Where We Fell

Where
We Fell

by
Amber L. Johnson

Copyright
2013

Amber
L. Johnson

Cover design by

Annie Rockwell

Cover images courtesy of

Shutterstock

Ebook design by

Mountain Media

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in
writing from the author.

For my cousin, Jessica.

You
may not be able to give blood anymore, but you can inspire others to live life
to the fullest—just as you do.

1.

IT’S BARELY NINE O’CLOCK in the morning and the
temperature has already hit eighty degrees in Georgia. The doctor’s office is
cold, a stark contrast to the temperature outside. It’s almost summer, but the
raised flesh on my arms tells me that pools and beach volleyball may not be in
my future.

My
future.

It’s a ball being juggled in the air, suspended
before it goes one of two ways: caught in the hand, or dropped to the floor.

I’d hoped that the summer would consist of me at the
lake with my best friend Terrence, pretending not to stare at the private
school girls in their bikinis. Terrence because he’s got a girlfriend, and me
because
I’m a little shy.

Not for much longer, though.

My mother’s gaze keeps scanning the floor and then
the door, waiting for some sort of answer. I hope there’s none to give, but the
rock-hard dread filling the pit of my stomach tells me there has to be
something. Either way, the past few weeks have been torture and whatever the
doctor says, at least I’ll finally know.

If I stare hard enough, I can almost make out where
the air conditioning hits my legs, making the hair dance a little against my
chilled skin. I tap my foot on the cold metal below me, the paper on the exam
table crinkling beneath me as I close my eyes and lean back to stare at the
ceiling. Without even thinking about it, my left hand slips over my sternum and
into the opening in the medical gown where I have my right arm raised. My
forefinger caresses the large lump in my armpit and I close my eyes, thinking
back to where it all started.

The track at school. Halfway through my fourth turn.
The pain dropped me to my knees and I curled up, gasping for breath, sweat
clouding my vision while people yelled my name frantically. I couldn’t see
anything except the gray sky above and the curtain of hair in my eyes.
Everything blurry. Everything just out of reach from the pain.

And then Coach Mann called my name right next to my
ear and I looked up to see him mouthing ‘Oliver’ before the world went black.

Everyone thought I had a virus after I found the
swollen lymph node beneath my arm. My mom held onto that even after the ones in
my throat grew larger. She didn’t want to come to terms with it. She maintained
it was a virus. Still. Just a fever. Just the chills.

Just a little virus, that’s all.

I can hear her lean forward in her chair and I
imagine her perfectly brushed hair falling out of place. When she sighs and
leans back, I know she’s fixed it. She’s too controlled to let that happen
before the doctor arrives.

When he does, I sit up and listen as he tells us
both what the diagnosis is.

The room is silent for a good minute and a half
before my mother begins to cry. But I don’t. Because Stella Bishop hasn’t cried
in front of me in more than a decade. And I’m more interested in her reaction
than what is actually going on at the moment.

***

She tells me that I don’t have to go to school, but
I remind her that I only have a few days left before graduation and that I’d
like to finish out my senior year like nothing has happened.

“Just give me this one thing,” I ask nicely, but she
knows it’s not really a question.

No one even asks where I’ve been. They’re too self-absorbed
and on the edge of freedom to care about anything but making it through these
last few days. In Environmental Science, I take my usual seat and pretend to
listen to the girl sitting next to me tell a story about what she’s planning to
do after graduation. I nod politely and smile at the right times. Our teacher
watches us all with a knowing look on his face, his gaze searching the
classroom behind his no-rim glasses. He wears short sleeve button-down shirts
and pleated khakis every day. He plays with the wedding ring on his left finger
when he’s bored. And I wonder what it’s like to have a job like this and a family
at home that are excited to see you when you walk through the front door. I
wonder whether or not I’ll ever know that for myself one day – having a family
of my own . . .

