How I Fly (10 page)

*Future kisses. Future kisses. Future kisses!*

“As of today, I’m not a player anymore. Swear,” he says. “How about ice cream in the commons and then a walk by the pond? We can stop at our rooms and bring our cameras.” He says that last line in an escalating shout, because the insane techno music has reached a whole new level of loud. The partiers behind the thin wall are going crazy with dancing to it. Then, as if he’s read my mind, he shouts, “We can photograph those fireflies you told me about. Are you up for a first date test, at least?”

I nod, trying really hard not to sigh all goofy. “Yes. And it sounds perfect.”

He’s gotten to Laura, too, because she’s clutching her chest and giggle-gasping, “Aww. Aww. Aww-dor-able. Like you said, Ellen. This boy is practically perfect.”

I glance at Harrison, shouting, “I did not say
exactly
those words. She exaggerates everything.”

“She did, too!” Laura hollers back.

“Well, it’s pretty much what I’ve been saying to Patrick about you.” Harrison’s eyes are sparkling more than ever, because I think he’s as happy as I am that we’ve just outed our crush like this.

Laura, who can never play it cool, starts doing the hug-herself-jumping-thing she does when she can’t contain her excitement about life. She dance-hugs herself right up to us, making this funny face as her gaze darts between me and Harrison. Just as she opens her mouth to shout her comment, the crazy song and all

of the dancing people in the room come to an abrupt, silent stop.

“I’m supposing you two aren’t inviting me along on this very romantic first date?”

We hear giggles and whispers coming from the party as most of the eyes in the room swing out into the hallway to watch us.

“Sorry, Laura. Three’s a crowd,” Harrison answers, not dropping his voice at all, as if being the center of our crazy sideshow doesn’t bother him. Worse…or better, because it happens too quickly for me to decide, he takes my hand—thankfully it’s my good hand, not the one that gets all twisted up when I’m nervous, and brings it to his lips, Prince Charming style, and places a soft kiss, not on the back of it, rather on my palm, which sends huge shivers down the back of my neck.

He’s also done it slowly, with both of us turned to the side, so everyone—including the French girls and Patrick—can see. Like he did that on purpose to stake his claim on me or something,

*Dies. Double dies. Triple dies!*

I return Patrick’s half-worried but rather happy smile -of-approval when he waves to me from the dance floor. When one of the French girls leans in, probably to ask about me, he pulls her up close so his body goes right into hers. His eyes have left me and settle on Laura as he whispers into the French girl’s ear for a really long time until she giggles.

Harrison, who’s clueless, gives a low whistle. “Looks like Patrick’s settling on…is that girl’s name…Chloe? She’s a good choice. And very….” We all pause to watch her run her hands through Patrick’s jet-black hair. “Very…affectionate.”

Laura grimaces some but manages to hide what looks like obvious distress as she answers with a small, flippant shrug, “Yeah. Good for him.”

Harrison gently places my arm back on my crutch, and then puts his arm possessively around my shoulders. After pulling out his phone to glance at the time, or possibly check for a text, he says, “Shall we go? The food hall closes at nine. I’m buying.” He pulls out his WOA prepaid food card that we all have, which will allow us into the food hall and access to the unlimited food as long as the doors are open.

“You two have fun. I’ve promised to Skype home.” I think Laura’s about to cry or something, but before I can get a lock on her expression she’s already jetted down the hallway.

With Harrison’s arm still around my shoulders, we follow slowly. It’s not like I could chase her down, and I know her well enough to understand that if she is about to cry over Patrick, she’s going to want to be alone, because she totally gets that this is the bed she made for herself and now it’s time to lie in it. Me pointing that out will only make the situation suck even more.

That’s when my heart calms down enough to realize something is different about Harrison. “You don’t have your crutches!”

