Keep From Falling (Markson Grove Series Book 1)

by Amy Vanessa Miller

  After that, everything fell into place; we fell into place. And we’ve been together ever since.

  She tickles my waist. “My little romantic,” she says. I fall to the bed in hysterics as she lies on top of me and kisses my nose. “You better get going. Don’t want to be late for your first training session.”

  I nod and hold my hand up to her so she can pull me to my feet. She does, and as I’m walking through her kitchen to the door, she gently slaps my ass.

  “You’re crazy,” I say with a laugh.

  “Yeah, but you already knew that,” she replies.

  I blow her a quick kiss, and then walk out the door.

  As I’m walking to work, my thoughts drift back to our past, before we became lovers. At times, I’m surprised it ended up the way it did for us. Happy and in love. Sometimes, when I allow myself to remember everything, I can’t be sure how it ever did.

  At the beginning of the ninth grade, Skylar and I were nothing more than devoted friends to one another. We had sleepovers, talked about boys, and gossiped about the latest happenings around school. We loved each other wholeheartedly, but there were never any thoughts of our friendship becoming ‘more’ than that.

  In fact, at the age of fourteen, Skylar was actually pretty experienced in the guy department and was what some might call ‘slutty’. I, on the other hand, hadn’t even experienced a crush. I simply wasn’t interested. I hadn’t even kissed another person before Skylar and that only happened in the eleventh grade.

  Was I jealous of Skylar’s ease with the guys in our school? Absolutely. And it wasn’t that I was shy, because I wasn’t, but I didn’t have the womanly figure she already had by the age of fourteen and the full B-cup breasts to accompany it. I had very little curves, wore an A-cup bra (if that), and had the messiest hair, which was seriously impossible to tame. My face was cute, but its roundness made me look ten, rather than fourteen. Needless to say, guys weren’t lining up in all directions to have a chance with me in bed. Not that I’d want them to.

  But guys were lining up for Skylar.

  By the time Skylar had turned fifteen she’d already had sex with many guys and was becoming known in some circles as the girl who would open her legs for anyone. This upset me, not because I was embarrassed for her, but because I was protective of her. I didn’t want people to think so lowly of her. She was better than that.

  But Skylar didn’t care or she didn’t let on to care. She embraced her slutty popularity and used it to take advantage of guys, which gave her a sense of self-accomplishment, it seemed.

  I loved her regardless and lived vicariously through her stories of sexual encounters with the guys of Markson Grove.

  “What did it feel like?” I asked her the day she told me that she’d lost her virginity to a senior named Kyle who she barely knew.

  She shrugged. “It hurt a lot at first, but after that it really didn’t feel like much of anything.”

  “Really?” I asked, wondering why anyone would even bother having sex if it didn’t feel much like anything. He must have done it wrong.

  “It was numb from all the pain I think.”

  I nod. “That makes sense. Did he give you an orgasm?”

  Skylar shook her head. “Not at all! He had no ounce of knowledge about girl parts. It was kind of sad, really.”

  This made me laugh. He definitely did it wrong! I fell over in a fit that I couldn’t control. My laughter became contagious and the next thing I knew Skylar was keeled over in a fit of laughter right next to me. We both gasped for air in between our fits for the next five minutes, at least, before my mom came into my room to see what all the commotion was about.

  “What on earth is going on in here?” she asked, trying to keep a serious face on. It was after ten o’clock and that meant ‘quiet time’ in the Porter home but her fondness for our friendship made it more difficult for her to get angry with us when we were making too much noise during our sleepovers.

  Skylar began to laugh even harder at the idea of telling my mom what had us giggling. I shook my head. “Sorry Mom, it’s nothing. We’ll try to be quiet from now on.”

  Mom shot us an unconvincing look but shut the door nonetheless.

  “Oh my God! Imagine if she would have heard us talking?” I gasped and covered my mouth to smother the new fit of laughter bubbling up inside of me.

  Skylar shrugged. “She’s not my mom.”

  This was an interesting statement coming from Skylar. She had lost her parents in a car accident when she was only six and has basically adopted my mother and father as her secondary parents ever since. The passing of her brother three years after that only helped to strengthen her bond with them even more. My mom is the only mother she’s known in a long while. Cecelia couldn’t have cared less about Skylar or her brother.

