Lost in the Sun (10 page)

But Fallon clearly didn't care about my sighing.

“I was deep-sea scuba diving,” she started, “and this manatee came up to me, swimming right side by side. It was so cool, you can't even imagine. Just me and nature. And then all of a sudden, he turned his head to look at me, and I saw that he had this
look
in his eyes, like he was a soulless beast. And before I could swim away, he
whacked
me with his flipper, right here.” She karate-chopped the air, right between our two faces. I flinched, and she howled with laughter. “You like that one?” she asked, spinning back around to walk forward again. She almost tripped over Squillo. “‘Soulless beast'?”

There were kids playing baseball, over on the ball field. I steered us left so we wouldn't pass them.

“Hey, Fallon?” I said, after a minute or two.

“Yeah?” She was walking just a few feet to my right, plucking leaves off the trees as we passed underneath and shredding them between her fingers. She didn't look at me. I wondered if she knew what I was going to ask.

“How did you get your scar?” I said. “I mean, for real? No stories.”

I didn't have to see her face then. I knew, by the way her breath stopped, for just a beat, that I shouldn't have asked. She was mad.

“I'm sorry,” I said softly.

“It's okay,” she said. She was trying to sound like it didn't matter.

It mattered.

“You don't have to tell me,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “I'm not going to.”

“Okay.”

She grabbed Squillo's leash then, right out of my hands, and the two of them were in my way, stopped still, so I had to stop, too. “Not because it's some big secret or anything,” she told me. “That's not why I'm not going to tell you. It's too boring, the real story. Not interesting at all. And once you know, then that's it.” She poofed one hand out in front of her, like she was performing a magic trick. “No mystery.” She smiled that lopsided smile at me. “And where's the fun in that?”

“Yeah,” I said. Because I knew that's what I needed to say. “I'd rather have the mystery.”

“Exactly. Promise me you won't ask again. It would ruin it.”

“I promise,” I told her. And I meant it.

She turned back around, and started walking back toward the house. I waited a second before I followed her.

•   •   •

That night, during the first inning, one of the Rockies hit a fly ball, straight to shallow center field. It should've been an easy catch, only something wasn't right. The centerfielder had his glove raised high, but he wasn't moving towards the ball.

“What's he doing?” I shouted, scooching forward on the couch to yell at the TV better. “What's he—?”

That's when the ball sailed right over the guy's head—and I mean,
right
over. He still had his glove extended, just hanging out there, useless, in the air, while the ball zipped past him, only a few inches away.

“He missed it!” I slapped my leg, angry. “It was right there, and he totally missed it!”

Next to me, my mom just shook her head. “He couldn't see the ball,” she said. “It must've been lost in the sun.” And that's when I realized that the centerfielder hadn't been trying to catch the ball at all—he'd been using his glove to shield his eyes.

“But it was right
there,
” I whined, watching the centerfielder turn around and chase pathetically after the ball as it rolled all the way to the warning track. “He
had
it. If he'd just shifted even a little, he would've caught it easy.”

Mom shrugged. I thought she'd be more mad about missing the out—usually she screamed at the players louder than anybody. But this time she only said, “You can't catch what you can't see, Trent.” And we went back to watching the game.

The Dodgers lost by one run.
One run.

Stupid sun.

There sure were a lot of movies about baseball. Over the next week and a half, Fallon and I watched
A League of Their Own
,
Bad News Bears
,
42
,
Rookie of the Year
, and
Angels in the Outfield.

(I caught an error in that last one that even Fallon didn't see: After Ray Mitchell hits his home run at the end, he totally doesn't touch home plate, which means the run wouldn't even count! Fallon was pretty impressed with me for that one.)

Fallon said we could keep going for a thousand years if we wanted to, but I knew we'd have to stop soon. The first day of intramural baseball was on Monday, and once that started, I'd have to give up Movie Club. Which I never expected I'd be sad about, but it turned out I sort of was.

On Friday after the movie ended, we took Squillo for a walk again, and I was trying to figure out how to tell Fallon about intramural
baseball without her getting mad at me, but she started talking as soon as we stepped outside the door, so I didn't really have a chance.

“My birthday's tomorrow.” That's what she told me.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. I don't know why. A person can have a birthday any old day, obviously. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Want to come to my party? We're going to Castle Park.” Castle Park wasn't too far away, and they had miniature golf and video games and bumper cars and a couple of roller coasters, too. It was pretty fun. Fallon stopped walking while Squillo peed on a tree. “You have to come,” she said. “It's going to be really fun.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked. She nodded.

Tomorrow was Dad's company picnic. He would murder me if I tried to bail.

“Okay,” I told Fallon.

“Yeah?” Her eyes lit up on either side of her scar.

“Yeah.” I'd've wanted to go anyway, even if it didn't mean turning my dad into a raging lunatic. It turned out Fallon wasn't too bad to hang out with.

But the raging lunatic dad part was a plus, I have to admit.

“Be at my house at nine,” she said. “My parents are driving.”

•   •   •

“Fine.”