“I was wondering when you were going to say something.” Harrison holds up his metal black boot and grins. “I’m down to my last two weeks with this thing. Today I got full permission to go with only the boot unless I’m feeling tired. I’d jump for joy, but I’m not quite allowed to jump yet. Don’t want to re-injure. When do you get out of your gimp-mobility gear?”

My heart flips with dread, but I answer honestly and with my head held high. “The boot by the end of this summer, but the other stuff probably never, thanks to my CP.”

“Damn. Really? I don’t know anything about Cerebral Palsy. You aren’t in these crutches and having all these surgeries so you can be
cured
…or…whatever?”

I laugh, but it comes out sounding a little brittle. “No. There’s not a cure. And I’m so much better off than so many that there’s no way I’d ever complain.” I shrug. “I tried to go without one last year, but sadly, after these broken legs, I’ve learned I will always need something to support me, like a cane or crutches.”

“Something…or someone,” he says. “It’s not a big deal. Right?”

I don’t answer. Saying CP is not a big deal would be a lie, and explaining why it is a big deal is probably a first-date killer. It’s so strange to be with a guy who doesn’t know about me or my CP. I suddenly realize I miss my small town that I thought I hated. I understand just how much I took for granted back home. All of the people who’ve known everything about me and just how serious my Cerebral Palsy is since I was a little kid, are suddenly very dear to my heart. I’ve never had to explain who I am and what I have to live with to anyone on this level before.

Harrison’s gaze moves over me, as if staring at me and my legs can make him understand. As we turn and he lets me go first down the stairs, I wind up getting nervous and pause to look back at him. I catch his eyes doing the elevator thing up and down my legs. He meets my eyes, and then his gaze returns to the scars on the backs of my legs and the sides of my knees, where they’ve cut me open more than once to lengthen my tendons. I smile, and he smiles, rather stiffly and quite awkwardly, back at me.

I hope this walk will give him plenty of time to also get used to the scars on the back of my good ankle that, because they take longer to heal, are still a fire red from the most recent surgery. I suppose while we’re having ice cream I’ll have to explain all of them. Explain some of the types of CP. Show him how my hemiparesis makes one of my sides really weak. It’s today or never. If he can’t handle my Humpty Dumpty, patched-up, weeble-wobble body, he sure isn’t allowed to handle my heart.

When we reach the landing on the second floor, I stop to rest. Not wanting to admit my nervousness about him staring at my legs has gripped my bad side into a CP attack that’s making all of this way too difficult, I simply say, “Wow. Next time, maybe we could take the little elevator. I didn’t know how steep these steps would be.”

“Well, that’s my bad. I was so excited to clump down without my crutches, I didn’t even think of you. Forgive me?”

I nod. “Of course, as long as you forgive me for being so slow.”

“Does it, do they hurt—like, right now? The CP
and
the scars?”

“No. Not really. I’m just…tired.”

When I catch his gaze, I get that he knows I’m lying. I watch his eyes go up and down my form again, like he’s really finally understanding the permanence of my physical limitations, and it makes my chest ache with the anxiety I get when I wonder if someone’s going to reject me.

It was cute how we met with matching crutches and our black boots, but his boot goes away soon. His mobility problems are about to be a forgotten novelty.

When I’m allowed to take off my metal boot, it will simply reveal even more scars. It will show how my foot will turn in if I’m tired or having spasticity problems that day. I also won’t be able to hide how my leg twists and lurches when I walk during those CP events, either. I watch him carefully, grateful that I haven’t seen revulsion crossing his face as he looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

He even pauses overlong to stare at my fingers, which are resting on the crutches. My exhaustion has my left hand tangled up and curved in at their max, just how I didn’t want them to be. My arm’s so tired it’s twitching and shaking. I want to hide the whole thing behind my back, but I don’t. This is me. As is. And to be honest, this little arm twitch-and-shake is nothing compared to what my body’s truly capable of doing should it decide to flip out on me. If it weren’t for the crutches holding me up as they are right now, I think I’d be putting on a really good show.