  “You know that she is,” I told her, my face somber.

  She smiled slightly, almost distantly. “Yeah, I know.”

  I noticed the long sleeves of her shirt pulled over her hands with her thumbs pushed into a makeshift hole at the end. I look up at her hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “Have you been cutting again?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking?”

  I pointed to her shirt. “It’s the hottest day of September and you’re wearing that.”

  She shrugged. “Ok, I cut a few times last week. But it’s under control now. It was only two cuts.”

  “Skylar,” I began in a worried tone. “I told you to text me when you’re feeling like that. Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know it was happening until it was done,” she replied, and I knew she wasn’t lying. Skylar had been struggling, off and on, with cutting since the death of her brother. And every time it happened, it almost seemed to be on a subconscious level.

  “Text me next time,” I demanded, trying not to sound too harsh. I knew I had to be sensitive to her illness, not angry about it, but sometimes I had a hard time keeping my cool.

  “Ok,” she agreed with a nod.

  “Let me see them.”

  She pulled her right sleeve up to her elbow and revealed the under part of her forearm. I brought my hand to my mouth in shock. There might have only been two cuts, but they were deep and at least three inches long each.

  “Skylar!” I exclaimed. “These are infected and really deep. What the hell did you use?”

  “I used Keegan’s pocket knife. I found it under my bed last week,” her voice trailed off.

  I let out a loud sigh. “My mom has some disinfectant cream in the medicine cabinet. I think it’s an antibiotic too. I’ll go get it. Hopefully it will help with the infection.”

  I knew, even back then, that she should be going to a hospital for the cuts, but I didn’t make her go. I knew how much hospitals scared her. The news of her parent’s death was given to her in a cold waiting room of a hospital. Keegan’s death, only a few years later, was broken to her the same way. Hospitals mean ‘death’ to Skylar, they don’t mean ‘help’.

  But I did tell her that if the wounds didn’t get better in a few days she’d have no choice but to go.

  After that, she didn’t cut again for a long while. Not until Parker Michelson happened. That’s when everything changed. But Skylar and I never talk about that.

  Skylar

  I walk around my aunt’s apartment aimlessly trying to decide what to do to pass the time for the rest of the night. Bree works four shifts a week, so we really don’t have too many nights to ourselves since she started working there a little over a year ago. It sucks. I hate being alone. I’m always alone when I’m here because my sorry excuse for an aunt is never home. Sometimes I go to Bree’s house and hang out with her parents while she’s gone. It’s pathetic, it truly is, but I really don’t have any friends other than Bree and our mutual friend, Spencer. I’m not going to lie, that really is all my fault. I don’t like people. I don’t like getting to know them, and I don’t like trying to keep them in my life. It’
s draining and not worth my time. That being said, it’s moments like this that make me wonder if I might be wrong.

  I open the top drawer beside the kitchen sink and rummage around in it, looking to see if Cecelia bothered to leave me any cigarettes while she’s away on her latest conquest. I find a pack but it’s empty. I slam the drawer shut and open the cupboard above, finding another pack. Empty.

  I make my way over to the cluttered living room where I know I saw a pack laying on the table this morning. Empty. Seriously? I walk over to Cecelia’s room and find an opened pack with three cigarettes still inside sitting on her bedside table next to an overstuffed ashtray she apparently never believes in emptying.

  I take one, grab her lighter off of the bedside table, and make my way over to the patio door. Outside, there are two cheap, plastic chairs Cecelia bought at Wal-Mart on clearance last fall, and a stained plastic end table positioned in between them. I move the end table in front of one of the chairs before taking a seat.

  Once I light my cigarette, I mount my feet up on the end table and lean back comfortably into the chair.

  Quiet times like these fill me with so much sadness. Keegan died in the bathroom of this apartment of a heart attack after consuming a lethal dose of methamphetamine. The thought of what he must have gone through in the final minutes of his death still gives me anxiety. He was just a boy and he had no one here to help him through the darkness. Nobody was watching him; nobody saw that he was drowning in his own sadness.

  I feel that way too. No one sees how dark it is inside my head now; nobody sees me fading away. Not even Bree.

