Lessons in Falling

by Diana Gallagher

  “Dad’s at a conference in Georgia, Mom’s at yoga, and sitting isn’t the right verb. I’m lying down.” Blankets rustle in the background.

  I lean against FUQ CALC. “So come here.”

  “I just can’t, Savs.” A long pause. “It’s like…you know how a squirrel ran in front of your car during one of your road tests and you couldn’t move?”

  Don’t remind me.

  “That’s how I feel about everything right now.”

  I’m going to be late to gym. My fingers trace the penmanship of DIEGO <3. Cass always fights back, whether it’s to catch up or to say screw off. When she misses class, it’s for something that she finds more important–taking pictures, holing up in the art room, driving off-campus for burritos. This–the lying down, the lack of conviction in her voice–is unfamiliar. It worries me.

  I’m reminded again of how I’d wake up in the mornings after surgery and already know it’d be a shit day ahead. I know that feeling of heavy limbs and a resigned heart before the day is even underway. “Maybe you’re getting sick? I’ll get the homework for you.”

  She snorts. “Right, that’s exactly what I want.” The faintest bite in her voice.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “Can you stop with the questions? God.”

  My fingers halt on the O in DIEGO.

  It’s like the look she gave me when I asked Juliana if she was dating Andreas. It’s the shutting of a door that says you don’t get it. How am I supposed to get whatever’s going on if she won’t tell me?

  Another silence, long enough that I wonder if she fell asleep or has put me on hold and walked away. I don’t hang up, although now my irritation matches my worry and the bell for first period has long since rung. Tell me, Cass.

  “Sorry,” she says so softly that I nearly miss it. “Come over later, okay?”

  WHEN I RUN onto the field twenty minutes late, Marcos hands me a handwritten note, the old-fashioned way. His words are as deliberate as his penmanship. I’m sorry for getting in your business. You’re right; I don’t know you guys as well as you know each other. After that, I meet him for sixth-period math tutoring. He stays safely on his side of the table, no longer close enough to touch. His eyes, though, are just as warm when we look up from the textbook and I pause in the space between finishing what I’ve just explained and asking if he has any questions.

  Of course he has questions. He’s Marcos. He leans back in his chair and says, “What’s your favorite play?”

  “I’m going with Hamlet.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Eh, couldn’t get into that one. I’m more of a Julius Caesar guy. Favorite movie?”

  “Lord of the Rings,” I say immediately. “All of them. My brother made me marathon them with him, so I never had a chance.”

  His eyes widen. “Seriously? Same here.” He raises his hand for a high-five and I slap it, our calluses lining up against each other. “Except Victor had to do the extended versions. Who do you think would win in a throw down, Elrond or Galadriel?”

  It’s the best part of my day.

  ONCE I’M HOME, I work my way between the pine trees, cut behind the Vogels’ chicken coop, and arrive in Cassie’s backyard. The blanket of pine needles and twigs cracks beneath my sneakers.

  Cassie’s house is a nondescript ranch, save the lawn trinkets on the way up the walk. Shimmering glass shapes dangle from the birch tree, glowing turquoise and amethyst in the sunlight. Hand-painted flower pots and half-finished mosaic tiles form a disjointed path up to the steps. While Mr. Hopeswell works inexplicable scientific magic in the laboratory, Mrs. Hopeswell tries to make her own magic.

  “Tea?” Cass greets me. She’s in a dress and full makeup, like she’s on her way out or has just dashed back in.

  Entering Cassie’s home is like stepping into a universe that runs parallel to Ponquogue, one filled with statues of exotic animals, prickly carpets depicting images of men riding elephants, and wooden floors that shine a brilliant orange-amber. Despite the gleam, it’s always a little too cold and drafty in here.

  I accept the cup of steaming tea. We settle in across from each other at the kitchen table, Cassie squirts an indiscriminate amount of honey into her cup, and I decide that I will let her ask the questions.

  I last for ten seconds. I’m as bad as Marcos. “How are you?” I venture.

  Cassie doesn’t blink. With a sweep of her hand, she sets the honey back down. “Better than this morning. What’d I miss?”

