The Fall

by James Preller

  “Does your nose itch?” I asked the little girl.

  Her eyes narrowed as a new worry entered her skull.

  I made a big show of scratching my nose very dramatically. “It’s hard to hold still when your nose itches, don’t you think?”

  The little girl’s rabbity nose twitched. Her shoulders wriggled.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Morgan said, grinning. “You can scratch if you want.”

  The station consisted of a picnic table and a hand-lettered sign that read, you guessed it: FACE PAINTING STATION. An assortment of paints was scattered on the table, a total mess, very haphazard, if you ask me. An untidy line of future gang members stood anxiously waiting their turn with the fake tattoos.

  “So, um,” I pointed back in the direction of the hyper mom, “she said I should come over to help out.”

  Morgan put the finishing touches on the redhead’s chubby cheek. “There you go,” she said, holding up a hand mirror. “What do you think? Do you like it?”

  The kid nodded solemnly. She asked, “Will it come off?”

  Not missing a beat, Morgan replied, “Yes, it will wear off in a year or two.”

  The kid’s eyes bulged out like a cartoon character after it realizes that it’s raced off a cliff. Nothing but air under its feet. Scooby-Doo’s “Ruh-roh.” Funny.

  Morgan smiled. “I’m joking. A little soap and water will wash it off.”

  The relieved kid waddled over toward the cupcakes.

  “Can you paint a spider on this girl’s face?” Morgan asked me.

  And that was the first time we ever talked.

  It was about a spider on the day I sat down beside her.

  Clever, huh?

  SOMEBODY ELSE

  I sometimes daydream about becoming somebody else. Anybody else.

  Not me.

  I imagine how I might lose myself, my old self. Shed it like a winter coat on the first warm spring day. I’d become something new. Something free.

  I’d be older, with a car, and I’d drive around from state to state, a nameless drifter hitting all the nowhere towns. I’d get a series of mindless jobs that didn’t matter. Maybe I’d work as a dishwasher somewhere, happy to punch the clock, or I’d find construction work with a roofer, like my cousin Tim. I’d haul heavy packages of shingles on my shoulder and climb high ladders. Develop serious muscles, get all ripped and studly. I’d wear floppy hats, bang nails till sundown, shirtless and tan, not a thought in my head. Just hauling and banging, stopping for lunch and sunscreen, then hauling and banging some more. I wouldn’t have to think. I’d meet people who didn’t know anything about the old me—I would be a clean slate. There would be no “I.” And I, this person with the pen, would become whatever anyone wanted me to be.

  “Do you like electronic music?” somebody might ask.

  And I’d smile real big. “Oh, yeah! You bet I do!”

  Even when the old me might have thought, Hell no I don’t!

  I’d be happy. For a while, at least. Then I’d feel that old yank of the heart, you know, gotta move on. The mysterious drifter. I’d shove off to some other place, maybe steal a little money along the way, not too much, nothing crazy, break into a house while rich folks slept, grab enough to get by till I found a new job somewhere. And I’d invent myself a new life, in a new place, and maybe even fall in love. Or better still, find someone, anyone, who could fall in love with me.

  She’d ask my name.

  And I’d look into her pretty blue eyes and say, “Baby doll, I don’t even know who in the world I am.”

  THE SHRINE

  At the shrine, there’s lots of things.

  Teddy bears, flowers, candles, rings.

  Somebody left a CD case, maybe a song

  in there meant something, I don’t know.

  Pink strings, heart-shaped balloons, hand-made

  friendship bracelets, photographs, white

  Crosses, ballet slippers, notes about now

  being in a far better place, the letters

  “R.I.P.” constructed with duct tape and

  aluminum foil, a T-shirt signed by every girl

  That’s ever walked the earth, and on and on

  it went, everybody leaving their mark,

  Their scent, I was here, I peed on this tree,

  see how much, how deeply, how dearly I care.

