Don't Fall (14 page)

Anya

The next morning I crept downstairs. I didn’t know if she was ready to talk yet; neither one of us had brought it up. We’d spent a week carefully avoiding each other, but I couldn’t wait any longer. When I stepped into the dining room, she sat at the table, newspaper in hand and coffee on the table.

She didn’t even lower the paper to look at me.

“Good morning,” I said softly.

“Good morning.” Still the newspaper didn’t move. I couldn’t see her face, but her voice seemed calm. Normal.

“Mom, I’m so sorry about—”

“Just one second,” she said, holding up a finger. “I’m in the middle of an article. Why don’t you go get some breakfast?”

I stared at her, or rather at the local paper, waiting for her to say something, anything more. When she didn’t, I stepped into the kitchen. I opened and shut cupboard doors, but my stomach turned, making it clear it would not be accepting anything right now. I went back to the dining room and sat across from her. After a while, she set the paper down on the table, looked at me for a moment, then glanced at her watch.

“Oh dear, I have to go or I’ll be late. I’ll be calling to check in, and Mrs. Marsh might come by later.” I knew she would. She’d checked on me every day since Mom went back to work. Always at a different time. Always a little embarrassed, pity for me in her eyes.

My mother headed toward the front door, swung it open, and walked out.

I spent the day practicing what I’d say at dinner. There had to be a way to sufficiently express how sorry I was and convince her to give Zander a chance. I wrote out my best arguments and recited them aloud over and over until I had them memorized, stopping only when Mrs. Marsh came to check on me.

When Mom got home, I was ready.

“What would you like for dinner?” she asked, leaning around the door of my room.

I took a deep breath, hoping to draw in courage along with the air. “Mom, don’t you think we should talk?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” she said, straightening up and stepping into my room. Her eyes darkened and my body shook, but I couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Zander. I was scared you wouldn’t approve, but I should have told you. I shouldn’t have sneaked around.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin, looking down her nose at me.

“I know. And I’m sorry, I am, but I think if you met Zander you’d—”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But why?”

“There is no need for me to meet him because you will not be seeing him again.” Her voice was hard and sure, not shaking like mine.

“But Mom,” I started, stepping closer to her.

“There will be no buts, Anya. You hardly know this boy—”

“But I do know him.” I pushed the words out though my throat was tight and my body trembled.

“Don’t be so naive. You just met him. Just because he has a nice face and beautiful words doesn’t mean he really cares about you. You trust too easily.”

“You don’t know him!” I snapped back. “Just because you’ve had bad experiences doesn’t mean all men are bad, either. You can’t judge him; you don’t even know him!”

“
You
don’t know him!” she shouted back.

“Yes I do!”

She took a deep breath. “Anya, you are young. You can’t possibly understand the danger that exists in this world. A boy who would convince you to lie, to sneak around, is not to be trusted.”

“Zander didn’t want to sneak around. He wanted me to tell you. But I knew you’d never let me see him. I knew you’d overreact!”

“So this is my fault?” Her eyebrows arched, her hand touching her chest. “The fact that you could blame this whole disaster on me is proof of your immaturity.”

She twisted my words, and my stomach with them. “I didn’t mean—”

“Someday you will understand, Anya. Someday, when you are a mother yourself, you will understand why I will do anything to protect you. Even if it means making you hate me now.”

She walked out, shutting the door behind her. “I don’t hate you,” I whispered. And I didn’t. I still wanted to please her, make the worry lines in her face disappear. I knew if she’d only give Zander a chance, she would understand that he was no one to fear.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Zander

It was moving day. I called Shannon, since I wouldn’t be able to make it to the library, and she said Anya’s mom hadn’t picked up the book yet, anyway. My note was still there. I kind of had a feeling Shannon had read it, but given the circumstances, I figured there was no point in complaining. I needed her help. Besides, I doubted she’d fess up anyway.

I packed what I thought I would need into two big suitcases and left the rest in my room. The note from Anya was carefully tucked into one of my books for safe keeping.

My mom bought me a bunch of crap for the apartment, like cereal bowls, silverware, and a broom. Boring stuff she knew I wouldn’t think of on my own. My dad carried the boxes out to my car while I lugged the suitcases.

“Do you want me to help you unpack?” Mom asked, standing next to the driver’s side door, blocking me from getting in.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. Blake will be there, and we don’t have a lot to unpack.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. Her eyes watered, and I resisted the urge to roll mine.

“Mom.” I put my hands on her shoulders. She was considerably shorter than me; every once in a while it still took me by surprise. “I’m moving across town, not across the country. I’ll see you soon.”

“I know, I know.” She nodded and smiled, her eyes still wet. I leaned down and hugged her.

“You know you can stop by whenever you want.”

She sniffed into my shoulder. “Okay. I will.” She pulled away and wiped her tears. My dad walked over and put his arm around her shoulder while I got in the car and drove away, waving at them out the window.

When I got to the apartment, Blake was already there unpacking.

The crap started the moment I stepped through the door. “Okay, I’m officially your roommate now. When do I get to meet the girl?”

I groaned and jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter. Blake unpacked pictures in the living room, a good four feet away, and kept talking. “Hey, I need to know if she’s good enough for my cousin. I’m just looking out for you. I care about you,” Blake said, hand to heart and eyes filled with fake sincerity.

“You’re such a girl sometimes.”

A piece of wadded up newspaper came flying by my head, nowhere near hitting me. “See, you throw like a girl, too.”

“You’re such a tool.”

