Falling Further (8 page)

“Trace,” I say,
our faces not a foot apart, “Shut up about good and bad and just...kiss me
already.”

I don’t have to
ask him twice. Trace’s firm hands take hold of my face, and he lowers his lips
to mine. He presses his mouth softly against mine, and I let my mouth open to
him, relishing the first taste of this unknowable person.

Our lips move
together, our hands fumble in the dark for the other’s body. I pull just an
inch away and look up into Trace’s green, green eyes. But as I open my mouth to
speak, I see that I don’t have to say a word. Everything I want him to know is
already written there, behind the mask he wears for the rest of the world.

In the starlit
park, we wrap our arms around as much of each other as we can hold. We let the
silence do the talking, and hold each other as dusk gives way to twilight.

Eight

Trace:
Almost
Happy

“I have to say,
Mr. O’Conner, I’m not minding this sudden change that seems to have come over
you.”

I cock an
eyebrow at The Colonel and lean back in my rickety chair. “Would you speak
English once in a while, Sanders?”

“You seem
different,” he clarifies, resting his patched elbows on the desk. “You seem
more stable, less tempestuous.”

“Again: English,
please.”

“It’s almost
like you’re...happy,” Sanders says, “It’s wonderful to see, truly.”

My first
instinct is to tell the guidance counselor to screw off. Happy is a word that
people try and force on you when they’re through paying you any mind. Social
workers, foster parents, school principals—they’ve all tried to slap the “happy
label” on me before. Once you can call a kid happy, you can wash your hands of
him.

The H Word has
never been one that I wanted anything to do with, but...it kind of snuck up on
me this time. I can’t say for sure, because I’ve never actually experienced it,
but Sanders might be right—I might actually be a tiny bit happy for the first
time I can remember.

“I don’t know
what to tell you,” I say to The Colonel, “Things haven’t been complete shit
lately, I guess.”

“Has anything
changed for you, recently?” Sanders asks, “Any shifts in your home life, or
your life here at school?”

The answer is
pretty simple, of course. It’s all thanks to Nadia. For two weeks now, we’ve
been sneaking off alone, going on micro-dates or whatever. Neither of us has
any money to speak of, so we can’t go out for fancy dinners or whatever normal
people do. Instead, we just disappear from the house for a couple hours here
and there. We go to the park, listen to music in the car, just drive around for
the hell of it. I’ve even been waking up super early like she does so that we
can chill before school.

I don’t do the
whole girlfriend thing. Never have, never will. I’ve had plenty of girls, to be
sure. My first time was with the biological daughter of some foster parents I
was staying with. I was thirteen at the time, she was sixteen.

One night, after
good old Mom and Dad had gone to bed, she snuck into my bedroom and climbed
right the fuck on top of me. I was petrified at the time, and felt terrible
afterwards. But it felt good enough while it was happening that I didn’t do
anything to stop it. Turns out I didn’t have to—she was particularly loud one
night and got us caught by her parents.

I was the one
who got punished, obviously, and they sent me packing the very next day. There
have been plenty of girls since then, but I’ve made a point never to get
involved with anyone in the homes I’ve stayed. That shit tends to go south
pretty quickly, in my experience.

It’s different,
with Nadia. Of course it is. She’s not looking for one crazy night she can tell
her friends about. She’s not hanging out with the token foster kid for the sake
of street cred. She’s not fishing for material to include in her college
admissions essay.

She just likes
being around me. We understand each other, without even having to talk about
it. And for my part, the last thing I want to do is rush her into the sack and
ruin everything. Hell, that’s not even on my mind when I’m with her.
Well...most of the time, anyway. I’m crazy attracted to her, obviously, but
having her around as a friend is more important to me than having her.

“It’s your eyes,
I think,” The Colonel says.

“Huh?” I ask,
pulling myself back up from thoughts of Nadia.

“Your eyes.
They’re clear, and sharp...you don’t look hungover or stoned or even tired.”

“Eating my
greens,” I say gruffly.

“It’s more than
that,” Sanders says, “Are you taking a run at giving up your bad habits?”

“Not really,” I
shrug, “I guess I just haven’t been that interested lately.”

It’s not a total
lie. I haven’t been drinking or getting high as often as usual, these days.
It’s not like Nadia gets judgmental when I do, she’s just not into that kind of
thing. So when we spend time together, I’m usually sober. It’s a brave new
world, I guess. 

“I know you’re
keeping something from me,” The Colonel says, narrowing his eyes in mock
suspicion, “But if keeping it to yourself means keeping it going, then by all
means omit your ass off. I’m just glad to see you looking more at peace,
lately.”

“Come on,
Sanders,” I sniff dramatically, “You’re gonna bring a goddamn tear to my eye if
you keep it up.”

“Funny,” he
says, “Get back to class.”

I breeze out of
the guidance office and make my way through the teeming halls. The bell is just
about to ring as I stroll into my history classroom. The teacher, this frigid
old bitch named Miss Ellis, scowls at me as I make my seat. Without speaking, she
walks over to my desk and slaps down a packet of papers.

“Your midterm,”
she says coldly.

I glance down at
the pages—they’re a sea of red ink. Grinning, I flip through the exam and
review my responses. For most prompts, my answer was a hastily scrawled cock
and balls. What can I say? I guess I’m more of a visual learner.

“You do realize
that you’re failing this class, Trace?” Miss Ellis says. The entire class is
peering over at us, and I feel my jaw clench.

“Sure,” I say.

“And you’re
aware that you can’t graduate without finishing this particular requirement?”
the teacher presses on, smugly.