That's what my dad said when I told him I couldn't join him and Doug and Kari and the company picnic that weekend because of a “Movie Club field trip.” No screaming, no scolding. Just . . . “fine.”

“Fine?” I asked. I guess I was a little surprised.

“Fine,” he said again. “You don't want to see me, Trent? Then I don't want to see you. Tell your mother.”

That was it. He hung up the phone.

I guess I wasn't too sad I didn't get screamed at, but still. You'd think most dads would've done a little bit of screaming.

•   •   •

I was the only person at Fallon Little's birthday party. Well. Besides Fallon, obviously. And her parents.

“Where's everyone else?” I asked when we piled into the car. Fallon was wearing the ugliest pair of jeans I'd ever seen, with glittery flowers all over them. Her top was normal, though—plain blue. Her hair was pulled back into two frizzy pigtails. “Are they meeting us there?”

“You're the only person I invited, nimrod,” Fallon told me.

I guess I should've been flattered by that, but instead I was kind of confused. Why didn't Fallon have any friends? She was nice. And funny. Weird, but you know, who wasn't?

Well. I guess she had
one
friend.

“Did you bring me a birthday present?” she asked as her dad started up the car.

“Fallon!” her mom scolded, shifting around in the front seat to face us in the back. Fallon's mom wasn't intimidating like her husband. She was short and skinny, with long curly brown hair, like Fallon's, but like she'd figured out how to unfrizz it. She seemed really friendly, too.

“What?” Fallon answered. “It's my birthday. I'm supposed to get presents.”

I stuck my hands underneath me so I was sitting on them, then realized that was weird and moved them. “I forgot,” I said. “I mean, you didn't give me much time.”

Fallon stuck her lip out. “That's fine,” she said, after a second of thinking about it. “You owe me a cotton candy then.”

“Sure,” I said, because that sounded fair to me. But Fallon's mom turned around again and rolled her eyes in that teasy mother way and said, “You don't owe her anything, Trent. We're very glad to have you.”

When we were on the highway and the wind was whipping through the sliver of open windows in the front seat so her parents couldn't hear, Fallon leaned across the gap in the seat and told me, “You
owe
me a cotton candy.”

I just laughed.

•   •   •

Fallon's parents pretty much left us alone once we got to Castle Park, which was good, I thought, because I wasn't really looking forward to hanging out all day with a gigantic silent cop who looked at you like he could kill you with his eyeballs. They gave Fallon and me a wad of ride tickets and Fallon another wad of cash, and told us where to meet up with them later.

“What do you think they're going to do all day?” I asked Fallon as we raced off to the Viking Voyage roller coaster. (Fallon, as it turned out, was nuts for roller coasters.) “Play video games?” I couldn't exactly picture that.

“They're probably going to do miniature golf,” Fallon told me. “Because they're old and boring, and that's the most boring thing in the park. Or people-watching. Mom likes to people-watch.”

It was still early, so the line for Viking Voyage wasn't too long. When we got through the turnstile, Fallon grabbed my arm and raced me to a seat on the far end. “You get to see the most over here,” she told me as she strapped herself in. “This is where it's the scariest.”

Fallon was right about that. The Viking Voyage whipped us up sideways like a swing—higher, higher, higher—until finally we were completely upside down, and then it left us there, hanging, for what felt like ten minutes. I could feel the blood draining into my head as we hung there. Next to me, Fallon's frizzy hair was hanging wild.

“Isn't this awesome?” she called over to me while we were still upside down. Her scar was darker than normal, bright eggplant purple, from all the blood in her face, I guess.

She was grinning like it was the best day of her life.

I laughed. I'd never met anyone who looked so at home on a roller coaster as Fallon Little.

By the time we were ready for lunch, we'd done all the roller coasters twice, and the Killer Vortex four times. We got in line for hot dogs, and while we were squirting ketchup and mustard on our dogs at the condiments stand, Fallon said, “You know where I really want to eat lunch? On the bumper cars.”

I thought eating lunch on the bumper cars was weird enough. But when I followed Fallon's gaze over to where she was looking, I thought it was even weirder.

“The bumper cars are closed,” I told her. There was a rope over the entrance part, and a sign that said
CLOSED FOR REPA
IRS—SORRY!

“Oh.” Fallon waved a dismissive hand at the sign and rewrapped her ketchup-ed hot dogs in foil. Grabbed her soda off the stand. “They'll never notice.”

“But—” I began. We couldn't just
break into the bumper cars.
But I didn't want to say that, because that would sound lame.

“What's the worst that could happen?” Fallon asked me.

“Uh, we could get kicked out of the park,” I said. “They could call the cops on us.”

Fallon only shrugged at that. “We've already gone on every roller coaster,” she said, like that was a good argument. “And my dad
is
the cops. Come on. It's my birthday.”

She grabbed my arm so quick, I barely managed to take my hot dogs and soda with me.

It was surprisingly easy to sneak into the bumper car cage. We waited until no one was looking, and then we stepped over the rope and scuttled over to the farthest car, against the fence, squeezing ourselves inside.

