How I Fall (33 page)

I can tell she’s about to laugh, but instead she widens her eyes to look all solemn. “You, passed out at my feet, is something I might like to see.”

“Oh, really…” I laugh more. She spoke so openly about being nervous and things not working quite right with her, I decide to press her a little more. “You’re hiding your arm? Are you?” I point. “Hiding your
bad
arm—from me—why?”

She pulls in a breath like I’ve surprised her. “Um…” Her expression goes from relaxed to shuttered. “My CP…it makes my hand and my fingers turn in and stiffen up a lot. I’m self-conscious about how it looks, so I guess I’m always tucking it away. It’s nothing personal, if that’s what you think.”

Slowly, so I don’t freak her out, I scoot to her side, reach over and pick up her hidden hand and gently turn it over so her palm is facing up before placing the candy in the center of it. “I like how it curves and it’s pretty. It could be an asset. Maybe it’s easier for you—to—hold hands with people?” I meet her gaze, but she quickly looks away like I’ve just said the stupidest thing on earth.

Because. Crap. It is possible that I did JUST SAY the dumbest line on earth.

“Nothing about this hand makes anything easier, but I shouldn’t complain because I can use it to almost full capacity. Watch.”

With visible effort, she straightens her hand and wiggles then bends each finger one at a time while I’m holding it.

“So many people with hemiparesis can’t do this at all. Probably doesn’t look like much to you so sorry for…bragging or…” Her brow crinkles and she lowers her eyes. I feel her wrist tremble slightly as she tries to pull her hand away.

Damn. Damn. Fumble. Fumble. Failed recovery. Save it, dude. Save it.

Quickly, I rush on, “Ellen—” I shake my head. “Again I have to apologize to you for the second time in five minutes. I don’t know what to say about you and about your CP and—”

She saves me. “It’s okay. No one knows what to say about my CP. I’m actually happy you tried to say something about it at all. The part where you don’t seem nervous or repulsed by me is also really—refreshing.” 

“Repulsed? Are you kidding? I’m trying to say that I think you’re extremely cool. I’m trying to make you understand that I don’t care about your CP except the part where I care if it makes you sad or might hurt you somehow. And I certainly don’t notice it in any sort of bad way. To me, it’s seems part of who you are.”

“Too much of who I am, sometimes. You just don’t know me that well. It takes over everything.”

“Well, to me it’s another part of what makes you so interesting. How you live with your CP and your strength makes me want to hang out with you more. I’m blabbing again, I know, and I bet I sound like a dork; but I want you to know I think you’re simply awesome, that’s all. There. I’m done now.”

She laughs. “Well…thank you. You’re also—really cool.” I lighten my grip and she pulls her hand away, shaking her head like I’m mental; but I count it as a win because she’s not exactly glaring at me or anything. She actually appears to be finally relaxing. I try not to stare as she takes her good hand and gingerly, with two fingers, collects the candy from the curved one that still doesn’t appear to want to move much and pops it into her mouth. “Mmm. I do love caramels.”

“Best ever candy,” I agree. I take up a small stick so I can pretend that drawing patterns in the sand is about the most interesting thing in the whole world while my mind spins with the enormity of how every little thing in Ellen’s life—like eating one small piece of candy—can be a challenge. I have so many questions I want to ask her. Like: Does it hurt her to sit? To stand? To lean on a tree like she is now? Does she know people look at her? Wonder about her? Does she understand just how much I look at her—how much I wonder about her? Does she have a clue how my heart aches when I look at her face? Will I ever be able to tell her?

“So…why do your legs hurt after a football game? Is it all the running?” she asks after the silence is almost unbearable between us. “I sure would love to run. Is it fun to go really fast like you do? I can’t even imagine.”

My chest twists. I think of the countless times me and the other kids who’ve known Ellen just as long as I have, must have simply run past her, taking for granted the fact that she couldn’t. She was always a shadow on the wall or sitting in her wheelchair, watching us and she’s still doing it. 

“Yeah. It’s fun,” I answer after a long pause. “But my legs ache after games because I tense up for the entire game. Every muscle, every tendon and every bone in my body is like on some sort of adrenaline spike, and I can’t seem to shut it off till the last whistle blows. It’s exhausting.”

She smiles. “Well I do know what that feels like. Guess that’s why you’re so good at the game though? I don’t know much about football, but you sure seemed really good to me.”

