A Step Toward Falling (10 page)

He nods and adjusts the glasses that have slid down his nose. “Oh, yes. Very shy. I never talk. Ever, usually. Except here. Because of Annabel. She says if we want to get serious and use condoms, I have to start talking more, so I talk now. I talk all the time.”

I know he's not trying to be funny, so I work to keep a smile off my face. After Ken is done with his list, I can't help myself—I sneak a look over at Chad, who is smiling at me as if he's just heard something funny, too. Already this feels different from the last few weeks, when Chad and I hardly spoke. After Ken, I move over to Thomas, the one who wears his hat and gloves in class. He hasn't written anything either. “I want her insides to have organs in it, what else am I supposed to say?”

“I think this is a way of describing your ideal personality.”

“Why doesn't Mary just
say
that?” He adjusts his hat with his gloved fingers, which is what he does anytime he gets anxious in class. I've gotten used to this quirk of his and have started noticing other things about him. He has nice green eyes. He wears a surprising shell necklace. If you took off the hat and gloves, he'd look like a fairly cute surfer boy, actually.

Once he gets started, Thomas seems to get the idea: he's looking for someone who likes discussing old outboard motorboat engines, the first three seasons of
Doctor Who
, and listening to Iron Maiden. As he writes his list, I try not to fixate on Chad, but it's hard. Every time I glance over, he's looking at me.

At break time, he and I walk outside where it's cooler, which means both of us stick our hands in our pockets. “You're right about this work growing on you,” I say. “I'm starting to really like coming to this class.”

“And the exercises are things we could all think about, you know? What do you want your girlfriend to look like on the inside? I probably could have used someone asking me that question when I was in high school.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, though I wonder if I sound stupid. I still am in high school. “What did your people say they were looking for?” After I ask this, I realize I only saw Chad helping one person, Simon.

“Oh you know. The usual: someone who looks like Angelina Jolie.”

I want him to ask me the same question so I can tell him my favorite answer of the night, which wasn't even Ken's. It was Francine's, the bowling gold medalist who interviewed
Lucas our first night with this group. “I want to find someone who looks like me on the inside,” she said. “I'm a people person and a helper. I want to find someone like that.”

I thought it was so sweet, and then I realized: this is how I would describe myself—and what I'm looking for—too. It surprised me because she put it as well (or better) than I could have and made a simple point she didn't even intend: being disabled wasn't the main thing about her. There isn't time to tell Chad this story because Franklin pokes his head out and tells us class is starting again.

“We'll be right there,” I tell Franklin because I don't want to go back right away. I keep thinking about Richard saying he wanted to be brave for once in his life. I want this, too. The words are out of my mouth before I've thought much about them: “So, Chad, do you want to have lunch sometime?”

He looks surprised, but in a good way, I think. I fill in quickly. “I want to see your school. I'm thinking about applying there for next year.”

“Sure,” he smiles. “When?”

I wonder if saying tomorrow would be too soon. I'd like to, though. I'd like to cut my class before and leave Richard alone for a lunch period so we both have our mysteries we're not sharing with each other. “Would tomorrow be okay? That's my freest day at school.”

“Tomorrow?” Chad checks his phone, which makes me wonder if he doesn't remember his class schedule this late in the year or if he has so many lunch dates with girls he has to write them down or he'll lose track. “Tomorrow's great!” he says.

I float through the rest of class grinning, until the end, when Mary says, “Emily, would you mind staying behind for a minute?”

“Sure.” I turn to Lucas, who's waiting by the door. “I'll meet you at the car.”

“I just wanted to talk a little about your work in this class,” Mary says when we're alone. “You've been a wonderful addition so far. You've got a light touch and good instincts. Some people are afraid to be themselves around these folks or make any jokes for fear they might say something wrong. You're not like that, which is nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, though I can tell that she hasn't asked me to stay behind to say this.

“One thing we've discovered about having volunteers in our classes is that we can never predict who will be good with this group. Sometimes we get college students in here who've had a lot of classes in special ed and they just don't have good instincts for engaging our students. They talk to them like they're children, which they aren't. In fact, that's the whole
point
of the class, and they never really get it.”

My heart speeds up as I try to imagine where this conversation is headed.

