Lessons in Falling Read online

  The grin expands. Two dimples deepen in his cheeks. “We’re in the same lunch.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  “And gym class.”

  “I totally knew that,” I lie. I spend the period passing the football with Cassie (when she’s there, that is; otherwise, I pair up with a random person). I’m surprised Marcos noticed we were in one period together, let alone two.

  He laughs like he knows I’m full of it. “See you tomorrow, Savannah.”

  I start up the car, the radio blasting, and pretend that I don’t notice him watching as I inch out of my spot.

  AFTER I PULL into my dad’s usual spot, I contemplate my choices:

  Go inside and move through a normal day, with a stern, public talking-to inevitably waiting from Dad.

  Spend the rest of Senior Cut Day hiding in my bedroom.

  I started off today with Failure to use proper judgment. Might as well see it through to the finish. So I tuck the keys behind the donut, cut through the woods, and walk the three miles home.

  I turn the doorknob slowly in hopes that the wind will mask my entrance. Wait. Listen. Repeat.

  “Look what I found,” my mother calls.

  Just like that. Busted.

  She emerges from the family room and eyes me sternly. She’s tiny, not a whisper over five feet, and in her US Army sweatshirt and sweatpants, she looks like a kid. It’s probably why the children at Dayshine Preschool love climbing on her; they think she’s one of them. “Dad was one step away from calling the police, but I suspected you were with Cassie.”

  “How much trouble am I in?”

  Her face relaxes ever so slightly. “If you help me clean up in here, I might be able to talk him down to twenty-five years.”

  It’s the sound from the family room, rather than the promise of a lighter sentence, that lures me further. Recorded cheering. The reverberation of feet slamming against springboards and launching into the air.

  On the carpet is a sea of my old gymnastics footage. Everything is color-coded by level: the Level 5 chronicles are in red, Level 6 and 7 are pink (I moved up a level mid-season and felt like a prodigy), Level 8 and 9 are blue, and Level 10 is green. I’d picked green because it meant go, except apparently for me, it meant get out of this sport.

  She gestures at the TV. “I love this one. Level–”

  “–Five State Championships. Yeah, that was classic.”

  “Look how cute you girls were.” The camera pans to a shot of my teammates and me standing in front of the judges before we competed on bars. I’m the shortest, my knees bouncing because I was that pain in the ass who needed to be moving all of the time. Next to me in height order are Ally, Monica, Jess, and finally Emery, always the best in our group. Even at age ten, she stood with confidence.

  Ten-year-old Savannah sprays water onto her hand grips. Then she’s jumping up and down on the springboard until Coach Vanessa, ever the disciplinarian, yanks her down. Next she’s warming up, moving from the low bar to the high bar with feet flexed and legs splayed. Coach Matt rolls his eyes because everyone knows that she’ll only show off her proper form when the judges are watching. She releases the bar, flips once, and lands flat on her back. On camera, Mom gasps.

  Now my mother smiles. “You won bars after that.”

  “Why are you looking through all of this stuff?”

  “Making the most of my vacation day.” She busies herself with filling up the glass cabinet under the TV.

  In the grand scheme, it’s better to see Mom enjoying these relics rather than stressing out over yet another news story. I’ll walk into the kitchen some mornings to find her zeroed in on the headlines: Roadside Bomb Kills 3; Reported PTSD Cases Rise; Troops Deployed to Trouble Spot. When my brother graduated from Notre Dame and headed to Fort Benning for Officer Candidate School, normal motherly concern surged into an anxiety that no amount of reassurances can calm.

  She’ll come home from work and say, “How was your day, sweetie? Good, good,” before I respond, and drift between the phone and the Internet, searching for any sign of my brother. Even with the phone pressed to her ear, I’ll hear the ringing on Richard’s end.

  Straight to voicemail is the worst. It could mean nothing. Richard could be off in a field in North Carolina, teaching the recruits to crawl on their elbows. When he’s deployed, it could mean that he’s the subtext behind those black-ink headlines, crouched low in the sand where no one can see him. On those days, we all retreat to our own spaces like an unspoken shelter-in-place. Mom treads lightly up and down the stairs as she says, “Maybe I’ll have better service here?” Dad escapes to the garage, spinning the wheels of his bicycle as he prepares for a trail ride. I used to flee to the gym, but now to my bedroom, laptop open and door closed.