I don’t know how to answer that. Everyone says I’m good. My dad’s convinced I could
go all the way
. But how can I be ‘good’ at something I hate as much as I hate playing football?

She goes on, “Mind if I ask you more questions about it?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Here’s my list. Does it freak you out when there’s an audience watching you? Does it hurt when you’re tackled? Aren’t you afraid when the other huge players are running at you and shove you into the ground? Don’t you ever worry you’re going to get massively hurt? Do you notice the people watching you, because everyone does seem to stare at the quarterback and don’t the marching band and the cheerleaders get into your concentration? You don’t have to answer all…I’m curious, that’s all. And if you want to know the truth, watching you play that game was excruciatingly painful. I couldn’t wait to get away from the stadium.”

“Why?”

“You already know about the bleachers being dangerous, but I spend all of my free time trying to avoid getting stared at so the crowd was too much. I also think watching you and Patrick get tackled was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. The idea of being at the bottom of any sort of dog-pile of giant bodies is quite possibly one of my biggest phobias. And you guys kept getting crushed. The whole thing was really stressful for me to watch.”

I smile over at her, then turn back to dig deeper swirls in the sand. I’m now completely envious of her ability to draw me out with the very types of questions I wanted to ask he
r.
“Let me try to answer your questions in order. I’ve always been the QB—since about age six, so I’m used to the staring people. To force me to get used to it, my dad has put me in front of any camera he could find since I could carry a football.”

“Oh. Strange.”

“Yeah. Welcome to my life.” I move on to her next question. “It does hurt when I get tackled. Sometimes more than others depending on that dog-pile you mentioned. The pain also varies based on the types of hits I get. And no,” I risk a sideways glance at her before going on, “I’m not afraid when the other players pile on me because, like you brought up I guess—we are all sort of asking for it by playing football in the first place. Me, especially.”

She blinks her wide black eyes and tilts her head. “Pardon? The last one—explain.”

On a massive gust of wind I lay my wish into the air. “I’m not afraid of getting hurt.”

“Because you’re so strong, you probably won’t?”

“Not exactly, just to me—if I get hurt—it’s not going to be a big deal because football doesn’t really mean anything to me. Maybe my dad will be upset, but I’ve just got this idea that I won’t mind at all, so that’s why I think I play so well sometimes. I’ve got zero anxiety about getting crushed. In all honesty, I actually would be relieved if I didn’t have to play anymore.”

I soak up her earnest, bewildered expression. “What?” She’s gone completely pale. “I didn’t hear you right. How could you
not mind
if you get hurt?”

“It’s just part of the game—them running at us—us running at them—the tackling. It’s expected that some players do get hurt. I don’t care if one of those players is me, and in fact better me than someone else who wants to play football forever.”

“You don’t? I thought you did.” She wrinkles her brow, scanning my face as if she knows I might have more to say on the topic. Just as she opens her mouth to pick apart the secrets I’m not certain I want revealed—but secrets I will not be able to lie to her about if she asks me directly—the wind saves me.

Huge, sharp gusts off the lake slam into the grove. “Wow,” she cries out, ducking her head away from being sand blasted. The branches, leaves and ropes roar over us.

I shout over the roar, “Must be some kind of front moving through! Or a squall off the lake!” I move to my knees so I can turn my back against where the sand is whipping in at us off the beach, then bow my head next to hers, hoping I’m wide enough to give her some sort of relief. For two full minutes, we huddle there together unable to speak or move as the noise escalates and my back feels like it’s getting sandblasted.

Then, as quickly as they’ve come, the gusts stop and the trees, the sand, and the wind silence completely.

Before either of us can take a breath, thousands upon thousands of tiny, pointed willow leaves drift slowly down. So many that it’s like we’re in the epicenter of a glitter-gold blizzard! They’re falling in sheets, catching the sunset, flickering and glowing as they spin and blanket all around and all over us.

“This is…awesome! And it’s so…very…” She looks up and smiles.

I’m memorizing every line on her face, every curve in her smile, every gold sparkling leaf reflected in her ink-black eyes.

“Beautiful,” I breathe out, but I’m not talking about the falling leaves one bit.

Suddenly we both have our iPhones out.

She’s snapping shots up at the leaves, and so am I. It’s a race to see who can take the most, the best, the craziest angle without standing up. I’ve scooted one way, and she’s gone another, and when we turn around she and I are laughing and almost knee-to-knee. My last shot is a close-up of Ellen, smiling, holding her iPhone into the air while she’s laughing and turning in my direction. I don’t even have to look back at my photo feed to know it’s the best photo I’ve taken so far.

