Lessons in Falling

by Diana Gallagher

  My heart swells with both fondness and pain.

  All of it for nothing.

  Get over it already.

  If Cassie saw me like this, my lips pressed together so hard they may turn permanently white, she’d delete the photo before I could protest. “There,” she’d say. “You’re free.”

  Hovering the arrow over the trash bin icon feels–

  “What are you looking at?” says a deep voice from behind me.

  I jump. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

  My heart slows from a gallop to a steady thump as Marcos’s gaze drops to the laptop. He inclines his head ever so slightly as I shut it.

  “Who’s that girl?”

  “My friend, Emery.” Is “friend” the right word when you haven’t texted since a cursory Happy birthday! Miss you! text in July?

  He blinks as though he’s running through a mental index of names. “She go here?”

  I roll my eyes. Tall, athletic, elegant–covered in chalk and dressed in polka-dot Spandex shorts, Emery was still all of those things. “Galway Beach, and she has a boyfriend.” Last time we texted, at least.

  “Hey, hey.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Not going there. Just curious. I’ve never seen you with anyone besides Cassie.”

  Right. The way he’s always curious.

  “What’s Cassie’s deal?” he adds. “She looked like she was going to eat me alive.”

  “Not up her alley. She’s vegetarian.” It’s a stupid answer (albeit true), but it makes Marcos chuckle. I can’t exactly say, “She was in the middle of warning me to stay away from your part of town,” now, can I?

  “Emery was one of your teammates?”

  For crying out loud, can the guy take a hint? I don’t want to talk about Emery because that twists right back to “when are you going back to gymnastics?” and the fact that Marcos, despite his handsome face and one crooked tooth and excellent shoulders, just doesn’t get it.

  “I’m sorry.” His tone is no longer teasing. It’s soft now as he leans on the table, trying to make me look at him. The smell of coconuts and fresh laundry come closer. I’m eyeing the wall above him sternly–I am– except my heart’s galloping again. “Sometimes I don’t think. If I see it, I’m gonna say something.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  He crosses the finger with the scar. “No more snooping. Promise.”

  My lips lift in spite of themselves. I decide to play a game called How long can Marcos Castillo go without asking a question?

  He flips through his planner, revealing line after line of tiny block letters. “So I could use your help with triangles.”

  This I can do. My father might actually be less pissed at me if he catches wind of this. “Okay, what aspect?”

  “Cosine, tangent, cotangent.” His face flushes ever so slightly. “The works, really. Know what I mean?”

  “Do you have any specific problems you want to work on, or are you looking for more of a smorgasbord?” How long does it take him to write with such meticulous penmanship? I see “5 to close” written down for today and something’s scribbled in for Saturday–

  The planner whisks away. “Ah-ha! Now you’re the one spying.”

  At least I’m working on those extracurricular activities Dad was harassing me about.

  Marcos flips through his textbook. “Just when I think that I have sines down, they have to go and throw a wrench into things with cosines.” He looks up at me with a self-deprecating grin. “Do I sound like I know what I’m doing?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, I’d put you at a solid six right now.”

  He shakes his head. “Uh-oh. Wait until we get to cotangents.”

  For the first time since I landed on the ground screaming in April, I’m excited about what’s next.

  IN BETWEEN TEACHING Marcos about cofunctions, I learn that he works at Pav’s Place twenty-five hours a week, that he swears up and down their fried avocado tacos are heaven, and that he has an older brother named Victor with whom he shares a car.

  When I tell him that Richard was on Ponquogue’s first state championship team, he leans back in his chair. “You were exposed to soccer greatness and never played?”

  “Too boring.”

  His jaw drops. “Boring!” The freshmen at the computers giggle at his outburst.

  I ignore the heat burning my ears. “It’s glorified running.” The only kind of running I used to enjoy was toward the vault, but that was sprinting for something higher, faster, better.

  I wonder again why he’s not on the team. Perhaps he tried out and didn’t make the cut. It’s possible that working so much would interfere with practice and games. Wouldn’t he have said that outright, then?