  If Baby Gymnast Savannah wiping out puts Mom in a good mood, I’ll allow it.

  I join her on the carpet, handing over my color-coded Greatest Hits and Misses: Level 7 Long Island Classic (three falls on beam), Level 8 New England Invitational tweaked my shoulder on bars), Level 9 State Championships (third-place floor–major hit).

  Onscreen Savannah stands in front of the balance beam. For once, she’s not wiggling. She’s terrified. Good call, Baby Savannah. You were on to something. When she mounts the beam, she leaves behind sweaty footprints on the blue mat.

  “What do you think about NYU?” I say.

  Mom rocks back on her heels. “I’m sure you’ll get in.” Yet there’s no excitement in the way she says it, just caution. “It’s expensive, though.”

  “I might be able to get a scholarship.” Hopefully. Maybe.

  Mom’s lips twist in the way that means she needs to let me down gently. “You know, I wish you would”– I steel myself–“find something else that you enjoy. What if you try out for a school play?”

  “Have you heard me sing?”

  She fights back a smile. We both know it’s not for the faint of heart. “What about dance? Your floor routines were so beautiful.”

  Too close to gymnastics, and not close enough. “No, thanks.”

  There’s one last green label and Mom reaches it before I can. Her eyes widen ever so slightly.

  I know it before she says it.

  “Level Ten Regionals–”

  I turn away, ignoring the little voice that tells me I’m the one in trouble today, not her. “Throw it out. Burn it. I don’t care.”

  BEFORE MY KNEE, it was my shoulder. I taped bags of ice to it and gritted my teeth against the cold.

  Before my shoulder, it was my wrists. I wore matching braces, called Tiger Paws, on them every time I tumbled and vaulted. They prevented my wrists from stretching too far.

  Before my wrists, it was my back. “You’re too flexible,” the doctor told me. “You need to strengthen your core.” I did, to the point where Cassie announced in the locker room, “Your abs are bigger than your boobs.”

  I followed all of the rules. Every repetition of every exercise with the best form I could muster, shaking and sweating–I did all of it. Where did that land me? In a crumpled heap on the floor. The sad fact is that after one surgery and six months of rehabilitation, what’s to stop my knee from snapping again?

  There’s only one guarantee: stopping completely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “WILL THE FOLLOWING students please report to the assistant principal’s office? Savannah Gregory, Cascade Hopeswell…”

  In the godforsaken math wing, I know that my dad’s ears have perked up.

  On the way to the office, I halt. A janitor works to scrub off black ink on a row of orange lockers. Surrounding him are the safety signs that caution Wet floor! Piso mojado!

  He’s gotten the “F.” The rest reads, UCK YOU SPICS. Students press against the far side of the hallway as if they’re afraid the ink will touch them.

  The Y falls directly on Andreas’s locker, I know that–I’ve seen him bouncing back and forth from it numerous times. Roberto, rumored to sell weed in the boys’ bathroom, is u
sually on the other side right under the O, and Preston, ranked third in our class and courted by Ivy League schools for both his soccer skills and his brain, occupies the K.

  Ponquogue has changed since I was a kid and Richard was in high school. The influx of immigrant families moving here means there are now several Colombian and Mexican eateries (like Pav’s Place, for which we are all the better) on Main Street. When Richard was on the varsity soccer team, it was primarily a bunch of preppy white kids who grew up taking sailing lessons and then turned to a less expensive sport.

  Cassie’s beaten me to the office waiting area. “Did you see the lockers? Who the hell did that?”

  When I shake my head, she tugs her camera out of her bag. “Check it out.” Armed and ready to show Mr. Riley the fruits of her artistic labor.

  Cassie came to all of my meets and took photos. Her early ones were just-misses–me landing a dismount, coming out of a leap, grimacing as I ran toward the vault. Once she learned the timing, she caught me in the air. Feet kicking over my head, flipping over the balance beam, high-fiving my coach. Strong, flexible, confident. Too confident.