He clears his throat and tosses an erasable marker
into the air, before clumsily catching it and giving a wry grin. His dark hair
is curling across his sweaty forehead as he addresses us loudly. “Did you enjoy
this class? I should have set up an online survey or something, but I think
your test scores will suffice on whether or not I did a good job.” No one else
laughs, but I chuckle, because he’s
trying
.

“Look,” he continues, “unless you’re planning to be
science teachers like me, or be an engineer or something; I know you only took
this class because it’s required. So, to the majority of
you . . . forget everything you were just taught.” His smile
grows ever wider. “I figure it won’t hurt as much if I give you permission.”

When the bell rings, I wait for everyone around me
to clear the door before standing to my feet. He’s cleaning the board, his back
to me as I approach. I clear my throat and knock on his desk, waiting for him
to turn around. When he does, his eyes grow wide and then squint smaller as he
regards me with a smile.

“Mr. Bishop.”

“Mr. Garrett? I just wanted to thank you for making
this class fun. I actually enjoyed it.” He seems pleased and I’m glad I’ve left
him with some positive parting words, wondering if it will be the last time I
see him. There’s no emotion attached to that thought. No tightening of my
chest. No tears in my eyes. When I wander the hall down to my locker for the
last time, I wonder if it will hit me then. But I really, really doubt it.

***

Going home after school seems like the obvious thing
to do. But the silence there would be too heavy. So I head to The Main Street
Diner and sit in the back corner booth, staring out at the street to my left.
The glass is impeccably clean, so I catch glimpses of my reflection every time
a dark car passes by. The waitress asks for my order and I don’t look at her,
rattling off my usual selection and pressing my fists between my knees,
securing my chest against the solidity of the table top. I wonder how many more
times I can order a BLT here. If the walls will be sticky long after I’m gone.
I try my hardest to get a reaction from myself, but nothing comes. More than
anything, I just want to go home, get lost in a game on my PlayStation, and
pretend nothing happened at all.

A clink on the table alerts me to my food and I
raise my head, reaching up to push my hair out of my face.

“Shit. Mother of . . .
shit
.”

Hot coffee seeps across my sandwich and onto the Formica.
I look up as the waitress scrambles to find a rag, frantically pushing my plate
back with one hand and trying to stop the river of liquid that’s pooling on the
table.

“I’m so sorry,” she sighs, brushing her dark hair
away from her face and squeezing her eyes shut before I can see their color. “I
swear I’m not clumsy. I’m just . . . really not good at this
job.” She laughs and shakes her head a little, scooping the wet towels into her
hand and holding them out at arm’s length, making a face as she deposits them
on her tray that she’d dropped onto the booth across from me. She wipes her
hands on her white apron and shrugs at the two coffee handprints that are now on
her thighs. “I definitely ruined your sandwich. So, I’ll go put in an order for
a new one.”

I look her over, noting I’ve never seen her in the
diner before. Perry, Georgia isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but I come to
this diner at least twice a week. Her hazel eyes meet mine and I give a
half-hearted smile. Something in the back of my mind is nagging me that this
girl feels familiar, but I don’t immediately recognize her.

“You don’t have to. I wasn’t really all that hungry
anyway. I ordered more out of habit than anything else.”

Her shoulders visibly relax and she leans on the end
of the table, making eye contact again. “We have the best pie. Ever. I’ll get
you a piece of that. On me. I made about three dollars in tips today, so I can
cover it.” She’s just said she’s poor but she’s smiling. “You’re not allergic
to nuts or whatever, right? Because I swear the peanut butter pie is made by
angels and kissed by Jesus before it’s plated.”

I actually laugh. “No. No allergies.”

“Great. I’d hate to be responsible for the death of
someone so damn cute.”

If only she knew . . .

She’s back in two minutes with a plate and two
forks. With a heavy sigh, she takes her apron off and plants herself across
from me in the booth. She slips her feet underneath her butt, leaning forward
to jam her fork in the tip of the pie. “You said you weren’t all that hungry,
so I figured I’d help you eat it. Since I’m buying and all.”

