How I Fall (18 page)

“Mom. No.” Suddenly I do not want her to know what happened today. My heart twists, remembering Ellen sprawled in that snowy puddle, wondering about Mom’s comments. There’s so little I really know about Ellen Foster.

“Don’t sound all condescending about Ellen. She’s not even close to a being a ‘poor little thing’. I’m sure she could handle the project with or without me. The girl’s a badass. Doesn’t even need crutches anymore so yeah, she’s walking around just fine. I can guarantee that because I’ve seen it.”

“Really.” Mom shrugs like she doesn’t buy it. “Last time I saw Ellen at the club about six months ago, she was still poor, and she was still wobbly, and way too little. As a matter of fact, she was at the farthest end of the spectrum from what I believe a badass should look like. I’m not being condescending. Facts are facts. And the facts on Ellen Foster and her Cerebral Palsy have always been very clear. She and her mom use every trick in the book to try to cry handicap so they can benefit from that in some way, including government handouts and milking our club every year for a free membership.”

“You sound like such a snob. We all saw her wheelchairs and crutches so whatever she needed from the government I hope she and her mom got. You don’t even know her—”

Mom goes into mom-scold-lecture voice and interrupts. “Of course I
know
her. This whole town knows her. And I am a snob, so what? I’ve been involved in that child’s life since she was in your kindergarten class. I’m the one who has to fight with the golf course board every year for them to vote to allow her to do her physical therapy at the club with Mr. Nash.”

“You get one vote per family and there are 200 board votes, so don’t act like Ellen being at the club is all on you. Everyone knows that vote is unanimous every year and it’s not any work. Mr. Nash does what he wants with or without you or the club. I’m sure if they voted Ellen out, he’d still give Ellen the extra PT somewhere else. What is your deal? You act like you don’t want Ellen to be at our club anymore, and you are acting like they owe you.”

“The Fosters don’t owe me.” Mom crosses her arms. “But it was my idea to help out that kid. My idea to offer the club facilities for her use, and no one remembers that! They give all the credit to Nash for his ‘free’ services, and if you ask me, that Mrs. Foster has Nash wrapped around her little finger and everyone whispers that they—”

“Mom. Stop. Can you not hear yourself talking right now? And you’re ridiculous and rude and so hateful right now I can’t even believe you. You actually don’t even know Ellen or her mom anymore—not on any level!”

“And since when do you suddenly know them at all?” She shouts back, and I shudder because she’s shouting at me like she shouts at Dad when they fight. Like I’m suddenly an adult, and I feel really weird and slightly sick as she shouts more, “Don’t you ever tell
me
to shut up!”

“Wow, Mom. Really?” I shout back.

“Really!” She presses her lips together and her whole face goes sheet-white. Her hands grip the edge of the counter top while I try to control the rushing blood pounding through my temples.

I work to re-focus the edges of my vision that have blacked out. It’s something that happens when I’m really pissed off. And it scares the crap out of me more than Mom yelling at me like this.

Because of my dad’s short temper and the way he acts, I’ve vowed to never be like him. I’ve also vowed to never shout at my mom to make up for the fact that my dad always screams at both of us all the time. Though we’ve never talked about it, I kind of think Mom does the same for me. Yet, somehow she and I just crossed some invisible line. I can only hope she is struggling just as hard as I am to search for our way back.

I pull in a ragged breath and toss her a pleading glance, hopeful that she understands that more on the topic of Ellen Foster coming off her lips right now will make me want to go even more bat-crazy-nuts. I actually want to toss a couch across the room or slam a few chairs around. I cross my arms tightly across my chest, just in case the furniture flinging idea hangs on long enough to become real.

I lower my voice, hoping she will follow my lead. “Mom. I don’t know them. Okay? I don’t. But I don’t make a bunch of horrible presumptions. You need to kill the sick rumor about Ellen’s mom being with Mr. Nash or trying to milk the system. She’s a really nice lady.” I switch to a lower whisper. “Did you even hear the words that just came out of your mouth? Take it all back.”

Mom crosses her arms just like mine and changes her tone to whining. “I’m not the first person in this neighborhood to think that. I’ve just never said it before.”

“If Ellen and her mom use the system it’s because the system is there for them. And maybe because they actually need it? If they got perks, then good for them. We don’t need anything financially, yet you and Dad use the football system to benefit me. Or, is that not you and Dad trying to land me a full ride scholarship down in the states?” 

Mom blinks. “Universities in the US are way more expensive than they are here in Canada. If you can get a free ride, why not? You’re talented enough to earn one.”

