How I Fall (28 page)

I call out, “Order the red shush drink, not the blue raspberry flavor. The blue stays for hours and hours.” I tap my lips.

“Really?” She waggles her brows so high they are lost in the mop of curling, sparkling, blonde bangs sticking out of her tiger beanie. “I’m so in for bright blue lips.”

“Your funeral.” I laugh, tugging at the flap of hair hanging out of my own beanie and pulling my braid to the side. “At least the red color slightly looks like lipstick.”

“
Trollops
wear bright red lipstick. And Luna and Thumbelina are notoriously known as the
good
girls, right?”

I laugh.

Skipping away, she calls back up to me. “Blue or bust, Ellen! You’ll see. I shall be magnificent with blue lips.”

“I’m sure you will,” I answer, but she’s long gone.

The bleachers in front of and behind me are filling up fast. I move our stuff all the way to the side, making sure Laura and I secure the seats on the very far edge. Laura tried to make us sit way up top, but sadly, I’ve never sat that high. For bleachers, I always need the second or the third row and always the outside edge—if they’re the kind that don’t fence you in at the edges—that is. At our school stadium, third row up is exactly the right height. The edge is perfect for me to swing my legs off the end and let gravity help me stand easily if there’s an emergency or something. At first Laura didn’t understand, but once she saw me tripping up the small steps to row three, she ramped in quickly and stopped begging me to go higher.

In movie theaters, I have to be dead center so I don’t have to stand and topple around every time someone has to go to the rest room or for more candy. Either way, center or far edge, once the people crowd in, I get kind of stressed because I can’t move very much. I’m already regretting coming to this game because I can feel my left side—arm to ankle— stiffening. This is because I’ve had to use it extra to balance myself upright. Without seat backs to lean on, I get tired pretty fast. I also have not had a drop of anything to drink since I woke up, not even milk in my cereal. Saying ‘no’ to Laura’s slushy offer actually hurt. Years of assemblies, pep rallies, and the few sporting events I’ve been forced to attend in my life have taught me that I really don’t want to do my stiff-sided-lurch-walk to the rest room with a whole crowd staring down at me.

Especially not every darn kid from my
entire
high school.

And, thanks to the fact there is nothing amazing to do in  Brights Grove, Ontario once it’s too cold to swim in the lake (and not counting trips to the awesome Tim Hortons at the edge of our two block town) the whole planet seems to be present for today’s
playoff
game. Whatever that means—heck yeah—I’m determined to stay put, and stay thirsty until this game is over.

I track Laura as she returns from the snack bar and almost crack up watching her shove her face all over the horrible blue icy treat. Forget blue lips. That girl’s going to have a blue face-mask! I see Patrick run up, holding his helmet under his arm to talk to her. In less than two seconds he’s laughing and jumping out of her way as she presents the overflowing, blue ice drink to him. From this distance he seems so huge next to her, like a gladiator meeting a firefly! Laura shoves her face deep into her slushy drink again and even from here I can see that Patrick’s charmed and acting all awkward. She laughs as Patrick jumps back a second time. A slosh of blue gunk goes flying because she’s shoving the thing at him again! She must want him to take a bite.

*Tries NOT to wonder where Cam Campbell is right now. Tries harder NOT to wonder if Cam would also look extremely tall and extra handsome standing next to me in his football gear.*

I shake my head to push that one away. Because…of course I don’t care how he looks next to me…of course I don’t. Besides, in my case, Cam would be like…like…sexy Captain America standing next to a snail with a cracked shell. I’m not magical like Laura is, nor will I ever be. I’m…just me.

“Who left you here all alone? Are you okay?” Cam’s low voice shimmers down my spine and I wonder if I’ve dreamed the sound of it, saying exactly the words I wish he’d say to me right now.

“Captain America…” shoots out of my mouth as I startle and topple backwards, but before I butt-slide and crash into the bleacher behind me, his arms shoot out and pull me back to center. Once I get my bearings, I realize Cam’s standing right in the center of the space between the bleachers, blocking my emergency escape route and looking up at me.

“Sorry to startle you.” He grins. “Thought you saw me, and…you just called me Captain America.”