“Cheers,” Fallon said, clinking her soda against mine.

“Happy birthday,” I told her.

“You still owe me a cotton candy,” she replied, taking an enormous bite out of her hot dog. Then she turned to look at me, ketchup and mustard smeared all over her chin. “Do I have something on my face?” she asked, pretending she didn't know.

I laughed.

It might've been the best birthday party I'd ever been to.

“So,” Fallon asked me as I bit into my first hot dog. “What movie do you want to watch on Monday?”

I frowned. “About that . . . ,” I said. She waited, head tilted to the side, for me to answer.

It was a little weird, being squeezed in so tight inside a bumper car with someone when you weren't actually
going
anywhere. Not bad, exactly. Just . . . weird.

I sighed. It was time to tell her.

“I think I'm going to start intramural baseball on Monday,” I said.

“That's great!” Fallon said. I guess I must've looked surprised at that, because she said, “I mean, not great about Movie Club. That stinks. But great for you, because you like baseball.” It seemed like she was studying my face for a moment. “Wait. Why do you
think
you're going to join? If you want to do it, just do it.”

Like it was that simple. Like everything in Fallon Little's world was so simple.

“I'm going to,” I told her. “I will.” I took another bite of hot dog. Swallowed. “I mean, I want to.”

“So
do
it, nimrod. It's intramurals. You don't even have to try out. They let, like, monkeys on the team if they want to play. Anyway, you're good at sports, so what are you worried about?”

I squinted an eye at her over my hot dog. It was no use trying to explain things to Fallon. No one who felt so at home on a roller coaster would ever understand being petrified of something as stupid as clammy arms.

“How do you know I'm good at sports?” I said instead.

She swallowed. “Small town,” she reminded me.

“Oh.”

I finished up my first hot dog, then wadded up the foil into a tight ball. Fallon grabbed it from me and threw it at the trash can across the bumper car lot. She missed by a mile.

“
You,
” I told her, “are
not
good at sports.”

She laughed.

We ate our second hot dogs without talking. When we were finished, Fallon tried to toss all the foil wrappers, one by one, into the trash can. She missed every shot. After that she grabbed the wheel of the bumper car and pretended we were driving for a while, making
vroom-vroom!
noises and
beep-beep!
s and crashes and
Get outta our way!
s.

All at once, she set her hands in her lap.

“Is it because of what happened with Jared?” she asked me.

Just like that, I could feel tiny dots of sweat beading up on my arms.

“What?” I asked, tugging the sleeves of my T-shirt down as far as they would go.

Fallon was looking at me, right in the eyes. Not mean. Just thoughtful. Curious. “Is it because of what happened with Jared Richards last year?” she asked. “Is that why you're afraid to play sports now?”

It wasn't last year, I wanted to tell her. It was this past February. Just seven and a half months ago. Not even long at all.

But what I said was “You wouldn't get it.”

Fallon returned her hands to the steering wheel. But she didn't make any fake bumper car sounds. “It was an accident, right?” she said, tilting her head again to study my face. I nodded. Cold sweat, clinging to my arms. I wished I knew how to stop the sweating. “Then, Trent.” She shook her head, like she'd made up her mind about something for good. “It's okay. That could've happened to
anybody.
It's not like you did it on purpose.”

I looked at her hands on the wheel. Calm hands. I bet Fallon wasn't afraid of anything. “It doesn't matter if it was on purpose or not,” I told her softly.

I don't know why I told her that.

I hadn't meant to tell her.

“Of course it matters!” Fallon said. She said it so loud, I had to inch away from her in the bumper car, just to save my ears. She lowered her voice a little. “It's not like you walked up and stabbed somebody, Trent. You hit a hockey puck while you were playing hockey. People do that all the time. You didn't do anything wrong. You got unlucky.”

I shook my head. She didn't get it. No one ever got it. My mom didn't. My dad sure as hell didn't. Miss Eveline never had a shot at understanding. “But I still
did
it,” I said. “If I hadn't been playing hockey that day on that lake at that second, then Jared Richards would still be alive. Annie would still have an older brother. His parents would still have a son. Who knows, maybe he'd grow up and solve world hunger or something. There's one less person in the world, all because of me.”

“Yeah, but you don't really
know
all that,” Fallon said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean”—she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel—“if you hadn't been there, if you hadn't hit that hockey puck, maybe Jared would've fallen through the ice the very next second and died anyway. Or maybe, if Jared hadn't been there, and you
had
hit that hockey puck, you would've hit someone else, and blinded
that
person for life. You can't know. You just can't know what would've happened.”

She was sounding like my Book of Thoughts. Like a list of what-ifs. But in the real world, there were no what-ifs.

“I know what
did
happen.”

What Fallon was going to say next, what everyone always said next—Mom, Miss Eveline, everyone who'd ever tried to talk to me about it since February—was that I had to stop thinking about it so much. That I had to stop making myself feel guilty, because I wasn't guilty, not really.