“But maybe I don’t deserve one over a kid who’s dying to play football forever.”

“You’re not?”

I don’t answer and Mom and I enter a stare down.

I picture Ellen hearing even half of the twisted thoughts my mom just spat out and my heart breaks because I know other kids our age make assumptions about Ellen all the time. I’ve heard them do it since forever. I picture my mom or anyone, for that matter, watching Ellen walking to the lake and making snide comments as she tumbles onto the sand and I am hit with a surge of protectiveness so huge I’m almost unable to breathe. I suddenly feel like my mom would be all smug and actually say, “I told you so—you hot, little mess,” instead of helping Ellen to her feet!

“Is it okay for me to hate both of my parents right now? Is it? Is it…? And…if I hate them, do I hate myself? Because what kind of person hates their parents?

I wonder if I’m I really so different than they are? Is it possible I’m a snob like Mom just admitted? I must be if I’ve never called either of them out on their stuck-up hypocritical bull before today. But okay. That was then. And this is now.

I breathe in a full breath, feeling better because today…I did. I did just call her out.

The question is, can I do it again and again if needed? Can I face my dad on this same topic, or will they crush me for suddenly having my own opinions? And if they do, will I be strong enough to stand up to both of them? I figure only time will tell.

Miss Brown said I’m responsible for Ellen’s safety. And now, suddenly, I feel completely inadequate to do the job. Tomorrow I’ll tell her she’s asked the wrong person. I’ll explain that I don’t even have the strength to go up against my own parents, let alone to help Ellen face the prejudices and snide comments of the entire high school about her CP.

Dad stalks into the kitchen. “Did I hear shouting?” He blinks innocently at both of us, but I know he’s here because Mom and I never fight. He’s probably curious, or relieved she doesn’t have her fight-laser-beam pointed at him for once.

I shake my head. “Nothing. I was telling Mom how you got Miss Brown to assign me into Ellen Foster’s digi-photo project. Mom’s not that excited about me sharing my camera, that’s all, but it’s going to be just fine,” I cover, sending Mom a pleading glance.

“That project’s going to be better than fine.” Dad cracks open the Sweet and Sour Chicken box we saved for him. “Because our Cam’s helping the town’s most high-profile crippled kid!” He grabs a pineapple chunk and pops it into his mouth. “I sure hope people take notice and hand out the brownie points.”

My heart sinks further. I know I’m losing ground faster than ever here, but I try to defend Ellen once again. “Why does everyone think they can talk about her that way? Today, the bus driver called her handicapped! Cripple hasn’t been used since the dark ages and no one says handicapped anymore. What is wrong with you people? Do you live in the dark ages?”

Dad blinks. “But she is handicapped, Cam.”

“She’s a person first. She’s a person who’s slightly disabled! Very slightly.”

“Okay. What? Suddenly we have to be politically correct inside our own house? Are you running for Student Council or something?” Dad shrugs. “That Ellen should consider herself lucky, because it has to be some sort of bonus for you to be assigned to her, son. That’s what your teacher told me. In addition to her having no camera lined up for this project, Miss Brown tells me she’s also got a non-existent social life and now, she’s got both!”

“Maybe she’s got no social life because she’s always in physical therapy, but she does have a best friend. Maybe she’s kind of like me and can’t make extra friends because she’s always in some organized activity. There’s not much difference between her life and mine.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure, son.” Dad snorts.

“Really?” I fling down my fork as my temples pound again. “She takes better photos off her iPhone than any photographer with better equipment could ever take. I’ve seen her shots. She doesn’t need me or my camera at all. I’m the lucky one who gets to work and learn from someone with skills like hers! Her best friend is Patrick. You know—
The Giant
—the new kid you asked to be on the team who you shouted at today? And there’s the new Irish girl, who’s like Ellen’s…other…best friend. She’s so funny, and she’s also really, um…” I look over at my mom, hoping for some help. “Awesome. That’s more best friends than I have.” I blink, grasping at straws, picturing Laura London grabbing on to Ellen’s arm. “They’re like…inseparable,” I finish lamely.

Dad’s brows shoot up. “Interesting. And helpful to my cause. Make sure you invite that Ellen to a few prominent games, hear me? And make sure you and that Patrick kid also spend some visible time hanging around together, too. Doesn’t he live in that trailer park at the edge of the 101? I think his mom has worked at the donut shop since it opened years back.”

“No clue, Dad. Does it matter?”

“Just keeping track of any charity case that might help out your visibility.”