  “Do you really care?”

  She grins as she lifts the mug to her lips. “No, but you’ll feel better if you tell me, so go for it.”

  The teasing look in her eyes. Her normal voice, laughing as I scowl at her because we both know she’s right. I choose to believe her.

  TUESDAY. WEDNESDAY. THE rest of the week passes without Cassie missing school (though she rolled her eyes about it), without that defeat creeping into her voice, without me asking questions that she doesn’t want to answer.

  Until 3:03 a.m.

  Who’s playing “Stairway to Heaven” directly next to my ear? It can’t be time for school, can it? My hand gropes around the nightstand and finds my phone. I fumble for it and it knocks me in the temple. “Deliver us from evil,” I mutter.

  Cass, reads the bold letters.

  Too late for gallivanting to 7-Eleven. Too early for her to tell me why she’s skipping school again.

  Led Zeppelin’s singing about the two paths you can go by and it’s too loud, too much, just let me sleep, Cassie.

  The phone falls to the floor.

  CHAPTER TEN

  YOU CAN TELL what kind of day it will be by the noise that hits you when you enter Ponquogue High School, your shoes squeaking on the red-and-white tiles that saw their better days in 1980.

  The normal pitch is high tide. Shouting and chatting and last-minute text tones chime. Impassioned lovers press together after a night apart. The soccer team whoops and high-fives, euphoric after last night’s victory against Center Moriches. High tide means that PHS maintains equilibrium. Oh-my-gawd-I-can’t-believe-it and what’s good for this weekend? blends with squawks from the band room and other signs of students trying to do something with their lives.

  It’s slack tide you have to watch out for. Everyone’s afraid of being heard. Conversations take place in huddles next to lockers. Lovers hold each other closer than usual. Something has happened. Like UCK YOU SPICS.

  Low tide is the worst. The student body moves so quietly that the squeaking shoes echo. Teachers avoid eye contact. The announcement: Please report to the auditorium instead of your first period class. That happened on my second day of high school, when William Peacock and Molly Shroud were killed in a car accident on their way to school. Low tide means something has gone terribly wrong.

  When Cass didn’t answer my texts, I rode with Dad to school. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, he received a terse phone call for an emergency teacher’s meeting.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He left the car before I did, making sure to take the keys with him. I figured the meeting was for something like when Ella Mancuso hacked into the system and changed grades.

  I must have been wrong. PHS is silent this morning.

  No sound ekes out from the band room. Catalina Dover, saxophone virtuoso, sits against a row of lockers, staring up at the lights. Jacki Guzman, my locker neighbor for the past three years, turns to me with glassy eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Then she bolts around the corner.

  Uh?

  A cluster of freshman girls disperses as soon as I look over. Andreas and Dimitri, the forward on the soccer team, offer me high-fives, but Andreas’s wide smile doesn’t hold. Before I can ask what’s wrong, they vanish.

  Cassie will know. She has a better pulse on this place than I do. She’ll loop her arm around me, whisper the story, and start scheming afresh about how we’ll share a Brooklyn closet together.

/>   No sign of her at her locker. I pop it open–we know each other’s combinations–and examine the contents. A photo of me and her from the beach this summer, our eyes covered with sunglasses and our hair darkened with water. We almost look like sisters. A pack of gum, a textbook that looks like it’s never been cracked open, a notebook. Nothing freshly dropped off.

  She could be ditching because it’s a low-tide day, one of the few occasions when teachers will let kids off the hook. Hell, even Mr. Riley can’t argue with that. Where are you? I text her.

  By the time we gather in the auditorium, she hasn’t responded. Beth slips into the seat two away from me, her birdlike features narrowed with concern. Around us, there’s the hush of taut conversations, and no matter how hard I focus on catching a syllable, a hint of anything, nobody dares to speak loudly enough.

  Juliana leans against a seat in the back row with her arms crossed, lips pursed. She has the air of someone who has been interrupted. I look beside her, around me, and there’s no sign of Marcos.

