The Rarity of Falling

by Leeann M. Shane

  When Coach called practice, I was the only person disappointed.

  “We’re hitting the gym tomorrow for practice,” Coach called. “Some of you need work on your stamina.”

  A few guys chuckled. “I got a lot of stamina,” Ryles teased, grabbing his junk.

  I weaved around him, not taking my skates off after putting the covers on the blades. I couldn’t afford to wear my skates out, but I couldn’t stand being around my team either. I burst through the doors for the locker rooms and sank down on the bench, trying to calm my racing pulse. I was wound up, ready to play for a few more hours, but Coach was right. Most of the guys weren’t ready to push themselves and doing so would only hurt us later on down the road. Stamina was a gradual build of lasting.

  I tore my helmet off and plunged a hand through my sweaty hair.

  “I’ll announce the captain tomorrow,” Coach bellowed. “Miss practice and don’t bother showing again.”

  “Who do you think is going to be captain?” Ryles asked, because we all knew he wanted it to be him.

  “Who do you think?” Martin muttered and the locker room quieted.

  I glanced over, finding most of the team looking at me. I grunted and stood, not wanting to be a part of that conversation. I grabbed a towel and took off for the showers, but not before I caught the beginning of their conversation.

  “He doesn’t even talk to us,” Martin said. “It’s like we’re all in his way on the ice.”

  “We are,” someone agreed, laughing. “Look, do you want to win, or do you want to paint our nails and gossip? Bishop’s a little cold, but he’s the best player. He should be captain.”

  I cranked the water on, tuning out their words. Truth was, I didn’t want to be captain. I didn’t want the responsibility. I wanted to play, needed to play. The camaraderie side of things wasn’t in my blood. But I had this bad feeling Coach disagreed. He’d make me captain and I’d have to… I didn’t know… interact more, think of things to say, be the leader—I wasn’t a leader. I was a lone wolf who craved a sport that was a pack.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  I got dressed as fast as I could, grabbing my gear and heading out to my car. The stadium was a few miles away from campus. Fall was in the air, and the cool air made my damp hair feel like ice. I shivered and got into my car, cranking up the heater. My stomach growled like a beast and I rummaged in my front seat for something, finding a half-empty bag of jerky.

  Food at my foster parent’s place was scarce. They had teenagers to support on government checks and that was a dime stretched thin. I worked during off-season, but when hockey was on, I couldn’t afford the extra weight of responsibility. Not to mention that if I worked, my grades would slip, and I’d be off the team anyway. I got free lunch at school, but breakfast and dinner were on me.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do once I turned eighteen in a few months, and my foster parents kicked me out and replaced me with another check, but I’d have to figure it out soon.

  Not wanting to go home any time soon, I went to the library. It was in the middle of town. I always thought the placement was intentional. It was the epicenter of the city. Hungry, rich, poor, alone—the library was in the middle of that, on neither side. Snobby kids from the rich side of town hung out with kids like me. It was open to ten most nights, so I liked to melt into the wallpaper and get my homework done before going home.

  I found an unoccupied table on the second story near the back. The second floor was called the reading room, but I’d never seen anyone actually read. There were computers, tables, and vending machines. My stomach growled again, and I shook off the beginnings of starvation. It was hard to stay fed with my appetite anyway. I set my things out and then searched through every crevice, coming away with a dollar and some change. I picked a pack of Skittles and set to keeping my grades up.

  The last assignment that went untouched was my home economics.

  In all honesty, that probably hadn’t gone as well as it could have. But I couldn’t help myself and Ava hadn’t really tried. I’d do better on my own, instead of having to work with another person. It was hard to get my lips to move, hard to forge a thought when no one had ever cared. I’d found a way to exist that worked for me.

  But Miss Barter was trying to ruin it.

  I was just packing up when I felt eyes on me. I paused, scanning the room. It was almost nine; most of the room had cleared out. There was a group of girls in the front near the computers and another group of guys by the windows. The girls by the computers were all looking away, which meant they’d probably been the ones who I felt watching me.

