How I Fall

by Anne Eliot

  I nod, too embarrassed to talk.

  “Okay. Good. Hold—” Without another word, he picks me up and scoots me down the bleachers, hops off the side to retrieve his helmet and comes back to his original vaulting spot. “Damn. My fault.” He’s covering for me. “Where exactly are people with long legs supposed to fit in these things?”

  As I watch him analyze how he should best try to jump up and sit next to me again, I wonder if he might be as self-conscious about being tall as I am about my CP? Does he notice that every time he’s around me, he winds up picking me up like I’m stackable lawn furniture? Maybe it’s normal for him to move everyone and everything out of his way. Like…maybe he picks up his mom to get to his fridge?

  Before I can tease him about it, my eyes widen as he turns backward and pushes himself up with his arms only. This time, when he turns toward me, his feet—his cleats—his legs—seem to be everywhere! I wince, waiting for a second, painful impact coming from this guy, but his feet settle very gently and very quietly next to mine as though he’d thought out exactly how he’d fit next to me—and now—he does!

  I shudder with relief and relax some, realizing that I’ve risked my whole future by simply not giving this guy enough room. If we are going to be hanging out I can’t make that mistake again. One accidental stomp from Cam or another random shoulder bump could do some serious damage. If I even get a small bruise or take a fall that would affect my bad foot, I’m back to crutches. Worse, if he takes out even one tiny bone in my good foot, I’m stuck in a wheelchair. I can’t walk full steps at all without that good leg in perfect condition.

  To ensure I don’t have a third-time’s-the-charm fall, I work myself away from him inch by inch. Then I drag my bag around and shove it between us, making a show of digging into it for a second so I’m not being too obvious. Before I straighten, I casually move both hands next to my sides so I can lock a death-hold under the edge of my seat by gripping onto the little hang-down ledge that’s covered in chewing gum. When I’m solid, I try to ignore my burning cheeks—and the disgusting old gum under my finger tips—so I can look over at him and act all cool.

  His face is also flushed, but when I scan his eyes I can see that he’s upset. “Ellen. I’m sorry,” he says again. “That was—terrible. Say you’ll forgive me.” He shakes his head like he’s so mad at himself he wants to die.

  “My fault. Honest. I should have moved faster.” I shrug, trying to make him understand that this is all me, not him. “If I’m in a seat that’s got no back support I tip really easily and—”

  “No! I’m such a clod in my uniform. I always forget about the shoulder pads when I’m wearing them and…” he finishes with his voice going quiet. Before I know what he’s doing he’s gently brushing the back of his knuckles against my cheek. “Damn. I really got you, didn’t I? Does it hurt?”

  “Please don’t apologize. I can’t even feel where you hit me—and I sunburn easily so if there’s a red spot that’s probably what you’re seeing,” I lie, forcing down this crazy lump that’s half tears and half butterflies lodged in the back of my throat.

  He frowns. I haven’t fooled him. As he pulls his hand away, his tormented, gray gaze settles so deeply into mine my breath catches. He shakes his head and sighs, looking far out over the field. “You still going down to the lake to test some of the pulleys after the game?”

  I relax more, happy that he’s changed the subject. “Of course. No offense to your game, but the weather’s so nice I wish I could be there now. I’m so excited about what we did. From now on, my prime goal will be to sneak down there and work on the project non-stop, you know?”

  He leans forward, elbows going onto his knees and looks over at me with a small smile. “I’m with you there. I was up all night thinking about possibilities. Found this shutter app with a remote that lets us snap photos with our iPhone cameras kind of like the Nikon remote. Possibly better! I had this idea we could rig our iPhones to work together somehow. On the day it freezes we do app only. Do additional shots higher than what we’ve already set up.”

  “How?” I breathe in, already visualizing what he’s talking about.

  “I think we could rig extension poles—like they use for painting ceilings or trimming trees maybe. It would be cool to see if we could shoot some birds-eye-view stuff. We have to come up with some sort of little baskets—or something—to hold the phones. What do you think? Man, do I hope that app works.”