“Yeah, well,” I
sigh, “Tough shit.”

A collective
gasp ripples through the classroom, and I roll my eyes at all the goddamn
prudes around me. Miss Ellis looks down at me through her soda bottle bifocals,
an expression of boundless confusion on her face.

“Don’t you care
about graduating?” she asks.

“Of course not!”
I laugh.

“But Trace,
you’re future is—”

“My future is
pretty sewn up, don’t you think?” I say. “And, I hate the break the news
sister, but a high school diploma ain’t gonna change that.”

“But if you just
applied yourself—”

“I don’t have
time for this, a
teacher
telling me to apply myself,” I mutter, standing
to leave the classroom.

“Don’t you dare
walk out that door,” Miss Ellis says.

“Or what?” I
challenge.”

“Or I’ll...I’ll
give you detention.”

“Lady, detention
is like nap time for me,” I laugh, “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Fine,” she
says, “Then how’s this? Since detention isn’t punishment for you any longer,
I’ll put you through something that might actually teach you a lesson.”

“What are you
gonna do, paddle me?”

“Not quite. I’m
going to assign you a tutor.”

“You’ve got to
be kidding me...” I groan.

“In fact,” Miss
Ellis smiles, “I think I know just the girl.”

~~~

“You’re going to
tutor me in history?” I cackle.

Nadia looks up
at me across the dinner table. “Sure,” she says, “Why not?”

“Well, for
starters, I’ll be too distracted by those pretty eyes of yours to get any book
learnin’ done.”

She takes those
gorgeous eyes and rolls them hard. “Look,” she says, “Miss Ellis asked me to
take you on. To be honest, I’m glad I finally get to intervene. There’s no
reason you should be failing all of your classes, Trace.”

“How do you
figure that?”

“Well, for one
thing,” Nadia says, tucking a lock of her thick blonde hair behind her ear,
“You’re not a goddamn idiot.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me,”
she insists. “I know your fuck-all act is just that—an act. If you put your
mind to it, you could breeze through these classes no problem.”

“What if I just
don’t care?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t
you?” she counters, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a job without a
high school diploma? It’s damn near impossible.”

“Not all of us
want to be big shot lawyers,” I remind her, “Some people would be perfectly
happy working with our hands.”

“In Chicago?”
she says, arching her eyebrow.

“Sure, why not?”

“Trace,” she
says, leaning over the table, “I’m not dumb, OK? I know what kind of work pays
good money around here, and I know that it’s not what you might call honest.”

“Are you
accusing me of something?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“No,” she says,
“But can you tell me that, once you’re eighteen, you’re really going to look
for nine to five job when dealing pays a hell of a lot more?”

My mouth falls
open, but I’ve got no words to retaliate with. When the girl is right, she’s
right. Hell, I’ve been dealing on the side for a couple of years now. It would
be so easy to get a bigger slice of the action if I wanted. I snatch a crispy
fry off Nadia's plate and pop it into my mouth, waiting for the subject to
change itself.

“I’m not trying
to be harsh,” she says softly, “I just...want better things for you.”

“OK,” I sigh
heavily, taking a long slurp of Coke, “I get it. I do. So...come on then, teach.
Show me what’s what.”

Nadia smiles and
produces a history textbook from her backpack. Clearing off a space between the
condiments and empty plates, she opens to a map of the world. I watch as her
hand goes unconsciously to the necklace that she always wears.

“What is that
thing?” I ask, nodding to the charm.

“This?” she
asks, holding up the round trinket, “It’s a compass. My parents gave it to me
when I was little.”

“That’s a little
bit too Orphan Annie for me,” I laugh.

“I wanted to be
an explorer when I was younger,” she says, smiling wistfully, “My parents were
born overseas, and I always dreamed about continuing the adventure they
started.”

“Do you still
have family over there?” I ask her.

“Beats me,” she
says, “If I do, I’ve never met them. But I wouldn’t go back there. I’d keep
moving forward, all over the world. When they first threw me into foster care,
I tried to run away a couple of times.”

“Run away? You?”

“Yeah,” Nadia
says sheepishly, “I’d pack all my belongings into my backpack, grab a map, and
set off. They always caught me, but I think I would have just gone off to
explore if anyone had let me.”

“Maybe you can
still be an explorer,” I say, weirdly touched by her story.

“Nah,” she
laughs, “Everything’s already been found.”

“We could go together,”
I suggest, “Pack up the car, head out of town. It’s easier to run away when
you’ve got a set of wheels.”

“And where would
we go on this grand adventure?” she asks.

“I dunno,” I
shrug, “Vegas?”

“Of course,” she
laughs.

“Well, where do
you want to go?”

“Alaska,” she
says without skipping a beat.

“What the hell
is in Alaska?”

“I don’t know, I
haven’t been there. But it’s far away, and secluded. I get the feeling people
don’t bother you there. You can just live your own life without anyone
interfering.”

“Where else?” I
ask.

“Morocco,” she
says, “India, Japan, Chile...”

“You’ve been
thinking about this for a while, huh?” I ask.

“Only my whole
life,” she says. “But we’re not here to talk about my dream world. We’re here
to fix your abysmal grade in history. So, let’s get to it. What are you guys
covering in class.”

“The war,” I
shrug.

“Well...which?”
she asks.

“Fuck if I
know,” I say, “The bloody one?”

Nadia runs a
hand through her thick blonde hair, sighing heavily. “I guess we’ve got some
work to do,” she says, “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Not even a
little,” I grin.