  One looked over, catching me catch them. Ava smiled uncomfortably and rolled her eyes, smacking her friend’s shoulder like the jig is up. I reminded myself not to think of her in public again or else she might appear.

  I shouldered my bag and hit the water fountain near the door, drinking half my body weight.

  “How rude,” I heard Ava’s friend whisper-shout. “He’s not even going to come say hi to his new wife?”

  Everyone was taking that assignment so literally. It was a paper. Not a promise.

  But I compiled every bit of social interaction I had left in me and stopped walking. I turned around and approached her table. I couldn’t remember what a nice smile felt like, so I tried my best.

  The girl closest to me leaned away.

  Ava frowned at me. “What’s wrong with your lips?”

  I gave up and glowered. Ah, that’s better. “Are you already desperate for attention? We’ve been married for less than twelve hours.”

  The friend on her right’s mouth popped open. “Dude, you’re right. He’s a total waste of a handsome face.”

  My brows drew down. “You said that?” I looked crossly at Ava.

  She blushed. “Not in those words exactly.” She must’ve stepped on her friend’s foot under the table because she jerked and scooted away. “I was thinking we should exchange numbers. You know, for the project.” She wiggled her ring finger at me.

  I raised my hand. I’d forgotten to put it back on after practice.

  “Where’s your ring?” she demanded.

  I rolled my eyes, wishing everyone at the table would stop staring at me. “I took it off before practice. It’s probably in my locker. You got a pen and something to write on?”

  A baby blue gel pen appeared in front of me and a tiny pad of neon orange sticky notes you use to mark pages when you’re studying. I tried to fit my number on one and then shoved the entire thing, the pen and sticky notes, over to her. “There.”

  “When you’re done marrying my best friend, you think we could hang out or something?” the girl on her right asked.

  She was familiar in that way that I knew I’d seen her around before. Cute, with brown hair and green eyes. Tiny, too. She was a few inches shorter than Ava, but I was fairly positive her personality made up for it. She was confident and outspoken. Something I hated. Look, confidence was awesome, and speak your mind all you wanted, but when you crave silence and all you hear are questions, it starts to mess with your head.

  “I’m Henny, by the way.” She gave me her hand.

  Having no choice but to take it, I did, giving her tiny hand a weak shake for as long as I had to. “Bishop.”

  Henny winked. “I know what your name is.”

  Ava bit her lip and looked down. Someone else snickered.

  Apparently, this was hilarious to everyone but me.

  “Can I have your number, too?” Henny continued.

  I glanced at the sticky note. “You already do. Look, Ava, we’ll talk later, yeah?”

  I didn’t wait for her response. I took off, cringing when their giggles hit my back. I entirely understood why I was single in that moment. Completely got it.

  I went home and took the stairs to my room in the attic. I shared it with one other guy, but he was like me. Quiet, kept to himself. He was on his bed when I came in, reading a comic book. I dropped my
gear bag, backpack, and stood there, taking deep breaths.

  When I glanced over at him, he gave me a nod. I gave him one back and collapsed onto my bed. “Is there food?” I asked.

  “Cereal,” he mumbled back.

  I hurried downstairs to the kitchen. There was a half box of off-brand cereal on the table, and four empty boxes. I yanked it over and pulled out the clear bag, plunging my hand inside and coming away with fruity rings. There wasn’t enough milk to even brush my teeth with, so I ate it dry, washing it down with some water. That night, I had a hard time sleeping.

  I didn’t know why.

  I was exhausted; I could usually sleep anywhere without much trouble. Side effects of growing up in the foster system. Sleep when you can. Eat what you had. Feel only when you had to.

  The only perk to being up before everyone else was getting the shower first. There were kids of all ages. Teens, middle schoolers, and a few toddlers running around. The foster parents had their own wing of the house untouched by us. So, all us kids shared one bathroom. It was the first time I got hot water in ages. I was dressed and ready to leave just as everyone else woke up.

