Lessons in Falling

by Diana Gallagher

  LESSONS IN FALLING

  diana gallagher

  Lessons in Falling

  Copyright © 2017 by Diana Gallagher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.

  First Edition: 2017

  Lessons in Falling: a novel / by Diana Gallagher–1st ed.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

  Summary: A girl afraid to take risks since a gymnastics injury must take charge of her future after her best friend’s failed suicide attempt stains her view of the world, the people in it, and her future.

  Published in the United States by Spencer Hill Press For more information on our titles visit www.spencerhillpress.com

  Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books www.midpointtrade.com

  Cover design by: Michael Short

  Interior layout by: Jenny Perinovic

  Images courtesy of ArtFamily and Roman Sigaev

  ISBN: 978-1-63392-037-8 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-63392-038-5 (eBook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR MY PARENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE OCTOBER SUNSHINE glints off of the Department of Motor Vehicles’ door as my father holds it open, like he’s ushering me into a debutante ball. I breeze past him to join the line of would-be drivers. The girl in front of me whimpers.

  Amateur. I’ve taken this test six times. There’s no point in showing fear.

  Ping, ping. My best friend’s texts roll in. I keep my head down as the line shuffles forward.

  Cassie: You’re gonna kill it today!!!

  Cassie: Come to South Cross ASAP when you’re done.

  Cassie: When you PASS, that is.

  Cassie: Bring burritos.

  Right. Senior Cut Day. While I’m here, my best friend is busy frolicking by the ocean, never mind the fact that it’s cold enough for frost outside. “That’s the beauty of it,” she’d told me last night. “The teachers don’t expect us to ditch on a shit day. You’re sure you can’t get out of your test?”

  “Would you want my father as your life chauffeur?”

  She’d laughed. “Fair enough.”

  I half expect to see a poster of my learner’s permit on the wall with the caption DMV’s Most Notorious. New York State still hasn’t passed a law to keep repeat offenders like me from signing up for one test right after the other, so here I stand. The first three tests, I was optimistic. On four and five, the doubt settled in. By now, it’s just embarrassing, or in the words of my father, “They’re going to start sending you Christmas cards.”

  “Name?” the DMV attendant says.

  “Savannah–”

  “Kaitlyn Gregory,” Dad interrupts.

  Nobody has called me Kaitlyn since I was seven. Not even Mom. I’d tugged that name off and taken my more exciting middle name instead. Cassie had seen to it. Get it together, Dad.

  “‘K.S. Gregory,’” the man reads from my permit in an I-don’t-have-time-or-patience-for-your-discrepancy tone. “That you?”

  “Yes,” we say in unison.

  The man sighs. “Park across from the playground.”

  There’s no doubt that Cassie’s the first senior down to the shoreline. Although it’s only eight in the morning, I bet the Atlantic Ocean is warmer than the air. My best friend won’t be swimming, although some of the braver seniors might attempt an early-season Polar Bear Plunge. No, she’ll be walking over the dunes, stopping at the peak, and digging in her heels to keep from sliding in the sand. Her camera will be slung around her neck. The fact that her attendance has been, shall we say, spotty so far this year won’t bother her.

  Tomorrow, she’ll show our teachers the photographs, dropping her voice so that it falls into her purple-and-green Palestinian scarf. She’ll even win over our notoriously hard-ass precalculus teacher. As always, she will be forgiven.

  Meanwhile, a permanent layer of dust covers the dashboard, the seatbelt digs into my shoulder, and the gas pedal groans like an old man whenever I press it. The car’s a piece of shit. It’s as sick of the Town of Ponquogue DMV as I am.

  We’ll get out of here today, you and me.

  I’m sick of failing.

  “I didn’t feel good about the parallel park you ended on yesterday. Did you?” Dad says in his teacher-chastising-a-young-delinquent tone. Since he’s the AP Calculus teacher at my high school, all of my classmates have the privilege of hearing that voice, too. On the rare days he has a sub, like today, it’s like Christmas break comes early for Ponquogue.

  No license. No gymnastics career. A father infamous for assigning shitty grades. Yeah, I’m pretty much the coolest senior.

  “When am I ever going to have to parallel park in my life?” I counter, fully aware that this argument is futile.

  “Two cars from now.”

  “I’m not worried.” I am very worried. “I’ve been practicing.” I extend my legs like I’m warming up for a gymnastics meet, eliciting the crack of scar tissue in my right knee. Bad move.

  Last night, I tried an exercise that my former gymnastics coach was fond of. “Ten times a night, every night,” he’d instruct, “look in the mirror and say to yourself, ‘I am a great beam worker.’” We’d all roll our eyes behind his back.

  But when you’re six road tests in the hole, you’re not really one to judge. “You can do this, Savannah,” I’d mumbled once I’d shut off the lights, feeling my breath bounce back at me from the mirror, and then threw my face into a pillow. Useless.

  Thinking about gymnastics–just as useless. I need to have realistic goals now, like passing this goddamn thing once and for all.

  Another text. I know it’s from Cass. Nobody else would text me this early (or at all these days–sad, but true). “I’m fairly sure texting during your test results in automatic failure,” Dad says sarcastically as I glance at my phone.