  I’m grinning now, heart racing because he and I are so on the same page! “Well guess what? I have that app! Before you signed on, I’d planned to do the whole project with only my iPhone. And it works really well.”

  “Nice. How did you find it?”

  I laugh. “Desperation? The iPhone was and is the only digital camera I’ve ever owned. Buying and trying three dollar apps is way cheaper than trying to land a fancy camera set up. But I’d never thought about birds-eye-view stuff. “I think you’re onto something. I’ve already come up with a way to hold the iPhones to keep them safe!”

  “Really?” His eyes are sparkling and now we’re both grinning. “What do you have?”

  “I made these awesome little duct tape things.” I unclench my hands from the bleacher and hold them together in front of him to form sort of an oval shape. “Some like this.” I glance up to make sure he’s with me. He’s nodding and smiling like he gets it so I go on, “But with long handles attached to the end seem to work best. I’ve been testing them by hanging them with string on the light hanging over the kitchen table for weeks. Drives my mom nuts!”

  His eye crinkles double and deepen. “That sounds so damn cool. Duct tape? You amaze me.”

  I blink, forcing my face to go all serious. “Duct tape amazes me. It’s my spirit animal.”

  He laughs, throwing back his head. “Ah, Ellen, I’m so happy that we—after all these years have finally been able to—”

  “DAMMIT, CAMDEN CAMPBELL! IS THIS HOW YOU KEEP YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

  The real world crashes back in. I flinch and search out the sound of the screaming voice.

  Cam jerks and stiffens like he’s been shot, running a hand over the back of his hair, his grip tightens on his helmet. “Crap. My dad.”

  I quickly grab onto the bleacher ledge and steel my legs to balance me in case he tries to make a sudden move. “I distracted you and now you’re in trouble. I need to learn to shut up about photography. I’m so sorry. I have no control.”

  “I’m always in trouble with that guy. And photography is the best subject ever. Besides, I came over to you, remember?” Cam’s slowly climbing out of the bleachers—too slowly and keeping an eye on me and my gripped hands—which says he’s as afraid as I am that he’s going to bump into me again.

  I analyze Mr. Campbell through my long bangs. He’s huge, like Cam. And he has nice wavy hair just like Cam’s, but that’s where the similarities seem to stop. This guy’s wound so tight I feel like he’s going to snap even from this distance. Right now, he has his arms spread wide with his hands facing the sky like he’s some sort of insane preacher. “SON. YOU NEED TO GET YOURSELF DOWN HERE AND TRHOW SOME DAMN WARM UP PASSES OR I’M GOING TO MAKE YOUR LIFE A LIVING HELL.”

  “Eesh.” I frown. “You should go.”

  “Those are empty threats. Besides, my life with that guy as a father has already been a living hell for years and years. No way could today make it worse.”

  “If it helps at all, my dad sucks, too. He just pays for my iPhone and ignores me.”

  “I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, DUMB-ASS! GET OVER HERE. NOW. WE’VE GOT A GAME TO WIN.”

  He raises one brow and the sparkle in his eyes fades as he glances back at his dad and pulls a scrunched face. “Want to trade?”

  I shake my head, which makes him smile.

  Cam leans in agai
nst the side of the bleachers, talking fast. “I can’t come talk to you after the game because if I do—well—so many reasons. But mostly, he and Coach make me do some cleanup work after the games…so…” He shrugs. “I hope that’s okay that I don’t come back up here—and I might not make it to the lake—that’s all.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Of course. Patrick’s going to give me a ride to physical therapy and I’ll get Nash to walk me over to the lake if I need help.”

  He nods and his gaze slides away from mine. “So…you’re covered. Good. I’m—glad you came to see the game.”

  “Whatever Laura wants, right?” I ask, trying to joke.

  It works. He smiles. “Right.”

  “CAM!”

  My turn to talk fast, “Go! Just go! I don’t need a baby sitter. And I hope you win and get un-sacked or—whatever.” I furrow my brow, wracking my head for the right thing to say to a quarterback about to start a game. I add, “Like the theater people say: Break a leg!”