“I'll admit I was a little wary about taking you and Lucas on as volunteers. I thought it was too risky in a class where we explore such sensitive topics, but we were two sessions in and we had no volunteers and the class doesn't work as well without a few. So I said fine, we'd see how you did. If it didn't work, we'd move you over to ballroom dancing or a different class. I watched both of you carefully those first weeks. You, of course, shine doing
improv scenes. I love the way you push the other person just enough by adding surprise elements, but you don't take it too far. You intuit how much challenge each person can handle. But here's the thing—”

Suddenly I have a feeling she's about to tell me Lucas isn't working out. This whole class, he was quieter than usual. True, he helped other students with their lists, but twice Mary called on him and he barely responded. I think of what he's been through this week, of the pain he's in with his leg and the effort he made to come even though he could have called in sick. I also think about what I said before he got out of the car. Lucas might not look like he cares, I want to tell her, but he does. More than she might realize. Thinking this makes me feel even worse for what I said earlier in the car, presuming he wouldn't care about college if he couldn't play football. He cares about things besides football. I know that.

“Over the years we've learned a few things about the people who volunteer here. Some do it because they're compulsive do-gooders. Other people—like you and Lucas—are here because you're required by your schools. Others are here, whether they realize it or not, because they're wrestling with some of the same issues our students are. Social skills, anxiety, making connections. Sometimes those people can be great contributors to the group. We let certain people come back because we can see they need this group, too.”

I don't understand.

“I'm talking about Chad. He was a volunteer we would not have invited back, but he wanted to come and his
mother called and asked if we would agree to take him back and we did. With some hesitation, I should add.”

“Why?”

“He can be a little distracted in class. I've noticed you were getting friendlier with him in class and I just thought I'd tell you, we had a few problems last time where he hurt some people's feelings, so I'm trying to have him work less one-on-one with students.” She looks at me as if she's waiting for a reaction. “Does this surprise you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I thought you were going to say Lucas wasn't working out.”

“Lucas? Oh no, he's fine. I think he's doing a pretty good job so far.”

“You do?”

“He's got different instincts from yours, but no, his are pretty good, too. He has a nice way of interacting with each person at their own level. You've both surprised me, I have to admit. These are qualities you can't really teach people. With Chad, it hasn't come naturally. That doesn't make him a bad person—I'm sure he's probably a very nice guy—it only means he probably shouldn't be working with this population in the future.”

N
AN DOESN
'
T SAY ANYTHING
the whole drive over to school. I am wearing one of her prettiest dresses, with a belt and a flower print and a lace collar. It also has a hole in
the side that we tried to sew up but Mom couldn't finish in time so I have a safety pin under my armpit. It tickles but I told her it's okay.

Mom is sitting in the front seat next to Nan and I'm in the back. It's nice to see Mom dressed in real clothes with a purse in her lap. She looks pretty. I don't know if she's nervous but she probably is. I wonder if Mr. Johnson, the principal, will remember her from when she was in high school, before she dropped out. Maybe he will and they'll fall in love. I don't know if he's married or if that's even possible but I like imagining other people in love. I picture Mr. Johnson looking up and smiling when he sees Mom in the doorway. I picture him saying, “Lauren, is that you?”

I imagine Mom saying, “Yes, it is. Hello, Mr. Johnson.”

That's not what happens, though. Instead everyone in the office is surprised to see me and asks why no one called to let them know I'd be coming in.

The whole ride here Nan didn't say anything because she doesn't think me coming back here is a good idea. Now suddenly Nan is on our side again. “She's still a student at this school, isn't she? Since when do students have to call ahead to let you know they're coming?”

Ms. Swanson, the secretary, gives me a hug and says maybe I should wait in the nurse's office while she makes some calls. First we talk to Ms. Sa-something who is a guidance counselor. Then we talk to another counselor. Then we talk to Mr. Welding, who is dean of students. “We want to make sure this transition back into school is as smooth as possible, that's all,” Mr. Welding says. He blinks a lot when he says this, like there's something in his eye.

As we go from office to office, the people I know from delivering their mail a few weeks ago look like they're scared to say hi. Maybe they don't recognize me because I look so different. Maybe they think I'm someone else. I want to wave and say, “Hi! It's me, Belinda,” but Nan holds one of my arms and Mom holds the other. Finally they tell me what's been decided: I won't go back to my old classroom or my old schedule because they don't want to put too much pressure on me too soon.

“Let's ease back into things, shall we?” says Mr. Welding. “We know Belinda likes being in our main office here, so why don't we keep her here for the first week or so and see how it goes? She can stay in the nurse's office for the time being.”

This sounds exciting, I think. Maybe I can be a nurse's assistant. Then I try to picture what I'll do and I can't. The nurse's office doesn't have any mail to deliver. They have some recycling but not a lot. “What will I do?” I ask.

