The Girl Who Fell (4 page)

On the raised patio, two kegs are positioned on opposite sides, like always. I don't drink. Control issues.

“Captain Fantastic!” Shane Taylor calls. He's manning the keg, handing out cups. He fills one, passes it to me. “You drink for free tonight, Zephyr Doyle.” Shane swims in his own smile.

“Thanks.”

He raises his cup in a toast. “Legendary.”

“Told you,” Lizzie says, nudging me.

“Right as usual.”

Someone walks behind me, pats me on the back. “Great game, Doyle.”

I look at Lizzie and laugh. “When did students at Sudbury start giving a shit about field hockey?”

“It's not the game, Zee. It's the fame. Everyone wants to be affiliated with a winner. Tonight, you're a winner.”

Lani bounces in front of us and I have to take a step back from her energy. “Great game, Zephyr.”

“Thanks.”

But Lani's looking past me. “Is Slice here?”

“No clue.”

“Oh. Okay. Well . . . Can you tell him I'm looking for him when you see him?”

“Will do.”

“Okay, see ya!” Lani cheers and bounds off.

“Being ignored by Lani Briggs could be the biggest compliment of my life,” Lizzie says.

“Hah! If I could be so lucky.” I search the crowd. “I do suspect Gregg's behind this jock marketing campaign, though.”

“Yeah, well, he's here somewhere. Nowhere else to go in Suckbury.”

“I know, right.”

We duck into the house, where I dump my beer and fill my cup with water to disguise the fact that I'm a total party dork. The rooms are packed and the music is too loud, and when Lizzie tells me she needs to use the facilities, I need air. “Meet me outside when you're done.” I have to scream to be heard over Rihanna. Lizzie nods and I head out to our spot at the edge of the lawn, turn my back to the evergreens and feel comfortable hiding in the shadows. I like the distance. From here, I spy the already-wasted football team pooled around the kegs and the girls fawning. And Alec.

He leans against the house, three girls hanging on his every word. I can see their smiles and their too many hair flips. I lean forward, pulled by warped interest.

“Hey!” Gregg appears behind me and I jump. Cold water splashes over my wrist. “Man, what is with you lately?”

I blot the water off my skin with my jacket sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“You were jumpy in French class too.” I smell the beer on his breath, recognize the way his words stumble out slower than usual.

“Don't sneak up on me and I won't jump.”

“So . . . o . . . rry.” He bats his eyes. “Forgive me, Zeph?”

“Always.”

He takes a sip of beer, looks out into the crowd. “Where's Lizzie?”

“Bathroom break. But Lani's looking for you.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“Probably because she's in love with you.”

“Not my type.” He swigs another sip. “So how are you enjoying your fame?”

I fan my arm around my deserted space. “I prefer the sidelines.”

“Not comfortable with stardom? Inconceivable. How is it that we're friends, again?”

“Hilarious.” I throw an eye roll.

“Well, I think you had an amazing season.”

I shift my feet, uncomfortable. I'm not the hugest fan of compliments, something Gregg knows. “I had help.”

“Oh right. I forgot that you're blandly ordinary and your team pretty much carried you.” He smiles over the ridge of his cup.

“Your accuracy is impressive.” I nod toward the house. “Looks like Alec's making friends.” Two of the girls have moved closer to Alec. “So is it true he got expelled for having a girl in his dorm?”

“Fact. Why? Is that important?”

“Not to me. Lizzie's writing an exposé.”

“Classic, right? One of the most interesting things to happen here didn't even happen here.”

“Classic indeed.” I take a sip of water, the cold shocking my insides. “How long have you guys been friends? I've never heard you mention him before.” My curiosity about Alec surprises me.

“His peeps moved here last year. We share ice when he's home on break but I'm one of the only dudes he knows in town.”

“Bummer for him,” I say, and laugh.

Gregg puts his arm around me and squeezes. “Enough about Alec. How about you? Things cool?”

I lean into him in our comfortable way. I know he's asking about my home life. Olivia. The Missing Link that is/was Dad. I pull in a deep breath, prepared to blow the entire update his way, get his take on the unfolding madness. “Olivia's meet—”

But then my words are stolen.

