve withheld from him. But I’ve got nothing. Because any hole I should fill with information involves things you can’t touch like…butterflies and this endless feeling of awkward happiness.

  *Gives it her best shot: So…Patrick. There’s tons about yesterday I didn’t mention. Like…for example…uh…I think I can see inside Cam Campbell’s soul. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that after I fell, he scooped me up and treated me like some sort of fragile lost-princess which felt way better than I could have imagined. I snuggled up next to him on the bus and I stared at his beautiful eyes and loved every second being wrapped up safe and warm next to him. And I couldn’t take off the track jacket he lent me after lunch to the point where I ate a ton of stolen caramel candies out of the pockets after I brushed my teeth. AND, okay, if I’m going to tell you everything right now, I should tell you that I might have fallen asleep in that darn candy scented jacket! Oh, and after my PT with Nash, Cam and I had this amazing, strange texting session that left me wondering if he might suddenly know more about me than you do, despite the fact that you’re my best friend. So, if that’s the case then what does that make him now? My other best friend?’*

  I shake my head and sigh, peering at Patrick through my bangs.

  Yeah. I’ve got nothing to say.

  He scoops up a rock, but pauses instead of throwing it. “Why so quiet today?”

  “No reason. I could say the same to you,” I evade.

  “Yeah…it’s true…as long as your silence is not something about me?” He frowns and my stomach clenches with guilt.

  “You know it would never be about you.” This is where having a guy best friend is not always perfect. Even a guy as awesome as Patrick will never understand my sensation that I snuck into Cinderella’s ball and woke up with my feet stuffed into glass slippers that I know do not belong to me—and even though I can’t wear high heels at all, ever—these seem to fit very well.

  *Hides pretty glass slippers in her bag. Hides pretty glass slippers under her bed.*

  “If all were normal, you’d be taking photos right now. And you’re not, so something’s up.”

  “I feel slightly queasy, that’s all.” I put my hand up to my forehead to test if I’m feverish. As my fingers brush against scratchy, polyester fibers, I wonder if maybe I just feel sick because I’m wearing the social-suicide, google-eyed tiger beanie instead of a magic ball gown to go with my stolen glass slippers! Anyone would feel sick in this dumb hat. It’s pretty obvious this thing is not going to make the crowd pause, swoon and wonder what far-away land I fell out of, either. Everyone in this town knows the answer to who I am—what I am. Worse, this outfit is going to have me back sweeping-up ashes for my wicked stepmother well before lunch.

  I make an overloud sigh—one loud enough to stop the insane thoughts in my head—and yank off the beanie. “What am I doing? Stupid—dumb—everything—ugh.”

  Patrick stops with me, raising his brows up high. “Just leave it on, Ellen. It’s charming. And…at this point, you have to wear it.” He eyes the top of my head and points. “Because…damn. If not, you’ve got to fix your hair by your ears and your bang-things are all—”

  “UGH. Okay. Okay!” I shove the hat back on because he’s right. I can already feel my hair has turned to hat worn frizz-fuzz up front and is sliding out of my braid down my back thanks to the heat and humidity, plus the fading layer of fog off the lake. “Remind me why you are here, irritating me like this?”

  “You invited me to help you keep your promises,” he reminds me. “And in return, you’ve promised to introduce me to my future wife. She better show, too.” He runs his hand nervously through his mop of hair that’s as jet black as mine, but his is all thick waves, not bone straight. I’m always jealous of it. His hair looks perfect in any cut he goes for, short or long. He even shaved it once and the effect was still swoon worthy.

  He’s going on and on, “I hope she likes me. I mean…what if Irish girls don’t find me attractive? I’ve never hit on a girl from overseas before. And what if she doesn’t like me…as a person, because this goes way beyond hitting on a girl. Like…what if I’m not her type at all?” He tugs at his unzipped, black leather jacket, paired with faded black jeans and a black T-shirt. “Is my outfit okay?”

  “Please. It’s the same outfit you always wear.” I punch his arm, a little too hard. Without a blink he steadies me before I fall.

  “Easy. Just answer. Do you think it’s okay? What if she doesn’t like black?”

  “The outfit’s perfect. Black on black, with your black hair, and black eyes and cappuccino skin is perfect. And you’re every girl’s type. You know it.”

  He shakes his head. “Whatever. Two years ago when I made my moves you shot me down pretty hard. I’m sure not your type.”