  When I scroll through the photos of my handstand, they move like stop-motion animation. Like all of Cassie’s photos, the balance is perfect and every detail is crisp. A wiggle, a waver–there comes the Frisbee.

  “It’s like a UFO.” Cass presses the forward button so that the Frisbee moves in, out, back again, and we’re cracking up when the office door opens and a freshman exits with his head down, clearly chastised.

  Crap.

  “Miss Gregory. Miss Hopeswell,” Mr. Riley greets us in his low, dark voice. He has the broad shoulders, cropped hair, and unwavering gaze of a Navy SEAL.

  I bite back the urge to speak before Mr. Riley can open his mouth. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley. Failing one’s road test seven times brings out the delinquent in a person.

  “Miss Hopeswell, I’d like to speak with you first.”

  Cassie grabs my arm. “Savannah goes with me.”

  “Miss Hopeswell, I’m afraid these discussions are confidential.” To Mr. Riley’s credit, his tone never changes.

  “I’m just going to tell her everything you tell me anyway.”

  Surprisingly, Mr. Riley chuckles. “If you’re sure.”

  Once we face him in identical metal chairs, he says, “Miss Hopeswell, there is the matter of your scholarly performance. Your chemistry, English, and precalculus teachers have expressed concerns about your academic output.” Mr. Riley makes each subject sound like doom. “You’re one absence away from failing physical education. It’s only October, Miss Hopeswell. You still have nine months of school.”

  Wait, what?

  Cass always digs in at the last minute; it’s her greatest source of inspiration. The essays that she types on her crumb-smeared laptop three minutes before the bell are excellent. Detailed and smart, posing probing questions. She achieves the “where did that come from?” score on final exams in math and science, showing hints of her father’s brilliant brain. She doesn’t hit rock bottom.

  Mr. Riley is mistaken.

  Isn’t he?

  I turn to Cassie for confirmation. Her mouth sets in a firm line as she stares straight at Mr. Riley. “Art schools don’t care about flag football.”

  Mr. Riley slaps the desk. We both jump. “Do you know how many students think they can slack because they’re talented in one area? There are thousands of applicants working for the same ten spots in art school, Miss Hopeswell. What if it doesn’t pan out? What will you do?”

  Bad, meet worse.

  She’s staring at her hands. Index finger bent. Crack. Repeat on right hand. Crack. Her bottom lip trembles, but she won’t give in. She won’t break the silence.

  My stomach feels as heavy as his words. I want to whisk Cassie out of here, say, “Thanks for your time and concern, but we’ll take care of this.” Whatever glitch has happened with Cassie, I’ll help her out of it. School’s the one thing I’m confident I can still do well. She’ll help me plan for our shenanigans-filled future in the city, and I’ll help get her through this.

  “Cassie and I were just talking about precalc.”

  Both of their heads turn toward me. My ears are already flaming–they might as well be throwing up smoke signals that say, “She’s lying!”

  I soldier forth. “She asked if I could tutor her because she’s been so busy working on her art school portfolio. We’re starting this weekend.”

  Mr. Riley offers a curt nod. “I’m pleased to hear that, Ms. Gregory.”

  Cass ceases cracking her knuckles. I can see the relief on her face. The lie worked.

  “Well, this has been great.” She stands.

  “Hold on.” Mr. Riley should voice movie trailers with that booming tone. Cassie freezes. “As for you, Ms. Gregory.”

  Oh, God. I steel myself for, I don’t know, my father turning me in himself.

  “The Board of Education wants to honor your PSAT scores from the spring.”

  Cassie snaps her head toward me.

  “Um, wow. That’s really, uh…” Last year, I’d had two goals: place at Level 10 Nationals and blow the SATs out of the water. So I’d studied like hell for the PSAT because although it wasn’t the real test, it’d bring me one step closer.

  Any sense of pride is obliterated by the way Cassie stares at me like I’ve betrayed her with my penciled-in answers.