  He places both palms firmly on the table. “I’m going to change your mind, Savannah Gregory.”

  Go for it. When he says it like that, maybe I need to keep an open mind after all.

  The wooden doors swing open and Cassie flies through. She’s a hurricane in a blue dress, her beaded bag bouncing against her hip and her hair half-tugged up into a ponytail while the other half streams free. “There you are, Savs.”

  “What’s the matter?” I say automatically, because by virtue of her presence, something important is happening. Cassie’s not one for the library. “Too many dead texts,” she calls it.

  “We need to go,” she says.

  “We do?”

  She loops her arm through mine, stronger than usual. “I have to show you something. See you later, Marcos.”

  I almost pull back. Can’t she wait?

  Marcos’s brows furrow, but all he says is, “Thank you so much, Savannah. I’ll bring you tacos tomorrow.”

  Tacos. That gets Cassie’s attention, but her blue eyes focus on me instead. “Let’s go.”

  I wave to Marcos as Cassie moves us along with surprising speed. She steers me straight to the courtyard. As we step outside, the first droplets of rain fall. Shielding her camera with one hand, she presses a button to illuminate the tiny screen.

  This is what she had to rush me out of the library for?

  Her bitten-down thumbnail presses briskly through a series of photos. Waffles, her cat, glaring at the camera; Juliana in the cafeteria, hands raised in the middle of talking; the sunset, burning and brilliant. The photos are perfectly focused and balanced. She really could work with greeting cards if she wanted to.

  “There.” UCK YOU SPICS. The black-and-white photo makes the locker text ominous.

  “I can’t believe they still have no idea who did it.”

  “I have a theory.” The screen goes dark. “But that’s not why I wanted to show you.”

  The rain picks up force, and I hastily tuck my hair into the hood of my sweatshirt. Since all of my gymnastics sweatshirts are on the Do Not Wear list, this one’s a hand-me-down from Cass that says, “Ponquogue Rocks!” with dancing starfish. By hand-me-down, I mean that it last fit her in sixth grade.

  “I know it’s exciting that Marcos is into you,” she begins. “As he should be. You’re awesome. But he’s no saint.”

  I’m not so convinced that he’s into me. Into my knowledge of trigonometry, I’ll give her that.

  “At that guy Nelson’s in El Pueblo, a bunch of guys from the Galway Beach soccer team showed up and things got out of hand. Fast.”

  How come this is the first time I’m hearing about it? Cassie’s all about the breaking news, the here and the now. Ruminating on previous events and contemplating the best time to discuss them, not so much her style.

  “He punched a guy, Savs.” She looks at me without any kind of wink wink. The worry is palpable. “I heard Andreas and Juliana yelling, and the next thing you know, Marcos put this kid on the floor. It was unreal.”

  Marcos–who smells cotton-fresh, who helped me change my tire and frets over cotangents–punched a guy? I try to imagine the hand with the scar connecting with someone’s face. “Was he provoked?”

  She shrugs, impatient that I’m
not immediately saying, Oh, no, Cass, you’re right! I’m trying to explore all angles here. “I have no idea. There was a lot of cheap beer flowing.”

  “What happened after? Did the police show up? Was the kid okay?”

  She turns back to the camera. “I don’t remember. Just be careful, okay? Things like that aren’t going to win Marcos any friends, and I don’t want to see you get caught up in it.”

  The first roll of thunder. I cringe. “Noted.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ON FRIDAY NIGHT, keys press into my hand as Cassie opens the passenger door. “I already had a few shots,” she says, sinking into the torn plush passenger seat. She flicks aside a Post-It note that reads, “I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.”

  I hesitate. The keys are warm from her palms. They signal power. Independence. Something I tasted when I drove Dad’s car to South Cross. Something that the DMV is adamant about withholding from me.