He doesn't look up from the paper he's reading. “Well, for now, whatever you'd like to do, Belinda. Maybe we can set you up with some books and some paper and pens. Your grandmother has made it clear that she doesn't want you to go back to the Life Skills room, where you had some trouble with a few boys. She wants you in a substantially separate situation, so this is what we can come up with on short notice. It won't be forever, I promise.”

Now I know what this is about. I thought maybe Nan forgot, but she hasn't. The last time I was at school, I got in a terrible fight with two boys in my classroom, Anthony
and Douglas. Maybe Nan doesn't want me in the same room with them or maybe they think it was my fault and they don't want me back. That's why she's saying no to my old classroom for me.

I say, “What about my job?”

He looks confused. “What job?”

I say, “My
job
.” I'm scared I might start to cry. “I deliver the mail at ten every day and I sort recycling on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It's my
job.
”

“Hold on just a minute. Let me ask about that.” He gets up from behind his desk and steps out of the room.

While he's gone I don't say anything. I also don't look at Mom or Nan. I'm too scared if I do I'll start to cry.

When he comes back in, he claps his hands. “Well, there's some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that we've got some other folks doing Belinda's old job with the mail and all that.”

“Who?” I say. My voice sounds shaky. I shouldn't bother trying not to cry because I know I will.

“I'm not sure exactly.” He looks down at a piece of paper. “I think their names are Anthony and Doug, maybe.”

“Douglas,” I say. Now I'm really crying. I can't help it. Nan's lips go thin. She'll hug me later I know but she doesn't like making scenes in public. She thinks it's important to put on a good face. Mom hugs me and I cry into her shoulder.

“You've been out of school for six weeks, Belinda. That doesn't mean we can't find a different job for you, but it's important for you to know that yes, some things will be
different. We're happy to have you back. We can promise that you'll be safe, but you have to understand that some things will be a little different.”

I can't stop crying. I don't even know why. I just can't.

He lets me cry for a while and then he asks, “Do you still want to come back?”

Everyone waits for me to say something. I'm embarrassed but I have to wipe my nose on my mother's shirt, I have no choice. “Yes,” I say. “I still want to come back.”

“
I
SN
'
T THIS GREAT
?”
C
HAD
says. Late last night, he texted me to meet him at a Mexican restaurant across from his school. The place is weirdly dirty and full of college students. Everyone seems to be shouting at someone across the room but no one is talking to the person sitting next to them. I don't really get it. A few minutes after we walk in, Chad is doing it, too. “'Ritas on Thursday, man!” he calls to someone across the room who is talking on a phone but gives him a thumbs-up.

“Yeah!” I say a little breathlessly. “It's great!”

They don't really have a menu, it turns out. The counter person has to tell you what kind of tacos they have that day. If you understand what he's saying, you order one of the choices, but I don't, so I say, “That sounds good,” to whatever Chad has just ordered.

There are only four small tables, so after we get our food we stand at a counter along the wall with about ten
other people. Chad says hi to everyone who squeezes past us, though it's not always clear if he knows them or not. “Do you come here a lot?” I say after we've gotten our food and our salsas and are finally eating.

“Not really,” he says, biting into a taco. “Everyone just talks about it a lot. I've only been here once before.”

When I ask him to tell me about the classes he's taking, he says, “Here's the thing. I didn't really want to go to college, but my parents said if I didn't, I have to get a job, so that's pretty much why I'm here.”

“Oh,” I say. “So what made you pick Fairfield?”

He shrugs as if he has no answer for this. “Most of my friends from high school were going, so I figured why not?”

“Is it like high school? Do you still see your old friends a lot?”

“Actually, no. I wish it was more like high school. Mostly we just come here for classes. The parties are still at our parents' houses because no one lives in a dorm. That's the bad part. If I were you, I'd definitely find a college with dorms. That would be way more fun.”

I try to imagine what Richard would say if he were here. “What classes are you taking?”

“I guess that's a good thing about Fairfield. It doesn't really matter what classes you take because you don't have to try for a degree. So it's fine to do all art classes or whatever.”

“Is that what you take? Art classes?”

“No. I don't know why I said that. I'm taking one web design class because someone said you design video games,
but that's not true so I think I might drop that one.”

As he keeps going through his classes—each one a random disappointment—I have a strange realization: this must be what conversation at the popular table is like. When I ask him what he does on the weekends, he smiles and says, “Same things I've always done. Whatever. Have fun.”