  Zara, a twelve-year-old girl, was in the kitchen when I came in. She was afraid of me. Afraid of all men. I didn’t want to know why because there was nothing I could do with that information, but I tried not to be myself around her. I tried to walk lightly and talk low. She scooted back in her seat when I came in and I refrained from reacting.

  I searched the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder to find her eating something that looked like tomato soup.

  “Where’d you get the soup?” I asked quietly.

  She swallowed hard and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I found it.”

  “Anymore left?”

  She shook her head, staring into the can of cold soup.

  “Dang,” I mumbled, stooping to my heels to search. Sardines? Nope. Tuna? Ack. Some weird barley soup? No thanks. Pasta. It was the middle of the month. We had to wait until the first week of the month for a restock, which never lasted long with all of us.

  “We can share,” a soft whisper came from behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder. She could hardly look at me. Poor thing. “It’s okay, you can eat it. But thanks for offering. You want a ride to school?”

  I rarely let anyone in my car. I’d worked my ass off sophomore year working two jobs during off season for that car, and it was my only possession.

  She gave me a second of eye contact. “Really?”

  The bus stop was a decent walk. She was the only girl in this house, the other being a toddler who my foster parents actually liked because she was too little to know better. The rest of us were boys. She must be in hell living here.

  “Sure. You still need to get ready?”

  She looked down at her black shirt and jeans that were too baggy. “No, just need to get my backpack.”

  “And finish your soup. I’ll wait in my car.”

  She started shoveling cold red soup into her mouth, and the sight of her doing so made my chest hurt for some reason. I cleared my throat and ran up to get my crap, sitting in my car for almost ten minutes before she came out. She got in the backseat even though the front was available. I didn’t mention it and neither did she.

  “Zara,” I said calmly.

  In the rearview mirror, her frightened eyes shot to mine.

  “What if I told you there was a way to get some doughnuts, but you have to trust me.”

  She looked at me, at her hands, and then back to me. “You never talk. I like that.”

  I figured that meant she trusted me. Somewhat. I couldn’t imagine her actually ever trusting anyone. I’d take it. I drove us into town. The convention building held a lot of seminars and group activities for business people, and there were a few groups who used it a few nights a week. Sometimes the coffee bar hadn’t been cleared, and if you lucked out, you could slip in and load up.

  “So, here’s what we’re going to do. Follow me and don’t look suspicious. Oh, and bring your backpack.” I wasn’t doing this for me. I was doing this for her. So she’d have a fighting chance when I was gone in a few months. I figured I’d do this a few more times with my secrets just to help her out.

  She nodded, face determined.

  It wasn’t a covert mission. No one ever looked over at us. It wasn’t uncommon for the building to be used by high school groups. I found a side room announcing a knitting committee and hit the jackpot.

  Zara gasped. I closed the door behind us and locked it. Zara went straight for the doughnuts. I shook my head at her inexperience. “Listen, kid, that’s all good and stuff, but sometimes you don’t have time for that. Stuff your bag and eat later.” I went behind her and opened her backpack, wrapping half the cookies in napkins and dropping them in her bag, along with warm bottles of water and the same with the doughnuts.

  I made us each a cup of cold coffee with cream and we ate on the old carpeted floor, eating doughnuts that were that perfect level of stale, still good but not hot.

  “What would happen to all this if we didn’t eat it?” she asked, because she wanted to hear me say it.

  “They’d toss it and put fresh ones out.”

  She shook her head in misery and then ate faster. By the time we were done, we were both overloaded with sugar and caffeine and she was smiling. I dropped her off at the middle school. “Another tip?” I said to her before she got out. “Eat as much at school as you can, okay?”

  She nodded, hesitated, and then looked at me in that way that unnerved me. Too deep. “Thank you, Bishop.”

