How I Fall (13 page)

I’m sputtering, still choking inside on the word
handicap
. Did she not get the memo? You’re not supposed to use that word anymore. No one’s supposed to use that word any more. Yet today, it’s all I’ve heard from people. People who should know better!

“I’m going to inform Cam of how he’s supposed to interact and watch over your safety needs for the duration of the project. Would you like to call him up now and help me have that discussion?”

I shake my head. “No. No. And no,” I say, still searching for a way out. “How about asking me if I could line up my own helper? Someone I might welcome? I’ve already been working on Patrick and he’s almost agreed to it. I choose him instead. He needs the same community service hours Cam Campbell needs.”

“Patrick’s welcome to work on the project. The specifications for WOA have a max of four teens per submission, so he’d be your fourth. Add him in if you must.”

She crosses her arms in front of her. “This is non-negotiable.”

I nod, because it’s all I can do. Anything else will have me bawling.

“Good.” Miss Brown goes on, with her this-conversation-is-over look. “Laura London told me that you all three were already friends thanks to some
magical destiny
type event on the bus ride this morning. Is that so?” She’s smiling, trying to change the subject. “She’s quite a charming character, isn’t she?”

When I don’t answer again, Miss Brown frowns. She hands me a fat envelope. “These are copies of Cam’s photos from his Light and Shapes project. His shots are the best I’ve seen besides your work, of course. Study his eye for drama. He’s amazing at textures and lighting, too. There’re a few in here that just blew me away.”

“You’re kidding, right? I don’t have to look at two hundred footballs perched on turf to know what I think,” I choke out.

She leans forward, speaking very low, “I—I’m shocked you are taking this so badly. I set it up mostly because I feel sorry for Cam, not for you. People are not always what they seem on the surface. You, of all people, should know that. And,” she blinks pointedly at me, “You’ve unfairly judged that poor boy.”

I feel my face flush bright red. “Really? Really? Now you’re calling Mr. Have Everything Camden Campbell a
poor boy
?”

“Really.”

I turn and look at Cam and Laura. Somehow Cam’s made it out of the classroom during my talk with Miss Brown. He’s twirling what appears to be a third tiger beanie on his finger. He and Laura have both put on their beanies, and they’re nodding like dorks so the giant google-eyes in the hats are also going up and down in unison. They’re grinning maniacally at me like they’ve hatched a plan to try and get me to crack up.

Laura’s making her hands into tiger claws, doing this silent roaring thing.

Cam, also making tiger hands, starts mouthing Katy Perry’s, ‘You’re gonna hear me ROAR’.

Instead of laughing, their antics make me want to cry more.

It’s time to beg.

“Please. Look at them. I can’t trust my whole future to those two. Please. Let me out of this. I’m sure this is going to ruin my life. We are all…obviously too…different.”

Miss Brown’s gaze goes over my head and she bites her lips when she sees their antics. “Differences will bring opposite perspectives on how those trees will photograph. This is a good thing. Camden and you have tons of common ground. You just don’t know it yet.”

“He and I will never have common ground.”

“You already do.”

“You’re ruining everything, you know that?”

“You can thank me for all of this later. I’ve got a class to teach.”

I glare and Miss Brown glares back. I turn away, unable to look at her anymore.

“Everyone’s got five minutes to upload,” Miss Brown calls out to the class. To my back, she says, “Please tell Cam I would like to speak to him next.”

I return to the work table but don’t sit. Instead, I give myself a little pep talk to force Miss Brown’s words out of my head:
You do not need anyone’s help. You do not have limitations. You are infinite. Powerful. Titanium. You are not handicapped…not that handicapped anyhow…you don’t even use a cane.

“All worked out?” Cam asks, looking up with a slight crease in his forehead when I don’t sit in the chair he’s pulled out for me. What? Does he think I NEED him to pull out that chair for me?

*Tries to hate him. Tries to hates his smiling eyes and those little eye crinkles. Tries even harder.*

“Uh.” I swallow, taking in Laura’s hopeful, smiling face next as I go on, “I—yeah. I—guess we are working the group project together, after all. Sorry if I overreacted.” I swallow down a lump of invisible sandpaper that’s crept up the back of my throat.

“Awesome!” Laura grins. “I can’t wait to get started. Here.” She hands me a slip of paper and a pen. “Write down your number, and we’ll give you ours.”

Because I can’t think of a way to deny her, I scrawl my cell number on the paper.

“I got your bus accessory for tomorrow.” Cam shoves the tiger beanie at me along with a piece of paper where he and Laura have already scrawled their own numbers for me.

Laura’s smile is so huge now I turn away as she says, “I can’t wait for the morning already. I’m so happy about today. And that I met you two. I was extra worried about coming all the way to Canada for the year. Thought no one would like me. And…it’s…just never been this easy for me to make friends. My mother was right. Everyone here is so nice! It’s all just going to be so
fun
, isn’t it?”

I pocket the paper, and shove the beanie and the copies of Cam’s photo assignment into my still damp messenger bag.

“Yeah. Um…about the fun bit…” I start, but hold back the fifty-five thousand word tirade that begins with:
I’m not into FUN. I’m into serious, hard work. And if either of you two screw up my awesome project, my life, my future, and every single dream I’ve ever had, I will personally take every hair on your heads and…and…I will…I will…completely…

I sigh, feeling my shoulders slump. It feels like I’m so tired from this day right now I’ll never be able to straighten them out again.

“Never mind…” I say finally because they and their stupid tiger beanie eyes are still blinking up expectantly at me.

“Go on then, Ellen. Take a seat so we can come up with a wee-little plan.” Laura pats the chair Cam’s been holding out for me this whole time.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my rolling stomach. “I’m going to the office. Something has hit me much harder than I thought from this morning’s fall. It’s like I can’t…can’t…get warm.”

