How I Fall (3 page)

With the snow aiding my moves, the goals are simple: 1. Sit by her to make sure she doesn’t fall. 2. Talk to her. 3. Ask for her number.

Or, okay…I’m realistic. At the very least…I’m hoping for number one.

I force my gaze away from her and pretend to stare at my phone as I try to imagine how number two, the conversation between us, will go today. But I draw a blank. Instead, I fast forward to the part where I ask for her number, and that’s when my heart clenches in another wave of panic as my mind spins out of control.

Damn…now that I think about it, it’s too fast. She’s going to think I’m a freak. She’ll never give me her number all in one day. But…maybe I can do the silent bus ride thing today and then, tomorrow, I could try the talking to her part. Surely sitting by her today will be enough so I can casually sit next to her on the bus all over again tomorrow? Then, it won’t seem strange—not to her—and not to everyone else if by the end of the week she and I reach texting status, right? They will all just accept the fact that Ellen Foster and I have become…like…bus buddies. Yeah. Bus buddies.

I feel like the sides of my head are about to blow right off, because I know she’s going to think I’m mental. How could she not? I’ve been in school with her for years and we’ve never spoken and now that I’ve been in digi-photo with this girl for five weeks—a class I signed up for because I knew she was already in it so possibly we
could
speak—I haven’t managed to utter one word to the girl. So yeah. It’s not going to be strange at all that I suddenly want to sit next to her on the bus every single day after today.

Not strange at all.

Nope.

I pocket my cell phone and run both hands through my hair just as my head starts to buzz like it’s on fire.

This plan is never going to work.

ellen

As the pain fades and my cramp releases some, I sigh with relief. It takes all my strength to lock a solid grip on the side of the car so I can use it to take my weight while I turn around. Because the bus is still nowhere in sight, I risk a few extra seconds to make certain I’m not the object of laughter or any silent staring that would notify me the other kids saw what almost just happened.

These kids have spent a lifetime pretending I’m invisible so as long as I don’t draw attention to myself, I’m good. But if I’ve already hit their radars, then it’s going to be one sucking, long morning. I track everyone quickly as I test both legs by shifting full weight onto each of them a few times, just to be extra sure. I breathe out a second relieved sigh because no one seems to have noticed me, or that anything at all is out of the ordinary.

*Applause. Applause. She’s ready to walk*

I push away from the car and begin what I hope looks like a bored, limp-less but extremely slow stroll into the group. Bella-Jane Jamison is thankfully drawing everyone’s attention to her as she jumps up and down, dramatically crying out, “Oh. So. Cold.”

I always have to admire the various ways Bella-Jane’s able to vault her whole body—cheerleader style with a cool little leap—off the ground. She does it all while flipping her hair and giggling at the same time, too. Impressive, if not limited, talents (besides the giggling part) that I wish I could replicate with my own legs.

I envy anyone who can jump high. I think it would be so cool to be able to do it, even once. Watching her bare knees knock together makes me realize I must have missed some fashion orders that had to have gone around between Bella-Jane and my long-time neighbors (but never my friends) Paige Whalen and Jennie Martin. To ring in the first snow, they’ve all shown up dressed exactly alike: matching underwear-sized jean shorts, hair ironed ruler-flat, cheer hoodies and bright neon flip-flops.

If the bus weren’t extra late, this move might have been seen as bold and cute. People risk wearing shorts in the snow during the early season all the time. Everyone knows in November the snow can melt off by lunch; but with the girls’ noses and toes going bright red, and the fact that they’re trying to play it all cool while shivering like crazy, has this bunch coming across more obnoxious than usual.

As I crunch closer, I track the location of my biggest guy-nemesis, Tanner Gold. I do this every day to make sure I’m never in the position of sitting, standing or accidentally being near him ever again. It’s not for my safety it’s for Tanner’s. Last year, that guy made the last three-to-a-seat bus ride an epic torture-fest. I was sitting next to him—torture enough, if you ask me—and I was unable to place my feet where they needed to be in order to keep upright. So, on the first sharp turn, I jellied straight across his lap.

And I mean face up and staring into his beady eyes.

I was of course, frozen solid, because my CP kills every limb-to-brain signal when I’m scared and embarrassed. At that moment, I was both. Embarrassed as usual, but terrified because Tanner’s giant, bobbing Adam’s apple looked really freaky from that angle.