  Cass scrolls through her text messages. I read the sender of the most recent: Jules. “Oh, sorry,” she says, looking up. “I brought you some fun, too. Figure we’ll break it out when we get to the bridge.” A Friday night that won’t be spent holed up in my room or driving aimlessly with Cassie–my social life has escalated.

  Still, I’m wavering. “I can’t drive with someone under twenty-one.”

  “That sure stopped you last time.” She presses her head back against the seat and looks up at me sideways. Her curls frame her porcelain face. Never a tan for Cass in the summer; only sunburn that fades to white. “We both know you’re a better driver than me.”

  When I turn over the engine, the car rumbles to life, rattling my hands on the steering wheel. It’s a powerful surge, a little more than I expected, and I just hope I can control it. Despite bumping the seat forward, my leg strains to reach the gas pedal. The side-view mirror hangs on thanks to duct tape and miracles.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the gear into Drive.

  As I glide down the road at approximately ten miles per hour below the speed limit, scanning from side to side for deer, Cass says, “Ready for this gem?” She holds her phone in front of my face.

  I dare to let my eyes dart away from the road. “What’s that weird crop circle on the floor?”

  “That,” she says, “is two thousand dollars a month.” She scrolls to the next ad. “‘Awesome bedroom in sweet building with roof deck,’” she reads. “We might be able to afford this one if we share a bed.”

  “I am not sharing a bed with you,” I say. “You steal the blankets.”

  “That was once!” The screen’s glow illuminates her grin. “This one is ‘the coolest brownstone.’ Wow, twenty-three hundred–what a steal.”

  “We could commute,” I offer. We can sit side by side on the train, watching the scrubby pines of Long Island’s East End whisk away into growing buildings.

  “We are not commuting.” Her smile vanishes. “The point is getting out of here.”

  “How are we going to pay for uncool brownstones in gross buildings with no roof decks, let alone those?” See also: tuition, books, miscellaneous fees, Ramen noodles…

  A text message arrives and she types back furiously. “We’ll work at the beach again next summer.”

  “Are they raising minimum wage by twenty dollars an hour?”

  She drops the phone into her lap. “This was your idea. I thought you were committed.”

  Moving somewhere I wouldn’t need to drive had been a joke. While the idea’s appealing, for once I’m countering failure to use proper judgment. I’ve already had one future plan, Ocean State, blow up in my face.

  “It’d suck if we moved to different places next year,” Cass continues. “We’d never see each other.”

  I swallow. It was the one consideration that gave me pause in my recruiting journey. If I went to Rhode Island, we would still text and call, send each other silly photos and songs, but it wouldn’t be the same. We wouldn’t be able to walk the two streets to each other’s houses, go on late-night 7-Eleven runs, drive around in circles in the South Cross parking lot until we’re dizzy and laughing.

  She picks up her phone when a new text message arrives. Jules. Again.

  I wonder if she’s telling Juliana, Savannah’s bailing on moving to the city with me, and if Juliana is writing back in kind, Savannah is the worst.

  As I ease across the intersection, the opening guitar chords of a familiar song begin playing over the radio.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Cassie straightens up.

  “Seventh grade summer anthem? Hell, yes.”

  “Remember when we met those kids from Australia down at South Cross?” She’s already grinning. The city has been dropped in favor of silly lyrics and doofy-looking boy band members that we’d swooned over. “They were all, ‘We’re pro surfers,’ so you challenged them to a swim race?”

  “You mean when you volunteered me?” I bet my friend Savannah could take all of you, she’d said, fists on the hips of her mint-green bikini bottom.

  They’d eyed me over their sunglasses. Her?

  The wind had sent Cassie’s hair flying, yet she’d never budged. Count of three. One…two…

  Sprinting into the water, the adrenaline of competition coursing through me, Cassie shouting from the shore, You got this, Savannah! Show them how we do it in America!

  “Either way, I beat their asses,” I say. They’d pretended to chase me out of the water, so I splashed through the foam and back up to Cassie. She’d thrown her arms around me despite the fact that I was soaking wet.

  She nods sagely. “I was honored to know you.”