“I did.” I cover, blinking calmly. “Because you look so suited up and—ready—to go.” Before he can answer that lameness, I flip topics. “And of course I’m okay. I’m always okay.” It’s a fib but I’ve got to do something to play off the part where he obviously caught me being
not
okay.

“Of course.” He nods, agreeing with my lie.

His gaze travels over me—my face—all of me. I know it’s my turn to talk, but instead I’m hit with a wave of tongue-swallowing awkwardness. I can hardly hold my expression steady because—
wow
.

My eyes have just gone all over him! Over and over and over and over
and, wow.

I thought I’d be used to him after last week but…who knew that football pads really accented all the muscle-spots on a guy in such a good way? I want to reach out tap my knuckles against his new,
park-a-bus-here
shoulders. I also want to examine his calves in—
is he wearing knee socks?
And are they surprisingly cute? And…are those football pants actually very tight leggings?

He leans in, thankfully breaking my view. “Would it be hard for you to scoot over so I can sit for a second? I’ve only got a few minutes before my dad shows up.” He glances at the field. “I need to get out of Coach’s line of sight because I’m supposed to be heading to the bathroom. It’s the only reason he let me walk over in this direction because the rest room over here is closer than the one in the men’s locker room.”

“Uh…yeah…okay.” I tear my eyes off his—
whole body
—and try to figure out the best way to ‘scoot’ without looking like a fool, or without having to say words like:
My CP doesn’t really allow me to scoot so, please hold while I fumble around and figure it out?

He squeezes close as though he thinks the way I’m leaning to the right is going to allow him to hoist himself up next to me in the space I’m supposedly about to provide to him. But of course I’m nervous. And of course my whole left side is refusing to obey any commands as I knew they would! I try one last time but as I hear him pulling up on to the bleacher, I turn back to admit my defeat, but he’s full speed ahead. That’s when I’m gifted a nice, smack-whack into my face with his shoulder pad.

*Decides that looking at shoulder pads is way more interesting than feeling them.*

My head’s ringing. From somewhere nearby, but very far away he’s saying, “Whoa. Hey. Crap! Did I get you? I’m sorry—whoa there—”

I’m not going to lie about the fact that I’m seeing stars as the world tilts. I know I’m heading for some sort of unstoppable plank-to-the-side type fall so I brace for it, but then he’s got me. He’s blocking out the sun overhead and pulling me close—so close I can’t breathe.

Not because my head kind of aches but because he—his face—it’s so darn beautiful.

“
Ellen. I’m sorry,
” he whispers like he’s afraid to startle me again…or maybe because he doesn’t want anyone to hear or notice that he’s stuck holding an empty headed rag-doll?

*Repeats: Ellen, I’m sorry. Adds in the all important question that comes up in my head at times like this: Why, God? Why?*

Since I’ve got no answer, I decide to count one set of those attractive little smile-crinkles next to his eyes. I’m so close, and even though he’s not smiling at all, I can see there’s at least six…or seven…possibly ten of them, if you count the tiny ones…

And then, I’m back. Upright in my seat all over again like none of that just happened. Except it did, because the proof is that Camden Campbell is sitting next to me while we both watch the helmet he must have let go to save me bump-roll until it comes to a rest at the bottom of the bleachers.

“Damn. I’m sorry. So sorry. You’re so easily knocked around. So—light. Like a feather or—a butterfly.” He peers at my face, his hands gripping my shoulders. “You steady?”

I nod, too embarrassed to talk.

“Okay. Good. Hold—” Without another word, he picks me up and scoots me down the bleachers, hops off the side to retrieve his helmet and comes back to his original vaulting spot. “Damn. My fault.” He’s covering for me. “Where exactly are people with long legs supposed to fit in these things?”

As I watch him analyze how he should best try to jump up and sit next to me again, I wonder if he might be as self-conscious about being tall as I am about my CP? Does he notice that every time he’s around me, he winds up picking me up like I’m stackable lawn furniture? Maybe it’s normal for him to move everyone and everything out of his way. Like…maybe he picks up his mom to get to his fridge?