By the end of lunch he seems so casual about everything, I have to ask: “Why did you sign up to volunteer at LLC again?”

“Oh, that. My mom made me. She said she wouldn't pay for my gas anymore if I didn't get a job or at least volunteer for something.” He smiles. “So I picked volunteering.”

As we finish eating, I decide it's not that Chad is an awful person, he's just not a person I have much in common with. Plus, he's a little bit of an awful person. He does an imitation of Simon from our class that's more mean than funny and then starts talking about how Mary gets on his nerves. “That class could be twice as fun if she wasn't so serious all the time.”

“Well, it's kind of a serious subject,” I say.

He looks at me like he's not sure what I'm talking about. “Not really.”

“You don't think helping these folks learn how to navigate relationships is serious?”

“It's not like any of them are going to really date anyone, right? I mean, they'll make friends, sure. So why not make it a little lighter and friendlier, you know what I'm saying?”

Now he's making me mad. “You don't think these people are capable of having real romantic relationships?”

“Well—I guess I haven't thought about it that much, but no, not really. Do you?”

“Yes,”
I say more emphatically than I expected. “Look at Ken and Annabel. They got through a rough patch and now they're back together.”

“Yeah, I don't really like to think about that too much.”

He means sex. He doesn't want to think about them having sex.

We've left the restaurant and are standing in the parking lot now, next to my car. I wish I could tell him how wrong he sounds without seeming shrill and self-righteous, but I can't think of how to say it. Plus, we both need to get going. I have class in a few minutes and so does he, supposedly, though it's hard to tell if he's even planning to go. I thank him for lunch and get in my car before there can be any question of an awkward hug and then I realize something terrible: I left a door ajar and an overhead light on. My battery is dead. I turn the key a few times as if I'm hoping the car might change its mind and flicker on.

Chad takes a few steps away and turns around. “Everything okay?”

Obviously it isn't. I want to tell him I'll be fine, I just have to call one of my parents and wait for them to come, but then I remember—I have to get back for calculus, where I have a quiz starting in twenty-five minutes. “You don't have jumper cables, do you?”

“No,” he says.

Of course he doesn't. Chad doesn't know what classes he's taking now, why would he have jumper cables? I have to ask him for a ride back to school. I have no choice. He agrees, but he's a little annoyed, I can tell. If I miss the quiz, my shaky B minus will harden into a C and I'll never pull it back up.

We pull up to the school parking lot and Chad checks his phone for any new texts.

“So thanks again,” I say.

“Oh, sure,” he says, reading his phone.

“And thanks for the ride. I'm so sorry about my car. That was stupid—”

He still doesn't look up. I'm not sure if I should get out of the car without at least making eye contact, but just as I pull the handle on the door, there's a knock on the window.

“HI, YOU TWO!” It's Lucas, smiling like he thinks it's hilarious that he's caught me in Chad's car, skipping class. “School's not out yet, Em.”

I open the door and quickly get out. “I know that, Lucas. He's dropping me off.”

When I'm out of the car, Chad pulls away quickly.

“So, wow. That wasn't weird at all,” Lucas says after Chad's gone. He's still smiling.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I've got study hall. The proctor let me come out here to get a book I forgot. Remember? I'm a stupid football player so I have a cushy schedule where tutors hold my hand and nothing much is asked of me. Some days I hardly
go to class at all.” I assume he's talking about the conversation we had in my car. I feel terrible all over again about what I said. We start walking in together. “Kind of like you, Em, by the looks of it.”

“I'm sorry for what I said before. I should never have said that.”

He stares at me. It's hard to tell if he's kidding anymore.

“I was just trying to say that college isn't the right thing for everyone. I hate when all these teachers assume your life is over if you don't go to college. They don't even acknowledge that a lot of successful people don't go to college. That's all I meant.”

“I guess I hate it when everyone assumes that football players are too stupid to understand that college could be about something more than playing football.”

“I didn't mean that, but I know it might have sounded that way.”

As we walk inside, he holds open the door for me. “So what were you doing out there with Mr. College anyway? Cutting class is kind of an unusual choice for you, right?”

I don't feel quite so embarrassed anymore. It's funny—in some ways, Lucas is starting to feel like an old friend. The way old friends can get prickly sometimes. And also know you a little too well. “I actually cut
two
classes just now,” I whisper. “I've never done that before.”

“Then you probably haven't heard,” he whispers back, in my ear. “If you write a fake note, you won't get in trouble.” The bell rings, meaning we've got three minutes to get to class.

“See, I never would have thought of that! Thank you so much, Lucas!”