  I punch his arm again, only this time, much softer. “We were in middle school. Of course I shot you down. You were still a soprano in the choir. Not sexy. And that one time you kissed me…” I pull a face. “It was like kissing a brother.”

  “That was a dare. A peck on closed, scrunched up lips with half the class looking on is not a kiss. And you don’t have a brother so how would you know what it’s like to kiss a brother?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s
you.” I shrug.

  “Uh, how about…no. Saying the brother word to a dude is worse than saying we’re best friends.”

  “You don’t like being best friends with me?”

  “Of course, I do, but…you know guys like me don’t want to be called any girl’s best friend. Not if the girl looks like you. It makes the other dudes wonder about my manliness. Besides…” He moves in close to my face, and whispers, “My lady skills are much improved now, in case you ever want to take this out of the friend-zone. I could kiss you senseless—”

  I shove him away. “I will hit you a third time—if that is what you want. Honestly, Patrick!”

  “What?” He blinks his wide, black eyes, acting all innocent.

  I survey him top to bottom, trying to match his poker face, but my cheeks are firing telltale hot. “You actually made my heart beat a little fast right there.”

  “Yes!” He barks out a happy laugh. “See?” He blocks my path and crosses his arms. “Say it. I’m nobody’s brother!”

  “You are nobody’s brother, you shameless player.” I roll my eyes. “That move alone will melt the heart of Laura London.” I laugh. “A girl, whom you should note, is going back to Ireland in less than a year.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” He frowns. “I can’t believe you brought up the fact that she’s going home.”

  “Did you not register that she’s from far away and across the ocean?”

  “Yeah…I registered how cute that is. Like she’s a little mermaid!”

  “NO! Did you really just say that? So creepy.”

  He shrugs. “Fine. Okay…I take that back, but can you stop being such a fatalistic-buzz-kill on my future love? I’m in a strange kind of pain here about this girl. You’re supposed be there for me.”

  “But you sound insane. Or like a stalker.”

  “Please. Romeo and Juliet met and fell in love in seconds. What about that couple on the Titanic? Same deal. Edward Cullen went insane and almost ate Bella at first sight. What about that?”

  I level my gaze onto his. “All stories from fiction that ended badly.”

  “Whatever. Bella and Edward did get married.”

  I fling my arms wide. “Hear the facts again. Laura London’s from another country, she’s going home in June and she’s got a boyfriend. The deck is stacked so high against you. Besides, don’t you feel bad about thinking what you are thinking? If you pursue this, then it means you will be trying to get her to cheat on her guy. You told me love is very serious to the Chippewa people. Is that not against your—you know—everything?”

  “It is sacred.” He blinks calmly. “I don’t feel guilty because I’m about to be seriously in love with her and she’s about to be seriously in love with me. My people would approve of my high intentions to be with her…forever.”

  “Just promise to play fair. Back off if she’s serious about her Irish boyfriend.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I can see your wheels turning already, home wrecker. What about all the other girls you’ve been chasing around? They’ll be heartbroken.”

  He clutches at his heart and whispers dramatically, “There are no other girls. Only her.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “I said stop calling me your brother!”

  As if we’ve conjured Laura by talking about her, we hear her before we see her.

  “Oii!”

  Her feet are slap-patter-slapping behind us as if she’s somehow galloping or—holy cow—she’s skipping in our direction!

  “Oi! Wee-Ellen,” she calls out. “Oi! Wait up, would you? I think we must be neighbors because you just passed my front door!”

  Slap-patter-slap. Slap-patter-slap.

  I’m already smiling as I turn around, but Patrick’s got this panicked look on his face and he’s turning redder and redder.

  He chokes out, “You’ve got to help me. Ellen. Serious.”

  I’ve honestly never seen him like this. I do get why he’s totally fascinated though. Watching Laura’s approach, I’m right there with him. Not on a romantic level, of course, but this tiny girl has a presence so huge I swear it feels like I’ve been hit with sunbeams all over every time I look at her. I also can’t wait to hear her speak again. If Irish people all say ‘oi’ with accents that sound like cotton candy falling out of a waterfall, and if they act even a little bit like this girl acts, it’s got to be an amazing place. And, yeah…I have to go there.

  As she reaches us with her arms going wide for a hug, I realize she’s shining all over with glitter again today. Despite the tiger beanie blocking the top of her head she’s somehow still shimmer-raining her micro-bits of gold glitter everywhere. I figure if we keep her jumping around most of it will fall off before we reach the bus stop so I reach out and let her hug me, making sure to bump my arms against the tips of her long hair.