In hindsight, I like to console myself with the fact that falling face up on any guy’s lap is way better than falling face down. But either way, flopping all over Tanner Gold’s thighs in public does rank as some of the worst minutes of my whole life. And I’ve had some very bad minutes here and there.

As usual, no one moved when it first happened. That’s what most people do when I fall. They freeze right along with me and watch the whole thing unfold like I’m some live news story. That day, the gaping and staring got so bad, it was as if the earth stopped spinning and the entire bus had developed CP instead of just me.

I will never forget the gasps, giggles and whispers that passed over my head and from seat to seat, all while I blinked and tried to move unsuccessfully off Tanner’s lap. My good arm was pinned under me and my bad arm was not participating at all. When I finally got it to move, the hateful thing twitched in exactly the wrong direction of where I’d commanded it to go. That’s what CP does. It’s a misfire of communications between your brain and your body. Meaning, in this case, my hand had gone up and latched onto the back of Tanner’s neck!

And that’s where my hand stayed. Curved around his neck while I stared at him, not even blinking once, giving off the impression that I was lost in pure longing for the guy or something!

*Hangs head, tries to forget.*

Tanner, being the ultimate gentleman, decided to resolve the situation by elbow-slamming me off his lap. He also shouted about how he was
taken
then hollered for me to stop
throwing myself at him!

I should have decked Tanner that day, but his push jammed my bad arm so much I could hardly breathe. Worse, the pain set off a whole new round of left-sided immobility for me. So instead of taking my good arm and handing out at least one quality black eye, I just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying to breathe. I shoved my good leg into the seat-back in front of me and used my good arm to keep me upright. At the very least I made it into the school bathroom without shedding one tear in front of anyone. I also made it without falling on Tanner twice, which was at that point, was sort of a positive.

As I get close to the crowd, but before I come to a stop, I hold my phone half way up and quickly snap multiple shots of the noisy-girls-in-shorts huddle, trying to get a low shot that encompasses their six, perfectly straight, perfectly formed and flip-flopped feet against the snow. I glance at the last photo and grin. Despite the subjects, and even without filters applied, these are going to be really interesting and contrasting shots.

My favorite kind.

*Applause rings out. Medals are bestowed. Photography scholarships fall out of the sky.*

When I’m settled and standing still quite close to another parked car in case I should need it, I do what I always do next. I search for Tanner Gold’s polar opposite. My very own, long time and hopelessly cliché crush: Camden Campbell.

Cam is what he’s really called. Not by me, but by people who say his name—you know—out loud.

*Blushes.*

I call it a cliché crush because he’s quite possibly the most beautiful guy ever born in Canada (obvious for a crush), a star football player (of course), and richer than the ex-Ukrainian president (because rich is part of the cliché when you are as poor as I am). I use this crush for entertainment. I go through a daily, ‘Why-Cam-is-Perfect’ checklist as a way to take my mind off all things, moments and people who might suck. It works like a charm. Every time. Every day. He’s that beautiful.

My breath catches in a half-swallowed gasp of admiration when I finally locate him leaning against the bus stop, way up front. Instantly, I hardly feel the ongoing throbbing in my calf.

*Begins checklist.*

Hair: Light brown with a bonus new haircut—
perfect
.

Eyes: undefined shades of gray and light—
perfect.

Mouth: Pensive lip biting thing going on today which means he must have a test or something, and yes—
perfect
.

Body: Tall-sexy-long-legged-broad-shouldered and—
perfect!

I also love the way he moves so effortlessly when he walks. He’s kind of my inspiration for how I wish I could move my own body. Whenever he’s in motion, I try to stop and watch so later when I’m doing exercises with Nash I can emulate Cam’s amazing (must I say,
perfect
) posture.

My mom swears we used to hang out, but I don’t remember much about it beyond recalling that he had a really big kitchen and that he used to eat all my goldfish crackers.

I do remember when Cam started the strong-silent-brooding thing back in middle school, though. He became really quiet and, because of it, he seemed so mysterious. Which is why I started my secret-staring thing—and I’ve never been able to stop. I’m also pretty sure every other girl in the township does the same.

For example, Cam’s got to be the sole reason Bella-Jane and the others have escalated their half naked, jumping around antics to circus-clown levels this year. It’s like the more he refuses to notice them, the crazier they act. Unlike all of them, I’m content with one-sided staring. I also kind of like how he never notices anyone. It’s my favorite part about him, actually. Because Cam’s way of ignoring me is nothing personal like it is when all of the other kids do it. It’s just who, or how, he is.