He smiles in a way that I hardly ever see. “Here to help.”

We're staring at each other now and I'm not even sure why. I really need to get to class. I made Chad drive me back because I didn't want to miss calculus, but here I am not moving. “So will you need a ride to class next week?” I say. One of us needs to say something to end this staring/smiling contest.

“Yeah, actually. The doctor says I still can't drive.”

“Okay. I'll call you,” I say, taking a few steps backward. And then it turns out we're heading up the same hallway. We both laugh a little because now we've got a few more minutes to talk.

“So, what—are you dating Mr. College now?”

“No,” I say, though I like the idea of Lucas thinking I might be. “We're just friends.”

“Okay, so has he told you why he's still wearing flip-flops even though it's fall and pretty cold out?”

This surprises me. These are the jokes I would expect Richard to make. “Not yet. We haven't gotten to the part where we talk about our shoe choices yet.”

“Better hurry up,” he says. “Winter's coming.”

I don't understand why I'm still blushing two minutes later, after I've walked into calculus and am sitting in front of Richard, who slides a note under my elbow within seconds.
What's up?
it says.
Where were you at lunch?

Sorry,
I write back.
I went out with Chad.

I'll tell him the truth sooner or later—that getting to
know the flesh-and-blood Chad has definitely ended my crush on the idealized version—but for now I don't say anything. It's enough for him to know he isn't the only person who has lunch dates now.

Then he surprises me. The paper reappears under my elbow.
Okay,
it says.
So what were you doing with Lucas Kessler just now?

What
was
I doing with Lucas Kessler just now? That little exchange—him getting mad and sticking up for himself, then walking me to class and teasing me about Chad—has stuck in my brain. I can't stop replaying it in my head. I remember once, when I was a freshman, overhearing Charlotte, the prettiest of the senior cheerleaders, complain that anytime she started a dating a boy, others suddenly cropped up and asked her out. “It's like they only notice me
after
they think I'm taken.” It was an absurd thing for a gorgeous girl to complain about, but maybe she had a point. As embarrassing as it was to have Lucas knock on the car window, I wonder if it means he's looking at me in a new way. So what if I don't actually like Chad—it looked like we were sort of on a date. Maybe this explains why Lucas and I stood in the hall staring at each other for so long.

Of course my friends won't see it this way. They see Lucas as someone who not only failed to help Belinda but stopped me from helping her and still felt fine giving me half the blame. I know I have to tell Richard the truth at some point—I have to tell
all
my friends—but now isn't the time, especially when we walk out of class and I see something up the hall that makes my stomach jump.

It's Belinda Montgomery, standing by herself outside of the nurse's office.

She looks so different it's possible it's not even her. She's thinner, and her hair is longer, but I can tell it's her by the way she holds her chin up. I remember this quirk: she always holds her chin up because if she looks down, her glasses fall off. I put my hand on Richard's arm. “Do you see who's up ahead?”

He squints in the direction I point. “No.”

“Look again.”

Richard has terrible eyesight, but he refuses to wear his glasses outside of the classroom. “I'm having a hard time figuring out what you're pointing at.”

“It's Belinda Montgomery,” I say. “Only she looks different. She's thinner. And she's wearing a funny dress. It's old-fashioned, like a costume or something.” Her dress makes her look like someone's mother. “What should I do?”

We get a little closer and I can see that she looks terrible. She's lost so much weight that her face looks completely different. Even her glasses are too big now. I feel like I've been waiting for this moment for more than a month, planning what I'll say:
I'm sorry, Belinda. I don't know if anyone can make it up to you but I want to try. I'd like to be your friend
.

“What are you doing?” Richard says when I start toward her.

“I'm going to talk to her.”

“I'm not so sure about that—”

I cut him off. “I
have
to talk to her.”

I leave him behind and walk straight up to her,
surprisingly unafraid, as if these weeks of being in Boundaries and Relationships, of improvising as a bolder person, has made me one. “Hi, Belinda,” I say. “I'm so glad you're back. We all are.”

She turns and studies me, as if it takes her eyes a while to adjust and register who I am. I wonder if I should remind her of my name and the plays we did in Children's Story Theater. Then I think of how she memorized everyone's lines in every play we ever did and I suspect she needs no reminders.

She stares at me for a long time without saying anything. In that terrible moment, I flash on a different memory from my first week of high school back in ninth grade. A memory so awful I've managed to forget it until now. But Belinda hasn't, I know. Her development may be delayed, but her memory is fine.