  I’m pleased that she’s got her outfit slightly more toned down today. She’s wearing normal looking jeans, tight in all the right places but not too tight, a white slightly see-through shirt with a very cute lace-edged tank visible underneath. Best of all, she’s sporting these amazing, black eighties style, old-school, lace up Doc Marten boots.

  “I love those. Love.” I point at the shoes. “I want them. And this is Patrick. Best friend, practically my brother and therefore your instant new friend also?” I add, hoping it helps out Patrick a bit and makes him a little angry all at the same time.

  “Thanks. And hullo to you, Patrick. I think I saw you yesterday in the hallway?”

  He answers. “You did—you saw me?”

  “As if he’s a hard one to miss, yeah? Doesn’t stand out at all, does he?” Laura winks over at me, and then darts a glance at Patrick. A glance that heads away from his face for a second just long enough to take in how broad his shoulders look in his black jacket then right back up at his face like she’s doing a double take.

  One that’s turning into a bit of a stare!

  “Oh…well…I saw you, too so…yeah.” Patrick’s nodding, smiling down at her, but then no other words come out of his mouth!

  *Rose petals fall from the sky. White doves fly over, escorting winged cherubs holding heart-loaded bows. One whispers, “ready…aim…fire!”*

  Laura tears her gaze back to me and points at her shoes. “So…yeah. Got them at a thrift store in Dublin. I was on a school trip.” She eyes my beanie and pats her own with one hand. “I do love that wee-little hat.” She winks. “Where ever did you find it?”

  “Don’t even start.” I tap the giant wiggle eyes with two fingers. “We must be crazy to wear these at the same time.”

  She falls into step beside me, eyeing Patrick again. He walks around to the other side of me but still hasn’t said a word! I toss him a glance and realize he’s hit max-awkward and isn’t coming back any time soon. It’s so bad I know I’ll need to cover for him until he gets things under control. I point behind us to take Laura’s eyes off Patrick and ask, “Which house is yours?”

  Laura breaks away from us and runs to the far side of the sidewalk. “That adorable reddish one with the courtyard.” She’s pointing at a little red house with a covered porch and an amazing birch tree in its front yard. “I stay with my Aunt Judith. She’s me mum’s younger, much prettier and much cooler sister. My Uncle Yann’s actually French. He’s an ex-race car driver, too. Formula One. He washed up on these shores with a hand tremor that won’t let him race anymore. But he’s still rather French, meaning all stylish and broody for an old guy. You should see the Ferrari he’s got hiding in the garage. Tell me which houses are yours?”

  I shoot Patrick a look that says he’s about to bomb this whole introduction because of this idiot-coma. It doesn’t help so I keep talking, “Patrick lives on the other side of the golf course.” I wave my hand in the air. “But
I’m super close. One block back from here. Green trim, greenish bricks, a porch kind of like yours, but ours has a big wicker swing. Easy to find because it’s the one house that has a back yard that backs up to the golf course parking lot instead of the big brick wall.”

  “Where I’m from, porch swings are only in movies. I’ll be coming’ over after school to check it out, take a few photos of me sitting on it, yes?” She darts a second, long glance at Patrick as we all fall into walking again.

  “Yes. But you can only stay for a bit. I do physical therapy at the Golf Club workout room after five so I’ll have to leave.”

  “Swings. I—love swings,” Patrick says. “I can…push. Her.”

  I almost crack up because Patrick’s voice has come out all catchy and low like he’s strangling.

  “What? Sorry?” She crinkles her nose at Patrick. “Sometimes it’s near impossible to understand these Canada accents.”

  “Patrick was saying that he’s a swing connoisseur.”

  Patrick nods, now completely red in the face as he tries to join the conversation again. “I mean, have you ever done a tire swing? Or a rope swing?”

  “Nope. I’m from the old world where swings are just made of wood bottoms and two chains going up so…” Laura’s blinking at us like we’re mental.

  He goes on, “The tire spins so fast. And the rope swing goes over the lake if you’re brave enough to jump off.”

  I add, “We’ll show you sometime okay? Because around here in Brights Grove those swings are some of the biggest fun we’ve got.” I’m almost giggling because Patrick looks like he wants to die now. So much for his smooth player moves.