We unpacked most of our stuff, shoving things in cupboards and drawers and figuring out all the things we were still missing, even with my mom’s help. We’d both packed towels, but no washcloths. We had silverware, but no silverware tray. I had no problem just tossing it all in the drawer, but Blake said no.

“Okay, tomorrow I’ll go shopping. Do you want to go with, or just give me cash?”

“Cash.” I had zero interest in shopping.

I sat on our dingy, hand-me-down couch and looked around the apartment. Classes didn’t start for another couple weeks, and I had nothing to do but sit around and miss Anya, wondering if she’d gotten my note and waiting for her to respond. “Actually, maybe I will go with you.”

Anya

When my mom told me my book was in, I got so excited she actually kind of, sort of, smiled at me. We hadn’t talked about it again. She avoided the subject like fish avoid land, and I figured it was best to give her time to calm down. Or, I was scared to talk to her. I tried to convince myself it was the former.

When she mentioned the book, I couldn’t help but grin. She must have thought I was finally getting over my sulking and anger, and getting excited about something again. And I was. But not something she’d approve of.

I waited for Zander’s letters eagerly, needing them like oxygen. They kept me going, waiting for the stand-off between my mother and me to come to an end.

Mom came into my room and handed the book to me, and I pulled together all my self-control to keep myself from bouncing up and down, which might have seemed a bit suspicious. But as soon as the door clicked shut behind her, I bounded to my bed and fanned the pages until a folded sheet of paper fell onto my soft green bedspread. I squealed and scooped it up.

Dear Anya,

You are absolutely worth waiting for, however long it takes. No more apologies. Deal?

The library is lonely without you. The books pout on their shelves. The desks sulk and slouch, making it very difficult to write. I try to reassure them you’ll be back soon, but it just isn’t the same without you.

I went to Baby Cakes yesterday, thinking it might cheer me up to look at the pictures you took. I got a tiramisu cupcake because it made me think of you, but it tasted like coffee and sadness, so I threw it out.

I heard a song that made me think of you. “Your mirth is medicine. Defeat my plight with your delight.” I’m sick without you, Anya, and your smile and your touch are the only things that can cure me.

Thinking of you (basically nonstop,)

Zander

Chapter Twenty-Four

Zander

Dear Zander,

You threw out a tiramisu cupcake? That is a tragedy in and of itself.

As far as the books go, tell them I know how they feel. I’ve been quite pouty myself lately. I stare at your photograph and sigh a lot, like some sort of sad, pathetic heroine from an old novel. All I need now are ringlets and a fainting couch to complete the picture.

Clearly you are something I need, too, and without you my light is fading. “When you shine, you shine the brightest, and all I can give back is my best.” You see, you’re the one who makes me shine. It’s simply a reflection of the joy you bring to me.

My mother will still hardly speak to me. If I even try to bring up the subject of you, of us, her face turns red and black smoke pours out of her ears. But it can’t go on like this forever. She has to forgive me and listen to reason, eventually. I hope.

In the meantime, I will continue to admire your photograph during the day and dream of you every night.

With all my love,

Anya

Anya

Dear Anya,

It is not fair that you have a picture of me, but I have none of you. I miss your beautiful face, your bright blue eyes, your sweet, full smile. I miss the way your cheeks get pink when you’re embarrassed. I miss the sparkle in your eyes when you get excited.

I miss your long legs, and the way you tuck your feet under yourself when you read. I miss the warmth of your skin and the feel of your hand in mine. I miss every inch of you. From your crown of braids, down to your cute little toes.

Thankfully, when I close my eyes I can see it all. You are still vibrant in my mind.

(But a photograph would be even better.)

Missing you to the point of distraction,

Zander

I refolded his note, carefully tucking it into one of my own books instead of the library book it came in. On the back he’d written
ps. I moved
, along with his new address. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t be visiting him any time soon.

I thought about what he’d said, about it being unfair that I had a picture and he didn’t. I was thankful to have photographs of him. I looked at them every day, when I woke up, before I went to sleep.

When I was feeling particularly down and missing him more than ever, I could pull up his photograph and trace the lines of his face. It was a small comfort, but one I was very happy to have.

I glanced at my camera, resting on one of my bookshelves. I hadn’t used it in a while, hadn’t been in the mood, but perhaps this would be an interesting distraction. I certainly liked the idea of doing something special for him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Zander

Shannon gave me an odd look when I came in. She held a book out to me, rather than just giving me the note like she normally did. I drew my eyebrows together, an unspoken question. She smiled and shook her head. “Just take it,” she said, waving it in front of my face.

I opened it as I walked toward the nonfiction side of the library, flipping the pages to find the note. It fell open to the right page, and I smacked my shoulder into the doorway, nearly dropping the damn book.

Shannon laughed behind me, and I could feel my ears getting hot. I quickly closed the book, hurried to the back of the library, sat on the floor between the bookshelves, and reopened it. A black and white photograph of Anya sat between the pages.

She had clearly taken the picture herself and had not been able to fit all of herself into the frame. It was a shot of her long, smooth legs stretched out in front of her, one foot resting on top of the other. The light came from the left, so the skin on that side practically glowed while the other side lay in shadows. My pulse raced and my blood warmed.

Underneath it was another shot, this one of her hand on her chest, just below her throat. Her head was turned away from the camera, but the light caught the delicate angle of her jaw. The profile of her lips skimmed the top corner of the photograph, and I was glad they hadn’t been cropped out of the picture.

On her wrist was the bracelet I’d given her for her birthday.

In the last picture, she leaned over the camera, and her long hair hung loose, falling all around her and filling the edges of the frame. Her lips were curled up in a sad sort of smile that didn’t quite look right on her normally cheerful face.