The only other waitress on duty is wiping down the
main counter lazily, and I turn around in the booth to scour the restaurant
with my gaze. There’s only one other person at a table, and he’s shoveling a
triple stack burger into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in five years.

“I’m Hannah, by the way.” Her voice pulls my
attention back to her as she scoops a forkful of pie into her mouth.

“Oliver.”

“Nice to meet you, Oliver.” She waves at the other
waitress. “Linda, can we get two waters over here?”

“What’s wrong? Your feet broken?” The blonde woman
lifts an eyebrow.

“I’m on break.” Hannah lifts her fork for emphasis.
She chuckles as Linda drops off the water and taps her on the head. “I get a
fifteen minute break twice a day! It’s
the law
.”

I watch as she eats another bite. “You should get in
on this.” She shoves the plate at me. “I have absolutely no control whatsoever.
I’ll eat the entire thing and I wasn’t joking when I said I made three dollars
today. I can’t buy you another piece.”

“I have money. You don’t have to buy me pie.”

“But I cost you four slices of perfectly cooked
bacon. Jordy Peterson doesn’t take lightly to an affront like that. He won’t
say anything, but you’ll know he’s pissed off.”

I can picture the broad shouldered, dark-haired,
silent line cook that she’s talking about and I shake my head. “Jordy’s a mute.
I don’t think he
can
say anything.”

She narrows her eyes and pulls the plate back to
herself. “Huh. I just thought he was tongue tied by my ravishing beauty.”
Licking the corner of her fork, she smiles. “I’m just kidding. I know Jordy. We
graduated together.”

“I thought you looked kind of familiar.”

Hannah tilts her head. “Oh. Do you watch porn?
Because
a lot
of people ask if they know me, and then when they find out
from where, they’re all, ‘
oh, shiiiiiiiiiiiit
.’”

My neck grows hot and I shake my head furiously.
“No. That’s not . . . I just mean I’m graduating this weekend.
So we probably went to the high school at the same time.”

“Nah, you’re right. I dyed my hair when I went to
college. I do look different.” She’s in a full laugh now, covering her mouth.
“You’re fun to mess with, you know that? So, how old are you? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen. My birthday’s coming up, though.”

Her eyes soften. “Eighteen’s a great age. But
nineteen is when things really start to change. Stay young while you can,
because getting older isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,
Oliver . . .”

“Bishop.”

”Not a lot of Bishops in this town.” She looks like
she’s thinking hard. “Your dad wouldn’t happen to wear a badge and operate a
speed gun, would he?”

“Actually . . .”

“Huh. Your dad is State Patrol? I’m pretty sure he pulled
me over, like the week after I got my license, driving home from a party. I
cried my way out of it. He’s a softie. But don’t repeat that or anything. I bet
making friends is hard when your dad could pull one of them over at any
minute.”

If she only knew the half of it. It’s one of the
reasons I only hang out with Terrence.

She takes a hard look at my face and squints her
eyes. “You don’t look much like him, you know.”

“I’m adopted.”

She leans back in the booth and looks me over once.
“I swear to god, I’m not gonna put my foot in my mouth one of these days. I
don’t know when, but it
will
happen.”

“I hope I get to see it.”

We smile at one another for what feels like an
eternity. The faint sound of an alarm goes off and Hannah rises to her feet.
“My break is over. Thanks for . . . letting me eat your pie.”
She leans over and grabs her apron, tying it loosely around her middle. “Ugh.
The Freshman Fifteen is no joke, Oliver. I hope you like thick chicks, because
your freshman year of college, you’ll be surrounded by them.”

The only place I can guess she’s carrying this
so-called extra fifteen pounds is in her chest. I have no idea what she’s
talking about.

Securing her ponytail, she regards me seriously. “Do
you know which school you’re going to in August?”

I do. But now I’m not sure if I’ll make it. “Macon
State.”