Before I can tease him about it, my eyes widen as he turns backward and pushes himself up with his arms only. This time, when he turns toward me, his feet—his cleats—his legs—seem to be everywhere! I wince, waiting for a second, painful impact coming from this guy, but his feet settle very gently and very quietly next to mine as though he’d thought out exactly how he’d fit next to me—and now—he does!

I shudder with relief and relax some, realizing that I’ve risked my whole future by simply not giving this guy enough room. If we are going to be hanging out I can’t make that mistake again. One accidental stomp from Cam or another random shoulder bump could do some serious damage. If I even get a small bruise or take a fall that would affect my bad foot, I’m back to crutches. Worse, if he takes out even one tiny bone in my
good
foot, I’m stuck in a wheelchair. I can’t walk full steps at all without that good leg in perfect condition.

To ensure I don’t have a
third-time’s-the-charm
fall, I work myself away from him inch by inch. Then I drag my bag around and shove it between us, making a show of digging into it for a second so I’m not being too obvious. Before I straighten, I casually move both hands next to my sides so I can lock a death-hold under the edge of my seat by gripping onto the little hang-down ledge that’s covered in chewing gum. When I’m solid, I try to ignore my burning cheeks—and the disgusting old gum under my finger tips—so I can look over at him and act all cool.

His face is also flushed, but when I scan his eyes I can see that he’s upset. “Ellen. I’m sorry,” he says again. “That was—terrible. Say you’ll forgive me.” He shakes his head like he’s so mad at himself he wants to die.

“My fault. Honest. I should have moved faster.” I shrug, trying to make him understand that this is all me, not him. “If I’m in a seat that’s got no back support I tip really easily and—”

“No! I’m such a clod in my uniform. I always forget about the shoulder pads when I’m wearing them and…” he finishes with his voice going quiet. Before I know what he’s doing he’s gently brushing the back of his knuckles against my cheek. “Damn. I really got you, didn’t I? Does it hurt?”

“Please don’t apologize. I can’t even feel where you hit me—and I sunburn easily so if there’s a red spot that’s probably what you’re seeing,” I lie, forcing down this crazy lump that’s half tears and half butterflies lodged in the back of my throat.

He frowns. I haven’t fooled him. As he pulls his hand away, his tormented, gray gaze settles so deeply into mine my breath catches. He shakes his head and sighs, looking far out over the field. “You still going down to the lake to test some of the pulleys after the game?”

I relax more, happy that he’s changed the subject. “Of course. No offense to your game, but the weather’s so nice I wish I could be there now. I’m so excited about what we did. From now on, my prime goal will be to sneak down there and work on the project non-stop, you know?”

He leans forward, elbows going onto his knees and looks over at me with a small smile. “I’m with you there. I was up all night thinking about possibilities. Found this shutter app with a remote that lets us snap photos with our iPhone cameras kind of like the Nikon remote. Possibly better! I had this idea we could rig our iPhones to work together somehow. On the day it freezes we do app only. Do additional shots higher than what we’ve already set up.”

“How?” I breathe in, already visualizing what he’s talking about.

“I think we could rig extension poles—like they use for painting ceilings or trimming trees maybe. It would be cool to see if we could shoot some birds-eye-view stuff. We have to come up with some sort of little baskets—or something—to hold the phones. What do you think? Man, do I hope that app works.”

I’m grinning now, heart racing because he and I are so on the same page! “Well guess what? I have that app! Before you signed on, I’d planned to do the whole project with only my iPhone. And it works really well.”

“Nice. How did you find it?”

I laugh. “Desperation? The iPhone was and is the only digital camera I’ve ever owned. Buying and trying three dollar apps is way cheaper than trying to land a fancy camera set up. But I’d never thought about birds-eye-view stuff. “I think you’re onto something. I’ve already come up with a way to hold the iPhones to keep them safe!”

“Really?” His eyes are sparkling and now we’re both grinning. “What do you have?”

“I made these awesome little duct tape things.” I unclench my hands from the bleacher and hold them together in front of him to form sort of an oval shape. “Some like this.” I glance up to make sure he’s with me. He’s nodding and smiling like he gets it so I go on, “But with long handles attached to the end seem to work best. I’ve been testing them by hanging them with string on the light hanging over the kitchen table for weeks. Drives my mom nuts!”