How I Fall (2 page)

Of course I always did.

The Timbits generosity alone should have been enough to seal our friendship for good—because those tiny balls-of-addictive substance are
that
fresh and
that
good—but Patrick swears he wasn’t sure about my loyalties until the day I faked a spastic-limb-attack to soak a kid with a whole tin of Mandarin oranges after the kid called Patrick the Jolly Green Giant. I think I also shouted something like, “He’s not even green,
you dummy,
and now you’re the Mean Orange Bully,
so there
!” I’ve always sucked at fast comebacks.

I finally gave Patrick my permanent trust one week later. It was the day some kids thought it would be funny to take my crutches and leave me on a swing. Back then I couldn’t go across a room without crutches because my good leg was not strong like it is now.

No one noticed I was missing, either. Except Patrick.

He’d dashed back out to the playground while the teacher was calling the office for back up. He found me, dried my tears, and without a word, helped me to the office. They let him wait while the nurse bandaged the scrapes on my hands and knees. My mom, the principal, and Patrick were angry that I’d been stubbornly trying to crawl my way back inside instead of calling out for help. But later Patrick told me he understood. Said he would have done the same.

He’s never left me alone at recess ever again. Of course, we haven’t had recess for years, but the guy still tries to make sure I’m okay no matter where I am or where he is. I endlessly tell him I can take care of myself, but I know that it’s just his way. He’s still trying to keep that promise because that’s who he is as a person. His inspirational quotes and texts are some sort of over-compensating thing he’s developed because he can’t be near me all the time.

Last summer, Patrick got really lucky. He stopped being so clumsy, his shyness disappeared, and his six-foot-four frame makes perfect sense now that some of the other guys have had growth spurts to match. All that, plus the part where his status on the football team has locked him into the popular crowd, has fast-tracked him to a completely different level than where I’m stuck.

I figured it would happen eventually, because he’s awesome and gorgeous and people were bound to discover that. I refuse to let him be slowed down by me for his entire life, so I’m really careful about acting sad or letting him think I’ve been left behind somehow, because that idea would kill him. Besides, I’m not sad or left behind.

I just miss him, that’s all. I’m also doing great, making my own way bit by bit. And when I’m not, like today, I’m a master at faking it. As much as I try to hide my condition and pretend that I’m just like everyone else, I know that people with CP don’t get lucky and transform into graceful swans like Patrick did. It just doesn’t happen.

Testing the pain in my bad leg with half my weight again, I’m relieved to discover it’s fading away. Just in case, I keep one hand on the car and turn to grab a few shots of this long, delicate icicle melting off the bottom of a mailbox at the edge of the driveway. It’s too tempting not to snap it off and drop it in the perfectly round, snow-bordered puddle near my feet. I get a bunch of cool shots when it floats to the top dead center. The narrow tip is pointing outward and it’s going around and around like it’s a nature-made game spinner.

Patrick texts again:
Give me a sign that you are perfectly happy and that you aren’t lying to me right now. How’s the snow? Are you really, truly, absolutely okay? Prove it, or I’m coming over there.

I text him one of the floating icicle photos and add:
I’ve never been better. Swear. Now get on your bus and study for your test.

His answer:
Beauty. You should take up photography or something…you might be good at it. ;)

Me:
:)

I grab a few more shots of the snow-heavy, leafed-out branches above, and then force myself out of my photography haze, because I’m supposed to be working on casually getting myself near enough to board the bus.

My heart sinks and twists yet again as I realize what I’ve missed. No wonder Patrick texted me that big-eyed, brave kitten. The crowd down at the stop is huge. I’ve got way bigger problems than the possibility of limping in front of people. I’d totally forgotten—or blocked out—how crowded it was going to be today. In our town, all car keys are pulled by parents on snow days, because the school closes the student parking lots. I let out a long, shaky breath, wishing I could run all the way back home. Today, we are going to be forced to ride three-to-a-seat.