Right now he’s looking all broody and serious, staring at something on his phone while Jennie and Tanner have an ice-puddle-splash war that’s putting him in the line of fire.

Cam, as usual, doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to care and certainly doesn’t acknowledge them.

*Sighs.*

Every day, he’s like a king surrounded by his court. Very used to his people always hovering. Waiting devotedly to jump should Cam wave his hand, toss out a command or a bone, but he never does.

Kind, good, cliché kings are never bossy.

*Sighs again.*

A gust of wind makes the girls in shorts scream and huddle tighter. The cold pushes against my face like a gentle reminder that it’s time to stop daydreaming and turn away from Cam. But how can I stop now that I’ve started? I’m on a fan-girl high! He looks so great—in addition to the new haircut he’s sporting a new, preppy but casual, brown wool coat. It looks so soft and tailored that it must have been measured, then directly sewn onto his broad shoulders.

*Stares. Stares even more.*

*Notes for the record, how the brown coat matches and highlights exactly one of the many shades of brown in his hair.*

I ponder how he showed up in my digi-photo class this year. At first I was elated—hoping he and I could strike up a conversation about photography, and then fall in love and get married and all that. Or at the very least, if the fairy tale thing didn’t work out, I was thinking I could study him—how he moves—a little closer and from all angles and, hopefully figure out how his posture has him sitting and standing and walking like he’s floating all the time. Like maybe there’s a trick to his gracefulness someone like me could learn or emulate. Also—the photographer in me would kill to photograph him—his eyes mostly.

My heart races just thinking of how those shots would turn out. Would I finally be able to decide what exact color his eyes really might be?

*Tries to imagine me asking him: Excuse me, Cam? Do you mind turning around in your seat and letting me snap a few shots—six hundred or so—of your eyes, and at a really close range?*

Unfortunately, as much as I was excited for him to be in my class, my initial excitement is long gone. It has actually died. Worse, with Cam Campbell sitting in my favorite class, participating in my favorite subject, has almost killed my awesome crush on the guy forever! This is because I’m an art snob. And I’ve caught sight of a few of the zero-talent photographs he’s taken over the past weeks. They’re bad. So bad, I’ve had to pull the plug on me studying him or glancing at his shots during class at all!

Because…
depressing!

I’ve seen goal posts, empty bleachers, chalk stripes in the grass, a few shots of the school’s low budget scoreboard, what looks like a study of the chain link fencing that surrounds our track and field, not to mention the actual football shots I tracked crossing his monitor last Friday.

I shudder, thinking of the hundreds of portrait-like close-ups I saw of a ball laid out all over the place in different positions—random places—like Cam thought he’d take his toy out on a photo shoot!

*Coughs. Barfs. Gags.*

I shudder again, trying to erase them from my mind because thinking of them has actually made my heart fill up with real buckets of regret and sadness. For me and probably for poor Miss Brown. If he thinks he’s going to get any kind of good grade with his single minded sports photos, he’s going to have one ugly wake-up call at the end of the quarter.

So those are the facts. Cam Campbell is lung-collapsing attractive on the outside with only footballs bobbling around his insides. It’s tragic, but it’s something I’ve got to come to terms with.

I still adore chocolate bunnies and they also are hollow and empty inside, right?

*For the sake of art, chocolate, and the butterflies in her stomach, Ellen Foster vows to carry on.*

I bite back a smile, and openly let my eyes wander along the straight line of his angled cheekbones while I make my way around to the far side of where he’s standing.

I know exactly what direction the sunlight will best light up the planes of that face. Like I do every morning, I’m also hoping for a side view of his eyes. Sometimes when he glances up I play my ‘name that color of gray’ game.

I track the sun peeking out of the clouds above, hoping to see Cam’s eyes lit up extra bright while I quickly activate the camera on my iPhone. The clouds shift more then—bam—the sun hits us all full force and I’m hit with momentary snow-bright-blindness.

*Waits for it…waits for it.*

When the light settles, I snap a photo in his direction and quickly lower my hand, but that’s when I catch that he’s not staring down at his phone anymore. Maybe he’d been looking up during that whole photo. Or…wait…maybe he looked up after I took that photo and now he’s just looking up—at me!