My temper spikes. “You’re such a pretentious jerk, Dad. If his mom’s got a job and they’ve got a house then there’s no charity case.”

Dad shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I suppose the Irish girl will only add to what I’m trying to do.”

“What are you trying to do, exactly?” I bite out.

“Trying to get you noticed. Looking for any and all local and national press I can get, son. In this town an Irish girl will seem positively
exotic.
” Dad chuckles. “I’ll be sure to mention her as one of your best friends when I call in the press to check out your next few games.”

“Uh…press?” I frown. “What? Why?”

“Patrick, The Giant, is a news magnet. I found out he’s the only First Nation Reserve kid in this whole area to ever play football at this level. I heard a rumor that he might be 50% Chippewa on his dad’s side.”

“Patrick doesn’t have a dad from what he’s said in the locker room, and his mom’s a blonde.”

“Doesn’t matter. The kid’s got enough native blood in him to secure any scholarship he might want here in Canada or down in the states! He hardly even needs football to get financial aid.” Dad beams like a cat that just ate a canary. “If the boy holds steady this season, I should be able to make the newspapers notice. Watch me get him a great scholarship along with yours, Cam. He’s good at defending. I’m trying to package you two together. I’ve already sent out some feelers and recruiters are interested. All I need is to talk to his mom and convince her to let him apply where ever you’re applying. Shouldn’t be too difficult if I help her with the paper work. Patrick’s one of the best players I’ve ever worked with. He also seems to want a scholarship out of here, so it’s a perfect match. Isn’t that awesome? Reporters are going to eat this up!”

I blink, stunned. My heart starts thumping in my head. My sick feeling doubles. It’s all I can do not to cover my ears and scream.

Instead, I shoot Mom a look that says:
See? See? Hypocrites? SEE?

Mom evades my look and says, “Because kids getting scholarships should always be about how good you look in the press? Is that what you mean, honey?” Mom’s said the word ‘honey’ like she’s spit out a snake.

It’s a tone that always makes my throat clench because that tone always invites Dad into an argument.

As always, Dad takes her bait. “You act like I’m a criminal for being smart and for helping a few boys realize their football dreams.”

I laugh at that, earning a glare from Dad as he goes on, “I didn’t make the diversity rules. It’s my job as a coach to know about them.”

“But you aren’t even the coach, are you, honey.” Mom smiles meanly.

Dad flushes. “Coach Gruber thinks it’s a great idea also. Patrick’s a good kid and a great player. We are just trying to get him the best scholarship available. What is your problem?”

“Will he get a full ride if he’s not packaged with me?” I ask quietly, hoping my steady, lower tone will remind them the correct way to talk to each other.

Dad shrugs, pulling his gaze away from Mom. “Very probable. But he sure looks sweeter trying to get signing papers with a star quarterback best friend than without you.”

“I only just really talked to him for the first time today. We are pretty far from being best friends.”

My heart sinks as Dad goes on, “Which reminds me, is there any way you can add Tanner and that Patrick into helping with that girl’s photography project? Those two really need to log their 100 hours as well. I’ll work on getting that thing some exposure with the local press around here. I don’t know what or how yet, but I’m going to play it up real big.”

“No,” I grit out, trying not to show my temper. “It’s a photo project about willow trees and the lake. It has nothing to do with football or anyone else on our team. Leave it alone.”

“I agree. The project sounds so stupid. You’ll survive it.”

“That’s not what I said! I said leave it and leave us alone on it. Especially Ellen Foster. Your line of thinking sounds completely off on what would bring me good recruiter attention. Besides, I’d really like to have a project going on in my life that doesn’t involve you and half of the damn football team!” I realize too late that I’ve raised my voice. My dad can’t stand it when people raise voices. Only he’s allowed to do that.

“Don’t tell me what to do, son! I know what the recruiters want and you will get at least one other team member to be part of that community service project. What’s the big deal? There’s no point in you assigned to helping out a handicapped girl if it’s not also going to be about football and the team. Got me? It’s why I signed you up with Miss Brown. Maybe you should ask Ellen to a dance or something, too? Really play it up that you two and that First Nations kid really are becoming close?”

I clench my teeth, working really hard not to shout again. “Patrick. His name is Patrick. And I hardly know that kid and no one knows if he’s First Nations or not. Why does that matter?”

“I’ll worry about the details. I’m only asking you to try to ramp in and meet me half way. I know it’s probably a pain in the butt hanging with losers outside your normal crowd, but I’ve worked hard to set this all up. I’m sure you can figure out a way to buddy with him and that Ellen Foster without making it too painful?”