*Ellen Foster prepares to die.*

cam

I tap some snow off the top of my shoe, trying to remain calm. But as every second ticks by I’m getting more and more annoyed that the bus is this late. First, because I’m so tired of hearing Bella-Jane Jameson and her friends giggle about how cold they are. And second, because waiting to launch my
talk-to-Ellen-Foster-plan
has twisted my stomach so tight I’m about to snap.

I’ve waited so long for just the right day plus this perfect snowstorm to hit—and it’s all come together today—and I’ve even planned out how it’s all going to go.

Only, now there’s this glitch!

It’s already early November. We’re creeping up to the half way point of our junior year, and if I keep waiting, all of my time will be gone. Just how freshman year is gone, and the part where I also wasted all of sophomore year choking every time I tried to talk to this girl.

At this point, I’m starting to wonder if I can ever pull off the word ‘hi’ to her, or if I should finally give up on my endless crush? Even the dripping, melting snow seems to be mocking me. It sounds exactly like a clock going: tick, tock, tick, tock! Reminding me how much time I’ve already wasted.

It—the crush—and my inability to speak to her at all, started back in grade eight. Ellen had showed up for orientation that year in another one of her wheelchairs. It was obvious she’d had another surgery to her leg. But after my long summer away at football camp, I sure wasn’t looking at her leg. I was looking at her face, her smile and how beautiful she’d become over the summer. From that point forward, I’d been unable to talk to her. I try to forgive myself for that, because in middle school no one talked to anyone, really. Some couples who were ‘officially going out’ dated and broke up by only muttering to each other.

Grade eight, is the year my crush on Ellen solidified. While everyone—everyone but Ellen, that is—ran around that year, gossiping about friend dramas and thinking we were big-time as the oldest kids in the middle school, Ellen Foster was involved in bigger things none of us could relate to. Things about her leg and her arm and how hard she had to work to get back out of that wheelchair.

And I know all of this, because back then, the part of my crush where I’m worrying and wondering about her all the time also increased. That year, in addition to the wheelchair, her leg and her forearm had been covered in thick, mysterious bandages.

I actually felt like I couldn’t breathe right for months because of those bandages. Not until the day she came to school smiling because they’d been taken off and she’d been allowed to use a walker. Until she got rid of that walker and into crutches, she also had a school aide by her side at all times. This cranky-huge lady had to help her get around. Walk her to lunch, to the bus, sit at her desk in case Ellen had to go to the rest room—which probably had to suck. It had to have been kind of like going to school with your mom or something. And that lady was always there, creating even more of a distance and a difference between Ellen and the rest of us.

Ellen didn’t complain when she should have, either.

Not once. I’ve never, ever seen her cry in all these years. To me, her road has been so rough that she’s got the right to cry and complain anytime she wants, but...from her...nothing. Luckily, since that same grade eight year where I lost my ability to
not
sneak looks at this beautiful girl, Ellen hasn’t seemed to have had any more surgeries. Now that we’ve been at Huron High I think she’s getting stronger and more confident. I’ve been silently cheering her on through some huge successes, too, like the day she stopped bringing crutches to school all together. The happiness that seems to have come from her finally being free of any walking aids seems to have made her more beautiful. This, of course, just makes her more out of my league than she already was.

Maybe that’s why I hesitate.

I look over at her now and swallow.

Oh, heck yes, she’s beyond beautiful. That’s positively
why
I hesitate! It’s why all guys hesitate. She’s on that pedestal I made for her years ago, being extra beautiful, cool and unapproachable as usual, all while I’m holding up a bus stop with my back, acting all stalker-awkward way down here on the ground—
as usual.

Even now, how she’s staring at a car and taking photos while standing on one leg makes my heart leap with interest. Why does she stand on one leg? Why does she sometimes braid her long black braid a little to the side? Does she know how cute that is? What is she possibly staring at on the roof of that car that could hold her attention for so long?

Now she’s moved to photographing a puddle near the car wheel, and my flood of questions begins again. What’s in that puddle that interests her? What does she see that we do not?

She’s so focused all the time she makes it seem like the rest of us aren’t even here. Worse, I get this sinking sensation that puddles and melting snow are her whole world, and this world is so interesting and amazing that it doesn’t need to include any other people—not anyone like me—that’s for sure.