  He looks back, his eyes pulling at me like they did before. “I wish.”

  “DAMN YOU, CAMDEN. DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE.”

  But Cam’s already gone. Vaulted over the half-fence at the farthest point away from where his dad’s been waiting for him. He’s running so fast he looks like a streak compared to everyone else. If I didn’t just hear his dad acting psycho, I’d accuse Cam of showing off. But even I get that his last move was probably a life-saving move to get as far away from his dad as possible.

  When Cam reaches the center of the field, he grabs a ball but then stops, hand in mid-air as he looks around. His arm doesn’t move an inch until he’s spotted me in the bleachers.

  I hear his dad still shouting, “CAM. THROW THE DAMN BALL. WARM UP’S ALMOST OVER.”

  But he doesn’t throw the ball. Instead he tilts the ball into a small wave.

  My chest twists all funny and I finally give a tiny wave back—very close to my chest—because I don’t need anyone spotting me waving like a freak fan-girl at the cliché handsome football team quarterback. Thankfully blue-lipped, tiger-striped Laura shows up, skips up high onto the bleachers next to me just in time to catch Cam’s wave.

  She screams out louder than any cheerleader, ”Oi—Oi—Oiiiiii! Go, CAM! GO, PATRICK! Give-em what they’re deserving! Go, Tigers. ROAAAAR!”

  My face heats like I’ve caught fire. I quickly look away which has me locking eyes with Mr. Campbell who’s still standing at the half-fence and glowering at me and Laura like he wants to kill us both.

  cam

  I can’t remember the minutes in the game I’ve already played. I only remember, quarter after quarter, how it’s taken all my strength not to pick out Ellen’s sitting in the bleachers again and again. It’s ruining me—and my head—to know she’s here. Watching me. Waiting to go the lake with or without me. And since I’ve left her side, nothing I’ve promised myself makes sense.

  I only want to get off this field and meet her under the trees. Hear the water pushing at the shore and watch the wind move her long bangs against her cheeks. Check out what she’s created with duct tape for her iPhone. See if the pulleys work. Snap the first photographs along with her.

  Try out our pulleys. Work on our project.

  Even though I’ve sworn to stay away, I now know I can’t. Or, maybe it’s just that I won’t.

  To get through the game, I’ve made myself hyper-focus on things here on the field: the weight of the ball sticking then releasing out of my hands, my feet digging into the dirt below the bright green grass, my eyes locking into the end zone and the location of the other players, how each muscle pulls taut and releases in my legs as I run, the shriek of the whistles and the hum of the crowd mixed with my own breath.

  I’ve personally scored three times rushing the ball. My receivers have also scored four so we’re way ahead.

  People’s voices have become robots spurting riddles in my face. Whatever words I’ve thrown back must have been enough. I’ve been handed water and energy bars and I’ve swallowed them down, unable to taste, unsure how I’ve managed to chew. I’ve huddled on the bench—pretending to concentrate on the other team’s QB, and while in play, I’ve tossed out commands before we break and while on the lineup. Just like I’m supposed to—but every time I’ve had no clue what I’m saying. Nor do I know how I’ve ended up with these touchdowns. No recollection of my feet walking me back to the sidelines, waiting to go again. I know I’ve interacted with Coach and even my dad on the sidelines like all is great. Like I’m not losing my sanity. They don’t notice because they’re happy and we’re winning better than we could have ever hoped.

  But…crap…in my typical indecisive way, this game’s almost over and I’ve nearly let my own goals slip away just because I can’t get Ellen’s smile, her soft voice, and the sound of her saying, ‘break-a-leg’ from replaying over and over: Break a leg. Break a leg. Break a leg!

  All mixed in with my truthful answer to her: I wish. I wish. I wish!

  Because I do wish for that. I still wish it. I will always wish it until I’ve got a way off this field forever but at the same time…I wish exactly what she wishes. That I wasn’t here at all, and I was simply already down at the lake working on photography with Ellen Foster.