  “You had the highest score in the grade,” Mr. Riley says, either obliviously or deliberately rubbing those words into my best friend’s heart with the sole of his stern black shoe. “Your commitment to your studies is impressive. Certainly Ms. Hopeswell will benefit from your assistance.”

  If I had the highest score, Cassie couldn’t have been far behind. Then again, with what Mr. Riley said about her classes… “Thank you,” I say. Hopefully that’s enough to conclude this conversation. “It’ll be mutually beneficial, I’m sure.”

  Cass says nothing. Doesn’t offer Mr. Riley a fake smile, an angry stare, even a long sigh. She doesn’t look at me either. There’s no lift of her eyebrows to show she’s ready to mock him when we’re alone again. Her entire face is expressionless.

  As soon as his door opens, she bolts out of the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “SAVANNAH, WAIT!”

  I whirl around without recognizing the voice– male and deep, though nothing like Mr. Riley’s.

  Marcos jogs up to me, backpack bouncing against his shoulders. “Do you have a second?”

  I need to find Cassie. With that chill in her eyes, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s stormed out the entrance like a hurricane, not bothering to stop at the front desk to sign out. There’s a chance I can still catch her.

  Marcos runs a hand through his unruly, dark curls. “I’m sorry again about yesterday. From here on out, I will make sure that no Frisbees come your way without your permission.”

  Before I can stop myself, my lips lift in a half-smile. That’s enough for his shoulders to relax. Broad shoulders that nicely fill out his red T-shirt without the “I’m so jacked” swagger of other guys in my grade.

  “Glad to see that chivalry’s not dead after all,” I say.

  He laughs, dimples deepening. Any last vestiges of annoyance from yesterday are swept away by that laugh.

  “I’m looking for Cassie.” I glance over my shoulder in case I catch gold hair and a bright yellow dress fluttering past the windows.

  “Oh, yeah, I just saw her. Looked like she was heading toward the courtyard.”

  Safely surrounded by four walls. I exhale. It’s not that I don’t trust Cassie behind the wheel; it’s just that, even in the best of times, she’s the definition of “distracted driver.”

  He grips his backpack straps like he’s gearing up for something. “Um, I dropped something off at the office and overheard part of your conversation with Mr. Riley. The part about tutoring.”

  In twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from never talking to this guy to him
taking an active role in my life. A disruptive one, I might add. “Oh, yeah, Cassie doesn’t actually need tutoring.” She needs me right now, though. I know that much.

  “How much do you charge?”

  I need to shake him off. I have a best friend to find. “You’re better off asking my dad.”

  He smiles and that crooked tooth somehow emphasizes the warmth of his grin even more, like an exclamation point. “That’s why Mr. Riley congratulated you on your PSAT score, right?”

  Which then sent Cassie sprinting out of the room.

  “Sorry,” he says, sensing my impatience. “I need to get my GPA up for this free tuition scholarship at Suffolk.” He hikes up his backpack onto his shoulders. “I don’t have much cash, but I work at Pav’s. I can hook you up with free fajitas.”

  What does it say about me that I’m not swayed by his dimples, his callused hands, but by the prospect of sizzling hot chicken wrapped in a warm corn tortilla? “Okay, deal. Let’s talk in gym.”

  “Thank you, Savannah!” he calls from behind me as I take off, causing several freshmen to look at us and giggle.

  BY THE TIME I throw open the door to the courtyard, the bell has rung for fifth period and I’m certain the door to my Spanish class has already been slammed shut. Tarde, Señora Gutierrez will cluck.

  Cassie leans back against the white stone ring around the fountain, face tilted to the sun. Her yellow dress and pale skin glow in the light.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up.” Her voice is staccato.

  I join her on the stone and wince. It’s chilly, even in my jeans. How the hell she’s sat out here in a dress for this long is beyond me. “I was intercepted by Marcos Castillo.”

  Normally any mention of a guy is enough to get Cassie grinning and elbowing me. Today, nothing.

  “I’m sorry about Mr. Riley,” I say. Was it my fault? No. I didn’t ask him to embarrass both of us. But I am sorry that she had to sit there while the assistant principal played us off one another.

  Her voice is as empty as the fountain. “At least you got him to shut up.”