  I shrugged. “No problem, kid.”

  She gave me a shy smile and then closed my door, disappearing into the crowd the way I’d mastered to do.

  Seamlessly melting into nothing one day at a time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ava

  My best friend was now obsessed with Bishop Manfield.

  Despite my greatest efforts to avert her attention. But Henny was like that. Her mind was restless, and any new focus was a chance she was willing to indulge.

  It was lunch time. Henny’s eyes were zeroed in on him, stating facts I could clearly define myself. He was sitting alone. He had a tray of school lunch splayed out in front of him and he seemed content to eat every drop. He had an entire table to himself. No one even attempted to sit beside him.

  “I texted him in first period,” Henny spoke up, chin in her hands as she gazed lovingly at him.

  I refrained from rolling my eyes at her behavior. “I didn’t know you had the same first hour as him,” I said, licking pizza sauce from my thumb. “Isn’t that class Financial Math?”

  She nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Could the gorgeous jock be smart, too? Yes, Ava, I think you’re right.”

  “He isn’t a jock. He plays hockey, but I don’t think he’s like the rest of them. He isn’t sitting with them.” I nodded at the hockey table. Rough, burly boys who looked like men.

  “He’s a sexy loner,” Henny continued.

  Laurie rubbed her temples. “Could we please talk about something else? Anything else? Amoeba even?”

  Laurie wasn’t into guys. She had an intense crush on her math teacher, Mrs. Kendrick, which I feared was unhealthy because Mrs. Kendrick was married to a man, but Laurie didn’t care.

  Henny sighed adoringly. “Look at the way he chews. So manly.”

  Laurie gagged.

  I laughed, intervening. “Okay, Laurie’s right. You’re getting grossly obsessed with a boy you don’t even know. Let’s talk about other things.”

  I’d managed to steer them away from that topic and onto one they both loved. Shopping. I liked the physical act of shopping, not so much the clothes aspect. My father called it a side effect of being a girl, having to buy something. I called it being human. My friends, however, shopped for only two things. Clothes and music. Henny was super smart and loved numbers. Laurie could do fifteen roundoff’s without getting dizzy. And then there was m
e, Ava Mackson, drama nerd. I had two hours of my class schedule dedicated to theater and plays.

  My drama teacher, Mr. Sherskey, had just announced our first play. The Hush of Adoration. An original play he wrote specifically for us to start the year off with. I was excited to have a teacher who took the time to write plays instead of making us do the same ones over and over again. There were only so many times Romeo and Juliet could fall in love and succumb to tragedy.

  None of us were alike, and yet, we loved each other more for it.

  My parents were hands-on parents, but they were also hands-on for the wrong reasons. If my GPA dropped, it was an affront to their image, not my future. That sort of thing. They served vegetable sticks for parties, but my dad scarfed down fast food behind Mom’s back and she barely managed to eat at all. I guessed I was doing the same. Calling my parents hands-on when in reality, they hadn’t asked about school since it started.

  The truth was, my parents used to be hands-on.

  And then my mother got pregnant last summer after years of trying, only to miscarry. My father blamed her. Right in front of me. He blamed her. I felt the shift in my family like the ground beneath my feet moved ten inches to the right. My mother looked at him and I saw the undying love she swore to have dry up right before my eyes. My father’s eyes were too full of frustration and blame to realize that he’d pushed his wife away with one sentence.

  Before last summer, I was spoiled.

  After last summer, I was old news.

  It was just me.

  My friends were the only aspect of my life keeping me afloat.

  By home ec, I wasn’t exactly bursting with excitement. Bishop wasn’t in class by the time I arrived, so I got started without him. The late bell rang, and Miss Barter was in the middle of taking roll call when he came rushing in. His cheeks were flushed, and he avoided eye contact on his way to the back table beside me.

  “Mr. Manfield? What’s your excuse for being late?” She kept her pencil poised at him, the roll call form still in her hand.