Gregg's mouth presses onto mine, evaporating sound between us. His cheek stubble pricks against my skin. He thrusts his tongue between my lips and it meets mine, furiously searching. I pull back, shove my palm against the thick ridge of his collarbone.

“What was that?” Shock ripples through me in a way I thought impossible only moments ago. Gregg tilts his head and settles it onto my shoulder.

“Go out with me, Zeph.” A plea whispered into the crook of my neck.

I slink out from under the weight of his drunk head and he scoops me to his tree trunk chest. My feet dangle in midair. He pushes “Zeph” into my ear. Half of me shivers from the intensity of being held by his strong arms. The bigger half of me can't believe this is happening because it's Gregg. My friend-since-preschool-Gregg.

“Put me down.”

He eases my feet to the grass.

My voice falls soft. “You kissed me.”

“I know. It was a little more one-sided than I'd planned.”

“Planned?”

“I—” he starts, but something rustles behind us. Lizzie.

“You two look cozy,” she says.

Gregg staggers backward, looking as disoriented as I feel.

“Sober much?” Lizzie laughs, showing no signs she saw the kiss. The kiss that was planned. Oh god.

Gregg stares at his empty hands. “I-I need to grab a beer.” He turns quickly, heads toward the patio. I pull my sleeve over my hand and blot my mouth, wishing I had a stronger drink to wash away the taste of Gregg—Gregg, who's practically my brother.

Lizzie arches her eyebrows. “Is it something I said?”

“No, I think he just . . .” But I don't know how to process the last two minutes, let alone make an excuse for Gregg's behavior. I grab Lizzie's beer, swig a sip, and shove the cup back into her hand.

“Whoa. What's gotten into you?”

“I think I want to bail.” I can't drink enough to forget that kiss, but maybe Gregg will. Maybe he already has.

“We can leave if that's what you want. Things have to be pretty messed up for you right now.”

Major understatement. “I need to go.”

On the drive home, Lizzie doles out supportive advice about the recent development with my parents in the way I've come to depend on, but tonight I only half listen. I'm too floored by Gregg's kiss to focus on much else.

I retreat to my room and lock the door. Lying on my bed, my brain cyclones with thoughts of men and boys and boys and men. All making the wrong choices.

•  •  •

Gregg's kiss haunts me all Saturday morning, so I ditch my homework and run. A lot. Just like I always do when too many issues creep up that are beyond my control. When I return to our long dirt driveway I stop to stretch against the pole that is supposed to hold up a green Ashland Drive sign, but the lonely metal rod stands as bare as the surrounding trees.

A twig cracks in the far distance. A deer, probably. The quiet of our forest is a comfort after the chaos of Waxman's party. A bit of thankfulness surges in me for Dad deciding to buy so much property. But then I remember that this wooded seclusion and me and Mom wasn't what Dad wanted after all. Or is it? A chill licks my insides as I reach for the mailbox, duck my hand into its mouth, and retrieve the stack of letters. All bills. Some with Dad's name.

Inside the house, Mom's sitting at the kitchen island studying
Gardeners' Supply Catalog
. My skin drips with a heated layer of sweat. All I want to do is take a shower, but Mom asks me to sit. Instead, I stretch my hamstrings. Again.

“I wanted to fill you in on my dinner with your father last night. He misses you, Sunshine.”

I miss him too.
The words are hard enough to admit inside the protected shell of my brain. I can't imagine giving them to the world.

“He wants to be in your life again. And I hope you're open to the idea.”

“Well, I'm not. I'm still pretty pissed off.”

“Language.” She gives me a manners-reminding stare and stands. “Having a relationship with your father is important. More important than anything going on in your life right now, whether you can see that or not.”

“It's pretty hard to see past him bailing on us.” And can you even start over with your own father?

Her face hardens with thought. “Maybe it's time you start focusing on what your future will be like if you can't welcome some forgiveness.”

But how can I when my brain is busy obsessing over all the reasons my father didn't think me worthy of sticking around?