  I just stand and stare and stare. No tears

  come, but my teeth clench. I remember

  thinking: I don’t know if I can do this.

  WHAT’S DONE IS DONE

  I had a talk with Fergus today. Morgan had been gone for a week. Dead and buried. Most of the shock had worn off, and things shifted back to normal. Newspaper reports talked about how she was “terrorized on social media,” but nothing more had come of it.

  No “bullies” were named.

  Rumors flew, but the cops didn’t arrest anybody. Morgan’s parents didn’t seem interested in pressing charges. They kept to themselves.

  We were all relieved.

  The news moved on to the next disaster. A typhoon in the Philippines … Killer wasps in China … A shooting in a mall somewhere in Texas … Another celebrity in rehab.

  The coast was clearing.

  I was worried anyway. Before I climbed on the bus after school, I saw Fergus by the bike racks. “Do you think the police will find out about … you know?”

  Fergus didn’t even turn his head to look at me. He kept spinning the numbers of his combination lock.

  I persisted. “I mean, obviously they know. But will they find out who posted those things? Can they trace a computer’s IP address or whatever?”

  “Those sites are encrypted. It’s anonymous. That’s the whole point, Sherlock. Besides,” he added, wrapping the chain around his seat, snapping the lock shut, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. What did you do?”

  (What did I do?)

  It hit me like a baseball bat. Right on the sweet spot.

  Fergus spat. “I wasn’t involved in any of that shit.”

  “But—”

  He stood tall, the bike frame resting against his muscled thigh. Fergus placed a powerful grip on my shoulder. He glared, leaned close, and spoke softly, hardly above a whisper. “Listen, Sam, friend. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t care. What’s done is done. So shut up. Okay? I mean it. Don’t ever, ever, ever talk about this again. Not to me, not to anyone.”

  Fergus pulled back his right hand and gave me a short punch to my chest. Not a hard one, but a message just the same. Two words: Shut up. And two more: Or else.

  A voice called and Fergus waved to someone behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Athena Luikin waiting by the main doors. She stood looking at us, arms crossed below her perfect breasts, long blond hair, mouth tight. I raised my hand, howdy, but she offered no reply. Queen bees don’t often greet the drones.

  My brain roared like the sound of ocean waves against a rocky shore, a blur of white noise. I was enveloped in fog. Suddenly the sky cleared, the sun came out. I could see how it was going to go.

  The plan was set.

  We were going to deny everything … and it was all going to be okay.

  BLANK

  Today

  I got nothing.

  FILLING IN THE BLANKS

  Remember the activity sheet I took from school? The mental gymnastics that were supposed to help me heal? I guess I shoved that sheet in my desk drawer. I’m staring at the crumpled thing right now, here in my bedroom.

  1) The person who died in my life is …

  a) Um, dead?

  b) Morgan Mallen.

  c) A girl I kind of knew?

  2) The cause of death was …

  a) The ground.

  b) How much time have you got?

  c) I don’t know why she did it. I mean, depression, I guess, but I can’t imagine.

  3) I found out about the death when …

  I got a text.

 
; 4) After death, I believe my loved one is …

  a) Wait, “loved one”?

  b) Is this really a question about the afterlife? I guess I don’t really see her on a fluffy cloud surrounded by harpists with wings.

  c) Relieved it’s over.

  5) My first feeling was … because …

  a) Is “shock” a feeling? It felt like a non-feeling to me, no feeling at all. Because: I felt dead too?

  b) You know, there’s something else, now that I think about it. I was excited. I mean, it was big news, this huge thing that happened, so I started texting like crazy and Twitter exploded. As gross as this sounds, there was an initial thrill to it. I can’t tell you how that depresses me to this day.

  6) Now I feel … because …

  a) Like crap because: duh.

  b) Angry because: THIS FORM!

  7) What makes me feel most angry?

  a) How did you know?

  b) The phonies all around me.

  c) That she did this to herself, that it got to this point, that … next.