  For the first time, I feel a drum of fear. What if Cassie was in a car accident this morning? What if Marcos was? I search through my phone until I realize I don’t have his number.

  No, Cassie has lightning-fast reflexes behind the wheel despite her tendency to focus on everything besides driving. She’d whip right around someone blazing her way. Marcos–I can’t imagine him being nearly as distracted as Cassie. It has to be someone else. I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to calm my breathing.

  Behind all of us, in the Standing Room Only zone, are the teachers. Mr. Raia and Mr. Kessler in conversation, Mr. Raia’s tie frumpier than usual. Next to Mr. Kessler, my father. He’s eyeing me like he wants to say something. At that exact moment, a text arrives and I nearly drop my phone. Except it’s not from Cassie. It’s from Dad, sent ten minutes ago and arriving now thanks to PHS’s superb cell service: Find me so we can talk. Then the stage microphone squeaks to life, and I turn back with a whisper of relief. At least Dad’s here.

  When Mr. Riley walks onto the stage, all noise leaves the room. I don’t want him to speak. Marcos isn’t here. Cassie isn’t here. I want to climb over all these legs to the aisle, run to the door. I don’t want to know.

  Where the hell are you? I text Cassie, because if I send her enough messages, I’ll finally receive an answer.

  “I’ve gathered everyone to address the rumors that are flying around.” Mr. Riley’s voice is commanding as usual, but there’s a slouch to his perfect posture. “A student attempted to take her own life early this morning.”

  Her own life.

  Suddenly I’m as cold as if I’ve cannonballed into the Atlantic on a January morning.

  Around me, everyone gasps.

  I’m reduced to looking around wildly, a last-ditch search. It’s not her. It can’t be her.

  Mr. Riley holds up a hand, swallows before he speaks. The lights catch the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “The student is presently in critical condition at Stony Brook Hospital.”

  She doesn’t do rock bottom. She finds her way out.

  No, she’s asleep in her bed, cocooned by her quilts. She’s slipping between the rocks at the beach, camera in hand, and she’ll laugh at me when I spill my fears about this morning. God, Savs, she’ll say with an arm over my shoulder, I would never do that.

  Jacki’s apology. Andreas’s shaky smile. If it were Cassie, I’d know. I’d pull her back before she went too far. I’d have all the right words.

  “I encourage you to visit the guidance counselors if you need support or someone to talk to,” says Mr. Riley. “I know that high school isn’t an easy time.”

  I have to find her. I have to bring her back.

  Juliana stands at the door, immovable as the crowd files out, silent as a church. Her face is cool, unyielding, and she doesn’t flinch when the girl in front of me wipes at her eyes. Only when I get closer does she shift. She’s waiting for me.

  “Did you know?” Her voice gives nothing away.

  I want to tell her that Cassie’s out sick. Show her I’m the closer friend, the one who knows Cassie best.

  Instead I say, “No.”

  She shakes her head. Messy dark curls swing over her shoulders. “Me neither.”

  In the hallway, her voice drops so low that I have to lean close. How strange it is that the two of us are walking together. Cassie would laugh if she saw us. Sling an arm around both of our necks, bringing us closer still.

  “Marcos found her,” Juliana says.

  Marcos. My stomach drops. How did he wind up in the same place as Cassie?

  Plenty of girls look like my best friend. Rope thin and blonde. Maybe Marcos thought the girl looked like Cass and it was enough to spark all of this. A freshman with the face of Cassie and the mind of Ophelia.

  “He has this metal detector,” Juliana says before my mind can sprint too far, trying to find both of them. The distant memory of Senior Cut Day returns–the boy with a metal detector, Andreas yelling for him to have some fun–and I nod.

  “Sometimes he walks around before school to see what he can get. He took it to South Cross Beach at sunrise and it started beeping. Pieces of a metal bracelet.” She draws in a shaky breath, the first crack in her cool veneer. “He followed the beeping under the bridge.”

  Oh, my God.

  I have to focus, I have to hear what she says next, but the throbbing in my ears and my head feels like waves crashing over me without receding.