Today, she’s wearing jeans with this cute, puffy, oversized, light blue jacket I’ve never seen before. Even how she dresses makes her look all
other-world
, because she doesn’t go for any fads, ever. Her clothes are so unlike what all of us unoriginal clones wear. She has lots of vintage things mixed with splashes of surprising colors and patterns that always seem random, but I believe must very well thought out because they go together and match her personality perfectly.

Safe with the idea she’s not going to turn around while she’s bent over a puddle, I openly watch her take a few shots. She straightens, flips that really cute braid around some then pauses to read a text all while managing to balance herself on that one leg! To me, she looks like some sort of willowy dancer or a yoga instructor. The way she expertly holds herself without even a wobble—it’s like she has zero memory of ever being on crutches at all.

But I do. Everyone does. It’s because she’s the only kid in three townships to ever go to schools around here in a wheelchair. This made her some sort of town celebrity.

Unfortunately, most people around here refer to her as ‘that handicapped girl’ or the ‘disabled kid’ or worse—all of which really makes me mad. Because if you look at her—she’s not—she’s simply not that person any more. Not disabled from where I watch her, anyhow. At least…I don’t think she is, though I don’t know much at all about CP. What does disabled mean anyhow? Ellen Foster seems more
able
than any of us. I bet for her whole life, Cerebral Palsy became part of every conversation she’s ever had the way football is always brought up around me. I also get how it’s a topic she wishes she could escape.

Over the years, many of our neighborhoods, and especially the golf course area where I live, have held annual fund-raising events to pay for extra physical therapy just for her. I remember some of us doing a car wash so Ellen could have a special tendon lengthening surgery down in Boston. I remember it was during grade four, because that was the year I started to really hate playing football—and being my dad’s puppet. That year, Dad was always trying to get our club featured in the newspapers for raising the money for Ellen’s ‘cause’ so we washed hundreds of cars.

The last thing I remember about that year was how Ellen went away for her procedure. The surgery must have been so bad that she didn’t come back to school until the end of the year. We all had to write her get-well-soon letters or sign our names onto cards our teacher got for her all the time.

Ellen’s mom works for our golf club, so everyone we know knows Ellen and her mom. The club always rallies to help out as well, because Mrs. Foster is really nice. Everyone knows there was no way Mrs. Foster, with her small salary, could afford to pay the bills from American hospitals. Not as a single mom, that’s for sure.

Ellen’s got one good friend. A guy called Patrick. He’s been around a long time, but I just met him this fall when he was recruited to play on our team. Like Ellen, he keeps to himself or hangs out with her. For all I know, he might be her boyfriend which makes my plan to finally talk to her a possible, complete waste of time!

But I’ve got to try. I’ve worked hard to develop this idea and I think it’s foolproof. I’ve set it up for today because it’s a known fact that in the snow, and on that soul-sucking bus, Ellen Foster needs a friend.

Me. Me. Me. Hopefully me.

I sigh, glancing at the back of her head and then quickly look away because she’s turning around in my direction now, taking photos of more stuff.

Last spring, when she rode the bus on a snowy day, I’d been sitting two seats behind her and witnessed some irrevocable sadness. I still blame myself for what went down even though none of us could have predicted it.

I, like everyone else, was jammed immobile into my own triple-crowded seat. A seat that had me in the perfect position to watch my teammate, Tanner Gold, slam Ellen off his lap like a jerk. The sound of Ellen’s shoulder hitting into the side of the bus wall still haunts me today. I also can’t forget how her shoulders tensed beneath her braid afterwards like she was hiding how badly she hurt, probably inside and out from that whole damn incident.

Though she never cried or anything—I knew. I just knew. Heck, everyone knew, even the jerks who laughed at her had to know.

I vowed that day would be the last day that Ellen Foster would be left alone on the bus during a snow day. And even though the girl doesn’t even know I exist beyond maybe knowing my name or recognizing me in passing, I’ve been watching out for her—yes, because of the crush—but more so just in case she might need…something. It’s the least I can do. Heck, it’s kind of the only thing I can do because until I came up with this snow day idea, I’d been stumped on how to finally approach her.