  Next thing I know, we’re belting out song lyrics with the windows rolled down, screaming over the frigid air. The infectious beat on the highest volume obliterates any remaining tension. Cassie reaches out her hand and lets the wind bat it back, her curls tangling in her face, too busy singing to push them away.

  “Drum solo!” I yell, forgetting my vehicular fear for a moment to bang my hands against the steering wheel.

  “Someone get this girl a record deal!” she yells back.

  I thrash my hair, completely destroying all of my earlier efforts to straighten it, and she laughs. “Dammit, Savannah,” she says as the reverberation begins to fade. “What would I do without you?”

  “Swim against Australian surfers on your own.” She whacks my arm and we crack up again.

  I wish that we could keep driving. Pass the bridge to South Cross and see where we end up. Montauk for the sunrise. New York City, the opposite direction, for the lights. The two of us, the way it’s always been.

  Ah, but not tonight.

  I PARK IN the tiny lot next to the bay, where during the day fishermen cast into the water and boats push off from the launch. Tonight, the bonfire throws light and shadows against the cement underbelly of the bridge.

  As soon as I shut off the engine, a Thermos is pressed into my hand like a trophy. “Driver of the year,” Cassie proclaims. “You should take my car to your next test.”

  I take a cautionary sip. Hot chocolate mixed with something strong and minty. “I owed you hot chocolate,” Cass says, watching my reaction. Her eyelashes are thick with mascara, her blue eyes luminous. “And for Mr. Riley.”

  “How are we getting home?” I take another sip. I can’t deny that after the wine coolers from summer bonfires, this is a significant step up.

  “We’ve got hours,” she says with a wave of her hand. “And I’m not going to go wild. We can expect the usual shitty delicacies here, unless someone was really ambitious and stole a handle from their parents.”

  I stare at the lid of the Thermos, debating whether or not I should have more or dump it once we’re out of the car.

  “Cascade Hopeswell!” a male voice shouts.

  “Call me that again and I will push you into the fire!” Cassie calls back. She’s met with laughter.

  My feet sink into the sand and its coolness stings my ankles. The autum
n night wind is sharp, not dreamy like the humid summer gusts, and I hug Cassie’s sweater close.

  I follow her footsteps to the base of the bridge, home of the bonfire. Everyone likes to pretend that the cops won’t notice the flames and smoke down here, and truth be told, the cops like to pretend they’re not happening either. As I approach the cement pillars, I wave at the faces lit orange by fire.

  They’re preoccupied elsewhere. “Cass!” One, two, three hands rise to slap high-fives with her.

  “Don’t touch the Ponquogue scum,” someone says jokingly.

  “Don’t be a hater just because our soccer team blew yours out of the water,” says Cassie, apparently a sports expert now. “Galway Beach can’t do it like we do.”

  “What took you so long?” Juliana grabs Cass for a side hug.

  Me.

  “Little Cassie!” Always Late Nick (so named due to his propensity for arriving a half hour after his shift started) greets me. “You haven’t gotten any taller.”

  “Your jokes haven’t gotten any better.”

  “Touché.” He tosses me a Coors. “Hope you can handle the hard stuff.”

  I make the rounds over the pebbled sand. Yeah, I’d been relegated to solo parking lot duty while Cassie peddled French fries with everyone else here. Doesn’t matter. I’m sure there’s plenty to learn, especially since I barely know any of them. Surely we’ll find common ground.

  “Hey,” I say to Soft Pretzel Stephanie, who Cassie said was really meticulous about putting equal amounts of salt on each warmed-up-in-the-microwave pretzel. I can respect attention to detail. “How’s school going?”

  “Sucks,” she says with a laugh, sipping from her Solo cup. “You?”

  “Sounds about right,” I say.

  We chuckle, and her eyes turn elsewhere.

  On to the next.

  I try Music Man Mark, who had inspired us all to try karaoke out on the deck one night after work. That was fun. He’s already too drunk to look at me with any kind of focus. “Who are you again?” he slurs.