  Juliana’s lower lip trembles. She pauses, steels herself, spits out the last part. “She was floating in the water. She wasn’t breathing when he pulled her out.”

  Blonde hair spread like a sunburst in the water. Catching the first light of dawn.

  I’m the one who’s supposed to be able to bring her back, not Marcos, a guy she barely knows. A guy who happened to be there instead of me, the one who has always been there.

  “It’s so cold,” I blurt out. Like that logic changes anything.

  She draws in a long breath. “Her car was running. Like maybe she was going to change her mind, you know?”

  When the bell interrupts, we awkwardly pivot away from each other. I stand rooted to the linoleum, an island in the sea of whispers.

  An arm around my shoulder, except it’s too tall and thick to belong to Cass. My father. “How’re you doing, kiddo?”

  That’s when I know. Dad knows better than to acknowledge that we’re related in the hallway. He knows that I would only allow this under the most extenuating circumstances. And here are the circumstances: the near-death of my best friend.

  “Fine.” I move away before he can feel me shaking. “I gotta get to class.”

  JULIANA DIDN’T KNOW, either. That’s what I keep telling myself.

  Her car was still running. She didn’t mean it, I decide in AP Lit. Mr. Raia talks about the multiple choice section of the AP test with more gesticulating than usual. He keeps looking to me like he expects me to flee the room in hysterics. No, not I.

  Maybe she was photographing something, slipped, hit her head. By precalc, I’m so certain that my hypothesis is correct that I don’t understand why Cassie hasn’t waltzed back in and given me a wink, prepared to tell me all of her stories.

  I call Cassie’s house during lunch. The phone rings and rings. I imagine the sound echoing against the twisted animals with their frightening faces and the orange-red pottery. Surely Mrs. Hopeswell, freshly relaxed from yoga, will answer with, “Cassie? She’s right here.”

  No answer.

  In Spanish, the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven” won’t stop replaying. 3:03 a.m. and no voicemail. Why did you call, Cassie? Why didn’t I answer?

  After the last bell, everyone flees. I walk toward Dad’s car in the too-sunny afternoon, and a beaten-down boy with hair swept to one side like a wave steps in front of me.

  “Marcos?” The blood rushes through my veins at hyper speed. Where’s Cassie, how’d you find her, how is she now?

  “I’
m sorry.” His brown eyes are nearly squinted shut with exhaustion. “It wasn’t good.” Instead of coconuts and laundry, he smells like sweat and saltwater. The bottom of his jeans bleed a deeper blue than the top, hours after–

  I fight down the rising panic. I have to hear it from Marcos. I have to know the official narrative. “Do you know what her status is now?” Calm as a journalist.

  He shakes his head. “They took her in a helicopter.” I imagine the chopper landing on the small outcropping of rocks beside the bay, sand flying everywhere, Cassie’s curls flowing like she’s facing the ocean instead of lying there–

  “It was an accident.” I ignore my shaking legs, the waver in my voice.

  Marcos looks at me sadly. Sympathetically. “I found a note on the passenger’s seat.”

  The panic rises higher. I can handle it. I repeat the mantra as I would before competing on beam. “She has Post-Its everywhere. Stuff for her essays. Hell, I’ve left notes in there.” I’m rambling. I don’t recognize this high-pitched stranger speaking in a rush.

  “There was only one.” Marcos sounds too tired to fight me on this. “It said, ‘Till human voices wake us and we drown.’”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CARS, SCHOOL BUSES, trucks seem determined to push us back as Dad and I inch up Nicolls Road. At every red light, my hand clamps down on the door handle. Go, go, go. I can see the hospital’s towers above the trees, the dying sunlight catching the windows, and I’m staring at them as hard as I can, as though I’ll be able to see Cassie from here.

  When he finally pulls up to the curb of Stony Brook Hospital, I’m out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. I run through the sliding doors and almost barrel into an elderly lady in a wheelchair. “Cascade Hopeswell,” I say to the nurse at the desk, voice trembling.

  The nurse eyes me critically. “Relation to the patient?”

  “Sister. Savannah, Savannah Hopeswell.” Shut up, I can’t stop, am I too late?