  8) I worry about … because …

  a) What happens next, “because” duh.

  b) Me, “because” everything completely sucks, like who cares.

  9) The hardest thing about school is … because …

  a) Is this is a trick question? Next!

  b) The fake feeling everywhere, the way her locker is now a shrine.

  c) The walk from science to band, where I used to always see her.

  d) All the things I never said.

  10) My friends are …

  a) Clueless.

  b) Guilty too.

  c) Kind of scary.

  11) The adults in my life tell me …

  a) I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. What?

  b) That filling out forms is a good “mental exercise.”

  c) It’s best to “move on.”

  12) What helps me most is …

  a) This stupid form. Kidding!

  b) Television = very helpful.

  c) I wish I knew the answer to this one. Truly.

  d) Wait! My journal? Those blank pages? Writing?

  13) What helps me the least is …

  a) Pretending I didn’t care.

  b) All those plastic people pretending they do.

  PEOPLE TALKING

  I heard the talkers talking,

  expressing all they knew

  & didn’t know

  —she was stupid,

  she was sick,

  she was selfish, brave,

  twisted, stoned, splattered;

  she left a note,

  she didn’t leave a note;

  how she jumped off

  the water tower at the edge

  of the woods, and how

  Demarcus joked, “Damn,

  she killed that hang-

  out spot, but seriously!”

  I tried not to speak,

  and surely didn’t laugh,

  just nodded and drifted, drifted, drifted

  away like the flicked ash

  from somebody’s cigarette.

  STILL NOTHING

  The color scheme of our school revolves around three basic colors: puke green, urine stain, and variations of beige. Each year, we spent exactly one hundred and eighty days inside that wonderful building. Snow days didn’t count, but half days did, even when Mr. Cranston only showed YouTube videos in social studies (true story!). We waited for time to spill, like liquid from a stabbed water balloon or blood from a cut sleeve.

  Then we were set free.

  In one of our last texts, Morgan wrote that she hated every one of those one hundred and eighty days. She couldn’t face the idea of the same dumb day on repeat.

  So I guess that’s partly why she ended up doing what she did. At least the timing of it.

  But still.

  There had to be more, right?

  And every single day? That was harsh. There was not even one good day out of one hundred eighty? It was hard to believe, mathematically speaking, considering the odds of it. Every day? Really, Morgan?

  She wasn’t thinking straight.

  (Obviously.)

  I didn’t want to believe her.

  (And it hurt a little too.)

  I happen to know otherwise. There were good days, good times. Moments when, you know, she was happy.

  (Or seemed to be, or faked it good.)

  When I think about what it took for her to step off that water tower, the physical act of stepping out and stepping into emptiness, into the airy sky?

  When I think of that, really picture it in my mind, then yeah, she must have meant it. To her, it was truth.

  The moment before she fell, at least, she believed.

  I’ll say this:

  Morgan had guts.

  I still wonder though. What did she think when she was falling midair, legs kicking, arms pinwheeling? Rag-dolling through the universe? Was there a scream of remorse? Or did she go down like a sack, a silent fall followed by a muffled thud?

  These are the things I think about when I’m alone and I turn out the lights. Lately I’ve been falling asleep with my headphones on, the music paving over my thoughts.

  ACCIDENT

  I didn’t do it,

  not me …

  She was sick,

  anybody could see …

  To take things so

  seriously.

  THE TOWER GETS TAGGED

  A new rumor ran wild through school today. Morgan’s shrine had been vandalized over the weekend. Objects that had been left—balloons, photographs, lousy stuffed teddy bears—were destroyed, sympathy cards scattered everywhere. I heard it was a real mess. Somebody spray-painted on the side of the water tower, “BITCH DESERVED IT!”

  No one could believe it. I mean, what the hell? More tears, more crying. Everyone acted shocked and horrified and outraged. And I guess we were, some of us.

  I’m pretty sure I know who did it.