That last part at least is not a lie because every inch of my body inside and out has suddenly gone ice cold.

“Do you need me to walk you there? I can—” Cam’s gaze clouds with worry and he’s already half to his feet as he goes on, “I can—
help
?”

Why did he have to use that stupid word?

“Please. No. Okay? No, I do not need—no thanks,” I grit out.

He sits back down like I’ve decked him. His kind consideration has filled me with guilt and shame, because he doesn’t even know he’s been assigned to watch over my lameness yet so all of my anger at him is undeserved and so unfair. Obviously none of this is his fault and now I’ve yelled at him like a jerk. I’m the one who falls down like a freak all the time, and I’m the one everyone always worries about. Worse, Cam’s wounded, slightly sad expression, combined with Laura’s confused and hurt-glitter-blinking thing is about to make my eyes spill over with the tears I’ve been trying to hide.

I catch Miss Brown’s second or third—or is this her zillionth—disapproving frown directed at me?

“I mean…thanks for offering. And thanks for all that you both did to help me today already. But…I can handle myself. And, besides you can’t leave.”

Cam’s folding his copy of the paper with all of our numbers on it into a mini, zigzagged fan, but pauses to raise one brow up high. “Why?”

“Miss Brown wants to talk to you about the project next, so you probably need to do that.” I shoot a small smile at Laura just as my throat starts to close up some. “We can make your ‘wee-little plan’ tomorrow. Okay?”

My voice wobbles at the end, so I quickly whip my face around and hide in my hair in case my face starts up the hateful lip-tremble thing it does when I’m about to cry.

I pretend to hear Laura’s answer and execute a small wave as I eye the clock, wondering if there’s a possibility my mom can convince Nash to come get me. If not, I’ll hide out with the nurse and wait until her shift is over then beg her to give me a ride home in her car.

At this point, there’s no way I’m getting back on the school bus. No way. No how and not even if I have to walk all the way home.

Without another glance at them, I slowly traverse through the chairs, avoiding sideways tilting messenger bags and lumpy packs hung on the chair backs. I also successfully miss tripping on the minefield of feet sticking out from under the work tables. It’s second nature to me to watch extra carefully for anyone who might suddenly stand and knock me off balance, but truthfully, I’m surprised when I’ve made it to the door still standing because I could hardly see a thing through the flood of tears I finally let spill down my cheeks as I step out into the hallway.

cam

“Throw the damn ball, son!” My dad’s voice always makes me grind my molars. “Are you on some sort of flipping
vacation?”

It’s the last thing I hear as blood and white noise rush into my head, because I know I’m not going to throw the ball. I’m going to tuck it under my arm and run away from my dad’s voice and head toward the goal line!

My eyes zoom to the defenders facing me. Adrenaline spikes. It has me easily tracking a run-line through the empty spaces between the opposing players.

I’m in the zone. Threading the needle. No problems.

Without dropping speed, I pull in one right shoulder, then cruise into a full body twist to the left. My cleats dig deep into the turf as I wrench away from a pair of grabbing hands and slide into, then out of, the next hole I see.

I feel my lungs expand and the muscles in my thighs stretch and pull, giving me needed speed. Flipping back to the right now, I end up in a crouch run to avoid Tanner Gold’s grab. Then I jump over someone’s leg as it strikes out to trip me. And I’ve gone from the 40, to the 20, to the 10! But as I’m running directly toward Patrick who’s heading up from the 5 at full speed, I don’t try to avoid him. Instead, I speed up.

I see his eyes flash in surprise and his giant form moves into tackle mode.

That’s when I choke, because I’m still unsure of my plan. Still unsure of how and when and where I’m supposed to do this. My head spins with doubt. Do I aim my throwing shoulder at him, hoping the impact of his monster-sized chest will crush and hopefully snap a few tendons around my rotator cuff? Or, should I let him hit me straight and rely on physics? His speed plus mine could create a head-on collision type incident that flings me into the ground somehow? Which choice will create a permanent effect? Which one is the better option?

But then, I’m thinking of the team and the dreams some of the guys have that are hinging on me. Thinking how I should wait until we qualify for the state championships.

Is this too soon?

Is this too obvious?

Is this even going to do anything for me beyond hurt like crazy?

I see a quick mirror of panic crossing Patrick’s face as he runs at me, going for the tackle. Then Ellen Foster’s face floats between us.

Best friend…Ellen’s best friend…what about working with Ellen?

I pull myself to the side, hoping I’m not too late.

Sounds crash back into my concentration. Whistles screech and screech from the sidelines. The coach and my dad—who’s the unpaid assistant coach—are going nuts. Patrick seems to have heard the whistles before I did so thankfully, he slows down just as I work my feet toward a stop. We slam together chest-to-chest but it’s not enough to bring either of us down. We’re face mask to face mask, both panting for air and eyeing each other.

He drops his hands and I can read the relief on his face. I figure my own face probably shows some regret about what just didn’t happen, but I cover it with a small smile and say, “Nice moves. You would have had me.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do with you though, so I’m glad they stopped the play.”

I hear my dad screaming his tirade of
‘dammits’
at the top of his lungs in a voice more frantic than I’ve heard in a long time, but I refuse to care. I toss the ball to Patrick as we traipse back to the line of scrimmage.

When I see my dad’s beet-red face, I realize letting Patrick hit me would have been unfair and uncool to the poor kid. I talk through my smile to Patrick. “Be prepared for my dad to yell at you for nothing. He flips when I almost get sacked.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I’m kind of getting used to his voice. Whether you almost get sacked or not, it seems he’s flipping out on you all the time, huh?”