She’s staring at my head, still laughing. “You’ve got,” she points, “a leaf helmet.”

“As do you.” I’m really close to her now so it’s easy for her to scoop up a handful of leaves off the top of my head. Still laughing, she flings them at me.

“You should see what you look like.” I move forward to scoop up some of hers and retaliate, but pause my hand just over the top of her head. “Only…they look so great against your dark hair I can’t—won’t—touch them. It’s like you wove them into your hair to look like this on purpose. You should leave them.” I swallow. “Look. See? It’s so—” 

I move my hand over the length of her braid, pulling it around her shoulder for her to see how the tiny leaves have settled into the lines of her braid. As I let it go, my knuckles brush against the heated glow on her cheek.

I whisper again what I think about her, “So beautiful.”

Her breath catches so I slowly lower my hand, wondering if I’ve made her nervous because she’s paused the arm that was going to scoop more leaves off my head. Her gaze meets mine and I smile. She smiles back with what looks like trust. Friendship. Attraction? Could it be possible she has a crush on me as well, or am I doing that wishful thinking thing again?

When I speak next, my voice catches with way too much hope and longing. “My hair collects things like sticks and leaves all the time. No way can I get these all off by myself.”

“Okay, but…close your eyes for a second.” I do as she asks, and suddenly her hand is in motion again. I feel her fingers flicking off a ton of leaves, then tentatively her hand skates across one of my eyebrows!

When she stops and I open my eyes, I’m surprised to find her face really close to mine.

“I don’t want to take all of them out, either. Your hair is also really beautiful against these golden leaves. And—next to your eyes. These…darn eyes.” She sighs. “I feel guilty taking such perfect, yellow framing away from them,” she whispers. “Oh wait. Hold still.” Her pinkie finger brushes tentatively against the lashes of my right eye. A touch so butterfly-light, it sends sparks into my toes. She tilts her head closer, peering deeper. Each word she utters sends a puff of candy-scented air against my cheeks. I’ve pretty much melted into some sort of coma as she goes on, “See, gold and gray are opposite colors on a color wheel. Right now, I’ve never seen anything so perfectly balanced.” She bites her lip and furrows her brow. “Do you mind—artist-to-artist, of course—if I have a closer look at your eyes?”

I shake my head, ‘no’ and manage a little shrug, because that’s just about all I can do right now.

“Are you aware your eyes can be both smoke and sky, and all the colors of the lake in winter and while doing this back lit moon LED looking thing if the light is just right? Sometimes it happens at the very same time.”

I shake my head and arch a brow as if to question her about this madness, but only a little because I’m terrified she’s going to stop talking. Or worse, move away from me and I don’t want her to. Ever.

“Mine are just so blah. But yours—every minute—I swear there’s something changing in yours.” Her finger traces against the edge of my lashes again. “I seriously wonder if you actually see differently than I do. Like right now, is the world more beautiful because you’re looking out from these things?” She flushes slightly when I don’t answer. “I probably sound stupid. You’ve heard it before. Since the day you were born.”

No. Not so it comes out like a song. Not from anyone important.

I swallow, searching for the right thing to say, but all I can manage so far is a head shake, because her eyes are pulling me in and her fingertip has begun a slow trail down the side of my cheek and doesn’t stop until she’s placed her whole hand on the side of my face! I let her turn my head toward the setting sun, but I never take my eyes off hers. A few leaves slide down the back collar of my shirt raining sudden shivers down my spine.

She whispers, “I want to photograph your eyes. Like this. One day. At sunset. If that’s okay?”

I’m suddenly half goose bumps, half fire and all courage.

“Sure,” I start, biting away my urge to ask her if I’m in some sort of dream. Then, in case this day is not a dream—or damn, in case it is—and I can do whatever I want, I reach for the gently curved hand that’s lying forgotten in her lap and twine my fingers into hers like I should have done the first time I held it. Then, I tighten my grip just enough so she knows I never mean to let it go again.

I don’t pause when she gasps. Instead, I lean my cheek into her other hand. The one she hasn’t moved that’s resting against my face, and I whisper back, “I want to kiss you. Like this. Now. If that’s okay.”

Just as the wind scatters more golden leaves down over our heads she nods and whispers, “So do I, if that’s okay?”

I’m leaning in to find a way to put my lips against hers, but she’s already there.