When he’s looked too long, I sigh, which makes him startle and meet my gaze. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Harrison and I just hit the point where my Cerebral Palsy could build up between us like a wall. This happens a lot when I’m making non-CP friends. This wall means we will both need to decide if the friendship’s going to become something real. Something truly permanent.

His silence right now is a really good sign, actually.

The way my hand and fingers twist, the way my leg makes me lurch, startles people into blurting out all the wrong comments, and he hasn’t done that. My already heavy heart twists even more while, with him quietly looking on, I have to use my good hand to uncurl the tired left fingers in order to get them back around my left crutch so we can proceed down the next steps. My speed drops below snail-paced, and thankfully, he simply holds silent, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.

Even better, he doesn’t ask if I need
help.
He just waits.

We reach the last landing, and he opens the door for both of us to get into the hallway. Then he gently places his hand against the small of my back and falls into step beside me, moving his hand off and then back to the same spot as I crutch along next to him. It’s so sweet how he’s doing it, and the anticipation of how and where his fingers will touch me each time is giving me awesome goose bumps up and down my spine. I glance to the side and catch a glimpse of his twinkling cinnamon-brown eyes that match the little grin he’s smiling down at me. It’s a grin that says he’s well past my scars and that he knows he’s giving me goose bumps.

He’s so shameless. I want to call him out on it, but if I do he’s going to move that hand, and I want it there. I love that he’s said absolutely nothing and now he’s flirting with me, even after what I just went through in the stairwell.

*Personally vows to kick down all walls between us.*

As if my body can read my mind, my bad calf threatens to cramp and bring me to another standstill.

*Amendment: Personally vows to kick down all walls between us with the good leg, not the bad leg.*

The cramp releases along with half of my fears, and I find I’m breathing normally again.

Unfortunately, I’m feeling extremely vulnerable, because I try not to get close to people too quickly, and now Harrison feels too close. I can take it if
people
say all the wrong things to me, but Harrison’s suddenly not just
people
anymore. He’s the boy I’d hoped would fall for me. He’s the boy I’ve sworn to kiss today. All I want is for this to work so I can move on and feel like I’m moving on. I think—I know—Harrison Shaw is the key to all of that, and
I want…I want…

“Ellen…I have a question,” he whispers, startling me out of my thought tornado.

I gasp and shoot him a teasing glare, because his fingers have moved off the small of my back and now have ducked under the bottom edge of my blouse and are making the little circles against my bare skin. I try to play it all cool and act like he’s not the first guy ever to just put his bare hand on my bare back and get extra flirty with me like this.

Not even…not even…

*Forces mind to think: Harrison Shaw. Harrison Shaw. Harrison Shaw. Cute Harrison Shaw is right here in front of you, and he’s smiling at you like you’re a canary and he’s the cat who knows what he’s doing. And it’s super fun to be the canary right now. Be. In. This. Moment. Do not think of the past.*

I get myself together, and without even blushing, I pause with the key card in my hand and turn slightly to face him. “What kind of question do you have?”

*Prays: Don’t let this question be about CP.*

“Are you ticklish?” His fingers move off my back, but not far. They’re now more where I can feel their heat, and the anticipation of him possibly trying to tickle me has me laughing out loud. I want to hug him for flirting with me like this, for treating me like I’m just a normal girl he’s hitting on and for acting like how I lost it in the stairwell didn’t happen.

I try to move a bit away from him and bluff: “No. I’m not ticklish at all. So don’t bother trying.”

“I don’t believe you.” He’s kept our distance the same and has moved forward with me, and now he’s laughing a little, too. His warm breath is moving wisps of hair against the back of my neck, and his fingers have trailed to the curve of my waist. Then he presses them in just enough to make me jump and laugh even more.

“Okay. Okay, I’m ticklish.” It’s all I can do to hold on to my crutches. “Don’t make me fall! Please!” I squeal, laughing more.