“You should know he has an apartment in Concord. For now.”

An hour away. Then . . . “For now? What does that mean?”

Mom gathers her catalog and stacks it with the others. Her “future gardens” as she calls them. “It's a little early to say, but that shouldn't be your main concern. You need to focus on the relationship you want to have with him. You're an adult now, Zephyr.”

Being reminded of my eighteenth birthday shifts the walls inward, devours oxygen. “Mom, I can't see him. Not now. I can't deal with hearing about why he left or why he's back.” My heart's still breaking over the why he left part.

“Zephyr—”

“No, Mom. If you see him, that's fine. That's between you and him and whatever.”

Mom folds her arms across her chest like she's holding in all the rest of the stuff she wants to say. But she keeps it locked in. Instead, she tells me, “I know you'll do the right thing.”

The weight of her expectations crumbles me. I've always done the right thing. She expects me to make good choices but I don't even know what good choices look like after being abandoned by my father. His note had the edges of a serrated knife, tearing through the bond we'd once shared, carving out Before and After.

I escape to the shower and when I get out, I text Lizzie that I'm not feeling great, which isn't a total lie and it's enough to excuse me from tonight's limited Sudbury social scene. I bury myself in English and trig for the rest of the weekend, and obsess over why Gregg hasn't answered my “You around?” text.

“Do you think things are still cool between us?” I ask Finn, who's stretched out on the bed next to me, his head on my pillow. I nuzzle close to his face. “Do you think Gregg was too drunk to remember the kiss?” I interpret Finn's slobbering lick across my lips as a definitive no.

By Monday I'm practically crawling out of my skin from Gregg's silent treatment. I can't even name the last time I went a day without a text from him, let alone an entire weekend. Does he hate me? Blame me? I'm so preoccupied with bracing myself for seeing him in French last period that the last thing I expect is Alec waiting for me at my locker. “Uh . . . hi.”

“Hi yourself.” He must read the question in my eyes because he says, “Mind if I walk with you? I thought it might be good if we started over. Our introduction wasn't exactly epic.”

“Yeah, not my finest moment.”

“It's all good. I'm in a position to be very forgiving considering you and Slice are the extent of my social connections in this school.”

I hate the way my heart dips when I hear Alec mention Gregg.

Alec wiggles his French textbook before letting it hang smoothly by his hip, a gesture I try not to notice. “I've been studying.”

I grab my own book and slam my locker closed. “Yeah?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “In an attempt to master the language as you have.”

A laugh betrays me and slips right past my lips as we move down the hall.

“Seriously though, it's intimidating to be in an AP French class when I've never taken it before.”

“You've never taken French?”

“Nope. I've studied Latin since, like, the third grade. I can tell you anything you want to know about noun declension. Impressive, right?”

I try to force back a growing smile, but it's hard to tame.

“But French, now that's tricky. As you so brilliantly displayed last week.”

“I wasn't exactly paying attention.”

His eyes widen. “Distracted?”

“Bird watching.”

“Lucky bird.”

Huh. “So how did you get into this class? If you've never taken French before?” I ask as Mrs. Sarter's room comes into view.

“I scored high on the placement test. I used my Latin and a lot of educated guessing. Who said dead languages are useless?”

Dead languages. Like the dead silence between me and Gregg. I shake the thought from my head.

We enter the classroom and take our seats at the back. I open my book, pretend to review. Gregg's homemade card for free French tutoring flutters to the floor. And that's when I see him in the front row, chatting it up with Suzanne Sharper, his charm turned on high. Mrs. Sarter calls the class to order and Gregg twists in his seat, like he's supposed to be in the front row. Like he's always been in the front row.

•  •  •

Gregg successfully ignores me the rest of the day, despite my best efforts to catch him coming out of class or run into him at lunch. It's like he's changed all of his patterns just to avoid me, an observation that makes my stomach coil. I remember the same sinking feeling in the weeks after Dad left, the way I'd search for him in the aisles at the grocery store or through the windows of passing cars. I don't want Gregg to slip away like Dad did.