A Step Toward Falling (7 page)

I asked anyway because the question was important to me. “Have you ever seen
Pride and Prejudice
?”

Everyone laughed like I was trying to make a joke. I wasn't, though.

“Go on, Ron,” one of the girls said. “Tell her. Have you seen it?”

“Ah, no. I don't think so.”

This explained a lot to me. It explained why he didn't understand how to dance. Or what to do after our dance was over. Watching
Pride and Prejudice
has taught me those things. He didn't know them yet. “You should,” I said. And then, because I didn't want to be impolite, I said, “All of you should.”

Actually I didn't care what these girls watched. I only cared about Ron.

“O-KAY!” he said. He smiled big and clapped his hands. “I will!”

I felt happy. I felt too happy and shy right then to look directly at his face. I was scared if I did I might explode from happiness.

“I gotta go, Belinda, okay?” he said. “But I'll let you know when I've watched it.”

Then I felt even happier because it was the first time he ever said my name out loud. I wasn't sure if he knew it, but now I was sure—he did! And he didn't make any of the mistakes people sometimes make, saying Melinda or Lucinda or some other rhyming name which happens a lot. He said it perfectly. Belinda.

Like he'd thought about it and was saving the first time he said it for a special occasion. Which this was. So I said his name which I knew because after our dance I stood behind him when he went back over to his friends to talk to them.

They said, “Ron, man, look out behind you.”

They meant me. I'd followed him across the room after he walked away. I didn't want him to leave too quickly. At first I thought his name was Ronman but later, when I told the whole story to Rhonda, my speech therapist, she said no, if he was on the football team he was probably Ron Moody. “With red hair? And a big nose? That's Ron Moody.”

She made a face like she was thinking something about him. “He's a wonderful dancer,” I told her. “He asked me to dance at the Best Buddies social and he talked to me afterward.”

“Okay,” she said.

“He wanted to be my buddy but I said no. A boy can't be a girl's buddy.”

“You know you have to be careful with someone like Ron,” Rhonda said.

“I know,” I said. I think she meant that I should be careful with my heart. She was being sisterly toward me, like Lizzie and Jane are sisterly to each other in
Pride and Prejudice.

B
Y THE
F
RIDAY OF
homecoming weekend, football mania at our school has escalated to new heights. Everyone is dressed in blue and gold. Even in my AP classes, girls have painted stars on their faces or
GO BLUE
on their notebooks.

I haven't been to any of the last three games and I've already decided I won't go tonight, even though Lucas is done with his suspension and will be playing. In theory, if he's going back to a game, I could, too. Not that Lucas and I have talked about this. We still don't speak to each other at school. I only know he's playing because I overheard my calculus teacher say he was happy Lucas Kessler was coming back this week because our defense really needs him.

By the end of the day, I can't wait to leave the six-hour pep rally school has just felt like. I head out to the parking lot to see which of my friends is waiting beside my car. I'm
the only one in my group who regularly drives to school, which doesn't mean I'm a good driver; it means none of my friends has access to a car. Most days we have a litany of jokes about activating the airbags before we take off to make the drive more relaxing for everyone. Even so, I'm apparently better than the bus. Today the whole group is waiting for a ride.

Even this crowd—which includes Candace, a National Merit Scholar, and Barry and Weilin, first and second chair violin players in our orchestra—has fallen under the spell of football mania. As I pull out of the parking lot, they sit in the backseat debating their favorite players. Candace loves Ron Moody because he's a redhead and, according to her, “Redheads have the best sense of humor. It's been scientifically proven.” Candace has short red hair herself. If she weren't so gifted academically, she told me once, she'd skip college altogether and be a stand-up comedian.

Barry says, “That is—literally—the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” as he brushes an eyelash from Weilin's cheek. Barry and Weilin have been dating for two years. They're the most mature high school couple any of us knows, which sometimes gives me hope and sometimes makes me feel even worse about myself.

“No, it's true. I've heard that, too,” Richard says, from the front seat beside me. Because I drop him off last, he always rides shotgun.

“What do you mean, you heard it?” Barry snaps. “It's completely unscientific. How do you
measure
sense of humor? You can't. It's a retarded notion.”

For years this has been a standard insult I've heard often, but I'm shocked at how wrong this suddenly sounds to me. I think about Simon and Sheila and Francine puzzling over their
Jeopardy!
questions and I feel like he's just insulted all of them. “You shouldn't use that word, ‘retarded.' You know that, right, Barry?”

Barry looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I don't get why that word is so bad. What word are we supposed to say instead?”

“‘Developmentally disabled.'”

“Candace saying redheaded people are scientifically proven to be funnier isn't retarded, it's developmentally disabled?”

“No, the idea is stupid. The people are developmentally disabled.”

Barry nods like he's considering this and then shakes his head. “I still don't get it. It's a pretty useful word that means stupid. I'm not talking about any person. I'm saying it's a retarded idea. Why is that so bad?”

“Because it's insulting and for years it was how we defined a whole group of people.” It's strange—I don't know why, but it's not hard for me to speak up on this topic. “It's no different than using gay to describe someone doing something weird. Except think about how it's usually used:
Don't be gay.
” I've gotten so caught up with my argument, I've almost driven the car onto a curb. Richard holds a nervous hand near the wheel to help me correct.

“So what should I say to an idea like redheads are scientifically proven to be funnier?”

“Say it's stupid.”

“Fine. It's stupid.”

“So, Em, I've been thinking about this punishment of yours,” Candace says after I've dropped Weilin off. “I think there's a way you can get back at Freak the Mighty.” I know who she means, of course. After I told my friends what happened under the bleachers, she coined this nickname for Lucas and uses it as often as she can.

“Get back at him for
what
?” I say.