  Sure enough, it’s Cass: I’m freezing my balls off. Can you bring hot chocolate, too?

  Cass: Love youuu!

  “So when are you going back to the gym?”

  My hands freeze on the steering wheel. Another text arrives, but the words don’t register.

  Dad steamrolls on, either not noticing or not caring that I’ve got a death grip on the wheel. “You’ve been cleared by the orthopedist for a month now.”

  How many times must we play this game? Too bad Mom couldn’t take me today. She wouldn’t bring up this nonsense. “I’m done,” I tell him for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, I ignore the drop in my stomach. It should feel easier by now, shouldn’t it? I’d had a career-ending injury on the most important day of my career. What part of done doesn’t he get? And why does he have to bring it up now?

  “You’ve had plenty of injuries,” he replies, undeterred.

  “Exactly.” A thin man in a black blazer with an equally dark look on his face waits by the curb.

  Wait! Not yet! Now I’m the one who wants to whimper. Dammit. Except this is my seventh time here, and if I can’t do it now, when am I ever going to be able to?

  I slide next to the curb at a cool one mile per hour.

  “You
should e-mail the Ocean State coach,” Dad continues.

  The words make my palms sweat and my heartbeat accelerate. I don’t want to talk about gymnastics, I don’t want to think about it, and right now, that dour-looking DMV employee looks like a hell of a lot better company than Dad.

  I press the brakes too abruptly, causing the car to jerk forward.

  “Bye, Dad. Good talk.”

  My father sighs and drops a quick kiss on my forehead before opening the door. “Good luck, Katie.” I’d roll my eyes at the old nickname, except now I’m too nervous to do anything.

  When the road test administrator slides in next to me, it feels like all of the air is sucked out of the car. His legs must be twice the length of my body, knees crammed against the glove compartment. I imagine him already docking me a point: insufficient leg room. “‘K.S. Gregory,’” he reads flatly. “What does ‘K.S.’ stand for?”

  “Kaitlyn Savannah.” Perhaps he agrees that “Savannah” is the far more interesting name.

  “Pull away from the curb,” he says instead.

  I signal and take an exaggerated look over my shoulder before pulling away from the curb. If I had dared glance to the side, maybe I would have seen Dad by the playground, watching his daughter and the fifteen-year-old Civic move away from the curb.

  Ten minutes. That’s all the time it will take to pass this thing, get the hell out of coming back here for the eighth time, and achieve something for the first time in months. I cannot, under any circumstances, fail again.

  I will my hands to stop shaking. They ignore me. Typical.

  The speedometer needle hovers safely at 30 mph, though the pick-up truck riding my bumper looks ready to plow over me. I’ve lived in Ponquogue my whole life and have passed by these landmarks countless times: the lighthouse statue, the OCEAN BEACHES sign that was bent in the last hurricane and still hasn’t been fixed, the WELCOME TO PONQUOGUE sign painted on driftwood and propped against the flag pole.

  I’ve never had those Get-Me-Out-of-Ponquogue urges; rather, it was inevitable that I would leave for the Ocean State University Buccaneers. The green-and-white sweatshirt that my parents gave me last Christmas became my unofficial uniform for months. Now it’s stuffed with my old leotards in the darkest corner of my dresser.

  “Left,” the man says as I approach the fork in the road. At the heart of the fork is 7-Eleven, the place of 2 a.m. Slurpee runs when Cassie calls me, unable to sleep. She could text, but since it’s Cass and she’s impatient, she always insists on calling to make sure I wake up. “I’ll buy you one,” she’ll say in greeting. “Also, I’m outside.”

  Today, migrant workers linger on the curbside in baseball caps and jeans flecked with paint. Just across the street, a man sets up shop on a beach chair adorned with American flags. Propped up beside him is a sign that reads, “Secure Our Borders–Give Jobs to Americans.”

  “Left!” the man grunts.

  Oops.

  I hit the signal and pull a wide left-hand turn. Plenty of space before oncoming traffic.

  The man mutters under his breath.

  Slowly, gently, my death grip eases despite the sweat on the steering wheel. Lots of sweat. Sure, my parallel park is a hair too close to the car behind me. However, our bumpers never collide; I’d learned the hard way from tests four and five.

  It’s like a balance beam routine during competition with only a few skills left before the dismount: feet pound down the beam, punch off the end, flip, and stick the landing.

  For the first time since that fateful April afternoon at Regionals, a wave of confidence courses through me. I’ve got this.

  We return to the opposite side of the street from where I began. I’m almost bouncing in my seat. I’m done, out of here, conquered glorious attempt number seven. Through the window, Dad steps away from the playground, makes his way over with that infamous smirk brewing on his face. I give him a thumbs-up and he raises an eyebrow, surprised.

  That’s right, Dad, you’re looking at a licensed driver. Consider yourself relegated to shotgun.

  “Work on controlling your steering,” the man says, handing me the paper with my score. “As well as paying more attention.”