  Athena doesn’t even pretend to be upset. “We weren’t friends, everybody knows that,” I heard her say.

  Hate is an amazing thing. Some days it feels like hate makes the world go round. Other days, hate takes a day off—and stupidity steps in.

  My stomach is empty; my brain’s spitting exhaust. I feel like I’m on a boat in choppy waters, watching my guts heave over the railing. Food for the sharks.

  ALONE, TOGETHER

  The second time I was alone with Morgan it was a couple of weeks past Pumpkin Fest. We were in the open grounds in the far back behind school, which happened to occupy a midpoint between both our houses. I had taken my chocolate lab, Max, and was blasting tennis balls into the stratosphere. Almost eight years old, Max still loved nothing better than chasing after those fuzzy green balls and bringing them back to me. Labs are hardwired that way: retrieve and please, retrieve and please. I wouldn’t call Max an intellectual.

  I actually enjoyed it, hitting those balls as far as I could and watching Max run and run. With Max and me, there was never any drama. No BS. Whack, I sent another ball flying, and Max bounded after it. The ball soared far and bounced high. Max leaped and snagged it on the first hop. I wish I had a mad vertical like that.

  Even an athlete like Max gets tired after a while. I checked my phone while Max sniffed and selected a few trees to water.

  Bark-bark-bark-bark, bark! Bark-bark, barky-BARKY bark-bark!

  A miniature white mop-like thing charged at me like a high-pitched, furry lunatic.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” a voice called out.

  I looked and it was her, walking in my direction. Morgan collared the dog, still apologizing. “Sorry, Larry barks at everybody. I keep hoping he’ll get over it, but…” There was no point finishing the sentence. She let it die there in the grass.

  “Larry?” I asked.

  “Yeah, why?” There was toughness in her voice. Defenses dialed all the way up.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I like it.”

  Her expre
ssion softened.

  Max came over to check out the yappy dog. “Max, meet Larry,” I said, getting the introductions out of the way.

  Morgan scratched Max around the neck and head. Max leaned against her legs gratefully, surrendering to the affection. The little mop-freak dog kept jealously barkBARKbarking.

  I stared at my phone, scrolled.

  Morgan pulled her cell out of a coat pocket.

  We stood there in awkward proximity, alone on a field, playing games with our phones. Silence drifted over us like clouds.

  I pocketed the cell.

  “Bye,” I said.

  I don’t remember if she answered me, but Morgan called to Max, “See ya, boy!”

  DANCE LESSONS

  I found out she took dance lessons after school. Tuesdays and Thursdays. She loved her dog. But mostly, her parents told the reporters, she liked quiet things. Staying home, playing board games—board games! I didn’t know that—which ones, I wonder?—and watching movies.

  So maybe not so different after all.

  Now that she’s gone, I think about those dance lessons. She must have gone to one of those places in town, “Miss Genevieve’s” or “The Jazz Experience.” It could be where she first encountered Athena. Hmm. Was that the beginning of the end? I never got the full details. Some fight over a boy. I imagine Morgan all happy and excited in her spandex tutu or whatever she wore, muffin top poking out in lumps. She wasn’t a super-pretty girl. A little thick, especially toward the summer, when she gained a lot of weight. Like she stopped caring altogether. But when I picture her now in my memory, moving silently through the halls, arms crossed over her books, head down, not meeting anyone’s eyes, I think maybe she did have a certain dancer’s grace beneath it all. There were days I found myself following her down the hall. We had the same math class, and both of us had the same long walk to band at the other end of the building.

  I’d sometimes settle in behind her—not directly, but more the way a sly detective tails a guy in a car—holding back a few spots, changing lanes, keeping things under my hat. Her shoulders were sloped, roundish, as if she hoped to pull herself into a ball. There were times, though, when maybe she forgot herself—or forgot everybody else, I guess—and she walked tall, head high, and I could see that she was actually beautiful, no matter what anybody said.