  With only a few minutes left to play, I’m walking onto the field, wondering what I’m going to do. I analyze the other team like I’ve been doing the whole game until I find the guy who could do it for me. Who should have locked in everything that I really want for me—and way back in the first quarter.

  Player number 56.

  He’s easily six-foot-three. 240 pounds of crushing defensive linebacker. Perfect, and just the player I’ve been waiting for.

  I still have a chance because at this point he’s so frustrated by the score he’s radiating pure hatred right at me. The last three times we’ve had the ball, I’ve flipped past him like a floating bird passing a brick shoved in concrete. Worse—worse for him—I also scored on his misses. On the last one, I came so close I could feel the sweat and heat off his brow as I ran through his finger tips.

  I’ve also just seen his coach screaming in his face even worse than my dad does.

  Number 56 wants to crush me into the dirt. I want to let him. My head spins and fills with the sound of my own voice.

  I wish. I wish. I wish.

  If Ellen weren’t here. If she hadn’t looked so small and alone on those bleachers when I’d spotted her. If only I hadn’t walked up to talk to her before the game…I’d have already let this guy seal my fate so perfectly. Let him hit me hard. Forced myself to stand back up and tell everyone I felt great. I’d faked that my knee, or my shoulder—wherever he’d done the most damage—didn’t hurt the first time he took me out. And then I’d pull another play—and as many as I could get away with—make sure he’d pounded me twice, even three times to seal it. Whatever fate decided ‘it’ might be for me.

  But each time I’ve started executing my plan, worry has me changing my mind.

  Worse, the adrenaline I’m spiking has made it so I’ve never played better. There’s always those inspirational coaching expressions that talk about facing your fears like: run toward the fear and you will fly. Right now, I’m living proof of the flying part. Facing number 56 over and over has been an exercise of me meeting my fears over and over. The kid is terrifying, yet every time I head straight at the guy, I’ve soared to new heights. With each score, I’ve become even more a jumble of confused regrets and huge elation, because it’s kind of fun to fly like I’ve just done. It’s also really hard to deny the happiness of my teammates after running plays into scores that have brought the entire crowd to their feet to cheer us on.

  Even though I don’t want to play even one more game, my team and I just beat Toronto’s ‘unbeatable’ team. This means we’ve made it one game farther in to the
Provincial High School Playoffs—and it’s all thanks to me acting like a complete psycho inside my own head and on the field. My team, and now this whole town thinks I’m some sort of hero, but if they could read my damn mind, they’d put me into a straight jacket. Even now I’m lined up not caring that I’m the QB, in charge of calling plays and being a team leader. I’m actually wondering random stuff like what Ellen’s hand might feel like intertwined with mine this afternoon! And I bet…no…I know…it would feel soft and small and warm and just about perfect.

  I swallow and shake my head to try to clear it. I also add in some internal shouting using my dad’s voice for extra effect.

  Snap out of it, loser! This is it! This is your last chance. What do you think you’ve been doing this whole game? Go with what’s real and obtainable and right in front of you instead of wasting time over stupid dreams and situations and girls you can never ever have. Girls who’ve made it pretty clear they don’t even want or need you…

  At the line, I push away Ellen’s face and lock in my focus on number 56. On me…just getting off this damn football field and away from my dad’s screaming voice. Forever.

  I adjust my helmet, sink my teeth deep into my mouth guard.

  Dammit, Cam. What do you want? What do you really want?

  Out of habit, I glance at the clock, noting we’re at the sixty yard line. This is a tick-down situation so it doesn’t matter that we’re so far from the end zone. Even if the other team intercepted one of my throws, they could never score enough to catch up, but of course I’m not planning to throw the ball. I can run any play I want, but at the same time, everyone—especially my dad—knows we’re so far ahead there’s no reason for me to rush the ball at this point so he’s expecting me to do hand-offs or keep throwing it out of bounds. Above all I know I can’t act stupid or obvious, or my dad might suspect the truth. I also can’t mess up and involve anyone from my team while I’m getting squished.