  Sure, sure. I nod vigorously. Hell, I’ll agree to anything right now. The paper trembles as I scan the litany of deductions. It’s a little longer than I’d expected, but so what? You can still get points off and pass–

  Two. Freakin’. Points.

  Between me and my license. Between the me who always fails and the one who thought she’d broken through today.

  “Sorry.” The man’s already halfway out the door.

  The paper crumples in my hand. That brief flash of confidence, of belief in myself? Clearly I’m delusional. When the feeling had reminded me of completing a beam routine, apparently my subconscious forgot to add, Warning! This experience is eerily similar to others that you’ve failed at. Do not trust.

  Dad doesn’t say anything when he returns to the driver’s seat. He might want to, but I’m too damned focused on watching the cars in front of us. Did any of those drivers pass today? Are they driving right now?

  “How much?” he finally asks.

  “Two.”

  “We’ll go driving this weekend,” he says with a little laugh, and I don’t say anything.

  Besides that too-wide left-hand turn, there are no major violations on the piece of paper. Just the same phrase again and again: “Failed to use proper judgment.”

  I press my forehead to the cool window and imagine myself in the thicket of trees that we hurtle past, running far and deep into the shadows.

  When my phone rings, I debate not looking. Whatever Cassie has to say is sure to make me feel worse, although she won’t mean to. Kicking serious DMV ass?

  More like getting my own kicked, I type and then drop my phone into my backpack before I press Send. What’s the point?

  Too soon, we’re in the Ponquogue High School teachers’ lot. Three-quarters of the senior lot spaces are empty, with seagulls waddling on the concrete before flying off. Right. While I was embarrassing myself, the rest of my grade drove to the beach.

  When Dad opens the door, wind slaps my face. He looks away. He’s about to say something uncomfortable. “You don’t have to be miserable, you know. Just have to…try again.”

  Tears jump into my eyes, and not of the I’m so inspired variety. “Sure.”

  “Cassie managed to pass, after all. If New York State’s willing to put that girl behind the wheel–”

  The bell rings inside the red brick building. Already, I imagine sneakers screeching over linoleum and lockers rattling open. Underclassmen scuttling along in the daily grind. “See you later,” he says.

  Is this my future? My father driving me back and forth from whatever college I end up going to?

  Cassie managed to pass, after all. Dad’s idea of an inspirational speech.

  I wait until he’s disappeared through the D-Wing entrance. He’ll find out about this by the end of the day, for certain; teachers in passing will say, “Guess Savannah’s taking advantage of Senior Cut Day, huh?” and the sniveling nerds hoping for an A will tell him I missed Spanish. It will serve as breaking news. Unlike my best friend, I actually show up on a daily basis and do my homework.

  But he’s the one who left the keys on the driver’s seat.

  I make it down the driveway and over the bright yellow speed bumps without security noticing a vehicle heading off-campus. Soon, I’m at the light as mid-morning traffic passes in front of me, rocking the car.

  The sign says I can signal right for Ponquogue Village or left for the ocean. Cars become more sporadic, making a last-ditch effort to beat the light as soon as it turns yellow. Red. On green, I exercise my right of improper judgment. I turn left.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS I BUMP down Main Street, I fight the urge to duck in my seat. The paint curling off the Anthony’s Pizza (Great to Meet Ya!) sign, the flashing neon “Open” sign of Empanadas Sudamer
icanas–they feel like scowling witnesses. You shouldn’t be out here.

  Technically Dad has returned to AP Calculus by now, interrogating my classmates as to the whereabouts of their homework. Cassie would have the windows rolled down already, ignoring the cool burn of the air, drowning out the wind with music. “God, Savs, relax,” she’d say.

  I scan radio stations, catch the middle of AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” and take a deep breath. You got this. That image again–me on a balance beam–and I turn up the music louder to forget it.

  I follow the hill past the mansions that overlook the ocean. Back down the hill is the rest of us. We’re the gateway to the Hamptons, neighbors on the same stretch of ocean, yet as my older brother, Richard, likes to joke, “We’re Poor Hampton.” Most of us have two parents (if we’re lucky) who work and stomachs that sink when we start tallying up how much college tuition will cost–especially now that I won’t have an athletic scholarship to cover mine.

  The road smooths out, the trees flatten, and the dirt turns to sand. In front of me arches South Cross Bridge, iron and concrete. No matter how many times I’ve been here or how much I hated getting up for work at the beach on summer mornings, it always fills me with a flutter of excitement. It spans the bay, connecting the main land to the strip of barrier island and South Cross Beach. Coasting in at four miles per hour, I pass the booth where I’d spent my summer saying, “Excuse me, ma’am, you need to pay for a day pass.” It’s boarded up for the winter with a sign that says, “See you next season!” I park next to the one car that’s crooked between the lines and adorned with “COEXIST” and “My child is an honor student at Ponquogue Elementary School” bumper stickers. Cass finds the latter hilarious.

  My feet sink in the sand, the wind whacks strands of my short hair against my cheeks, and I take a deep gulp of the salt air. The waves curl and crash in high tide–loud, indignant, toppling one after the other– and while it’s stupid, I can’t help feeling that they’re angry on my behalf.

  I breathe better down here.