“
Hello?
For not doing anything. For getting you in trouble. You should play mind games on him in class. Pass him notes like they're from another student.”

I can't tell if this is one of her bad jokes. “Why would I do that?”

“To freak him out. Mess with his head. Those football guys and their cheerleaders have no capacity to deal with anyone outside their circle.”

Richard rolls his eyes. Even Barry has to say, “The thing is, Candace, sometimes you forget that other people are human beings.”

“Not everyone, Bear. Not everyone.”

“I don't think I'm going to do that, Candace,” I say.

After I drop the others off, Richard doesn't say anything for a long time. Finally he gives me a strange look and asks, “Is everything okay? With this class and all that?”

“The class is
fine.
I sort of like the class, actually. I don't get why everyone's acting like I need to get back at Lucas, that's all.”

“I don't think everyone's saying that. It's possible they
think it's a little strange that you're not coming to the game tonight. You're
allowed
to go, you know. The point of doing your punishment is that then you're allowed to stop punishing yourself. Plus there's the homecoming dance.”

Because his suspension is over, Lucas will probably go to the dance, too. Even so, I've decided to stay home from all of it. Belinda still hasn't come back to school. No one knows what's going on, or if they do, they won't tell us. She may be gone for good. Though she's older than us—people in her classroom stay in school until they're twenty-two—this is her last year of high school. It doesn't feel right to go through these rituals as if nothing's changed in my life when hers has stopped completely.

“I don't want to go, Richard, but don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

He studies me carefully. “Are you getting together with Chad?”

I haven't had the heart to tell Richard what happened last week in class, which was pretty much nothing. Chad smiled at me a few times but I got nervous and shy and so did he. We worked in separate groups and did no improvs together. At break time, he disappeared outside to make a phone call. At the end of class, he touched my shoulder and said, “See you next week!” I smiled and waved and said nothing at all. I don't even want to think about it.

“No,” I say. “I guarantee I won't be doing anything with Chad this weekend.”

As I pull up to his house, Richard seems happy to change the subject. “Okay, then can I tell you something
that's happening with me?”

“Yes, of course.”

He grins. “I'm thinking about asking someone on a date.”

I'm shocked. In the three years that Richard has been my best friend, he's never come close to actually dating someone. “Is it someone I know?”

“Well, it's someone
I
know. Does it matter if you know him?”

Yes,
I want to say.
It does matter.
My heart is suddenly hammering in my chest. I want to say:
Don't take risks, Richard. I've tried it and it never turns out well.

“It's Hugh Weston,” he says, beaming.

I remember that name, but only vaguely. I had a class with him freshman year when he was 4'11" and wore different-colored corduroys every day of the week. “Hugh Weston is into guys?”

Richard rolls his eyes and looks away like I've said the wrong thing. “I'm not sure, okay? But we've become friends and I'm starting to think the possibility might be . . . I don't know. In the air. And I want to ask. Barry says I should.”

“You talked to
Barry
about this?” I can't believe he's talked to Barry before he's talked to me.

“Yes. He thinks it's a good idea. He reminded me that Weilin asked him out first and nothing would have ever happened if she hadn't because we're all such constitutionally overly cautious people. By the way, that includes you.”

Part of me wants to scream,
There's a reason we're overly
cautious! Look what happened to Belinda!

“I want to be brave for once before I leave high school. Is that such a crime?”

“You're brave all the time,” I point out. “You're the president of YAC. You stand up and make speeches in the middle of the cafeteria.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

I wish I could picture Hugh Weston in my mind as something other than a 4'11" ninth grader. “What class do you have with him?”

“Entrepreneurship.”

Now I really don't get it. Richard has done nothing but make fun of the people in his entrepreneurship class all semester, selling chocolate chip cookies every Friday in the cafeteria to raise money for a charity they haven't even picked yet. This group represents the opposite of everything we do for Youth Action Coalition. (Also in our mission statement: “We aren't fundraisers, we're consciousness-raisers. We believe minds are the most undervalued commodity of all.”) Has he been ridiculing the whole group so no one will suspect he's got a crush on one of them?

“Is he one of the cookie sellers?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, opening the car door and getting out. “Yes, all right? He's one of the stupid cookie sellers. Now, I'm not telling you any more.”

The next morning I'm still not sure what I said wrong, but I'm grateful when Richard calls to tell me about the game. “It was
great
,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “The
team played beautifully. I'm starting to think some of these guys really could play professionally someday. Did you know Ron Moody is getting scouted by Notre Dame?”

“No,” I say. By the enthusiastic, happy way he's talking about all this, it sounds like Hugh Weston was at the game.

“The bad part was Lucas Kessler got hurt. I mean, you probably don't care, but everyone else does. Turns out he's an important part of our defense. He played a great game before the injury. If he's out for the season, there's no question—we'll feel it.”

He sounds so unlike himself I want to tell him to stop, but I don't. Hugh must be a real football fan. “He might be out for the season?”

“That's what they're saying. They had to carry him off on a stretcher. Everyone said he probably tore his ACL.”

I try to imagine this. Suspended for three games, Lucas finally he gets back in to play only to have the rest of the season taken away? It's terrible. It really is.

On Monday at school, I see Lucas in the hallway, standing with crutches and a huge brace Velcroed over thin exercise pants. I wish we'd had more than a handful of conversations—most of them bad—under our belts so I could tell him how sorry I am. I wish he knew me well enough to know that I mean it.

Later that afternoon, I get my chance. I'm standing at my locker with Richard before calculus, a class we forced each other to sign up for and now we both dread. However good it looks on a college application, it isn't worth the agony we endure slogging through it. Over Richard's
shoulder, I see Lucas with one of his teammates. Except for our terse exchanges around the DC meetings, we've never talked in school. Ever. If we pass in the hallway, we pretend we don't see each other. But today feels different.