  Cecelia is a terrible guardian. When Keegan died I should have told Child Services the truth. I should have told them that Cecelia never cared about us and was hardly ever around, but I was scared to. I didn’t want to lose someone else in my life. I had already lost so much and as lousy as Cecelia was, she was all I had left.

  I flick the ash from my cigarette against the patio railing and attempt to shake the negative thoughts out of my head. I hate when my mind begins to wander to a place I can’t handle it being.

  I consider going into the kitchen for a knife to cut my forearm or thigh in order to stop the thoughts from swarming through my brain, but I fight this urge. I promised Bree that I wouldn’t cut my problems away anymore. It’s a constant struggle, but I’m trying.

  I take a deep drag of my cigarette and hold the smoke in as long as I can till I feel it burning my lungs. When my head begins to feel light and dizzy, I finally exhale.

  I let out a long sigh of relief. There, that helped take some of the edge off.

  Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the back of the chair and take another long drag, holding it in again. The burning feels so good. That ache in my chest is what I’m looking for to keep the pain away, even if only for a few moments.

  When I open my eyes and exhale, I see a couple walking down the path from the school toward the building. I recognize them, two seniors who I’ve never spoken to, but have seen together a million times before.

  The guy, a husky jock-looking type, is walking closely behind the girl, a petite redhead with a small round face and full lips. I think their names are Derrick and Kelsie, but I’m not completely sure. She has her hand reaching behind her so that even as they are walking through a one-person trail, they do not let go of one another’s hand. This sight touches me in some way, though at first, I am not exactly sure why. Then, as they are passing by the building, the guy spins the girl around and kisses her passionately for the whole world to see and I realize that their spontaneous public display of affection makes me jealous. I would love nothing more than to be able to take Bree and kiss her out in the open like that whenever the mood struck me. I want to scream to the world that I am in love with Bree Porter and she is in love with me. But I can’t. Her parents are the only parents I’ve ever really known. I love them, but they can never know what Bree and I do behind closed doors because they simply wouldn’t understand.

  Bree’s mother is so closed-minded when it comes to homosexuality and has, more than once, declared that she believes it to be a ‘mental illness’ that should require medication to ‘fix’ the problem. These ridiculous opinions of hers have never fazed me in the past, but the day Bree and I decided to be more than friends was the day that I became petrified of what Alice Porter would think of me. I’ve considered myself bisexual since I was fourteen and I’ve never worried about Alice finding out. Falling in love with Bree, however, put things into a different perspective for me. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I would be declaring myself mentally ill in Alice’s eyes, and I knew she would accuse me of corrupting her daughter’s innocence as well. Knowing this made me uneasy. Was it worth the risk?

  As time went on and our relationship deepened, we decided that no one else needed to know. We agreed that our feelings for one another were private and we didn’t need other eyes on it to make it real.

  For a long time this has been enough for us, but lately Bree’s been needing more… maybe I have been too, I don’t know. I have an unnerving feeling about where this is heading for us. It doesn’t feel happy at all. It feels inevitably sad, and that honestly scares me.

  I take the last drag of my cigarette and butt it out on the side of the building. I chuck the butt over the patio toward where the couple had been standing in a passionate embrace only moments earlier. When it hits the ground I go back inside.

  As I am walking around aimlessly yet again, still trying to figure out what to do with myself, I hear my phone beep and go to my room to get it. It’s Spencer texting me.

  Spencer: Feel like company.

  Me: Sure :)

  Spencer: Leaving work now. Be there in 15.

  Me: Thank God I’m bored out of my mind!

  Spencer: LOL

  Me: Did B get there yet?

  Spencer: Yep. Just got here… waiting for her to come up front then I’m OMW.

  Me: K c u soon!

  I toss the phone onto the coffee table and plop down on the couch. I feel a lot better now that Spencer is going to come over to keep me company. I hope he brings some pot. I could really use some deep meditative relaxation with my other best friend while I think about absolutely nothing for a while. I grab my phone off of the table once again.

  Me: Bring some mj

  Spencer: LOL k

  As an after thought I add:

  Me: Don’t tell B

  Spencer: Lips are sealed, babygirl.

  Bree

  I arrive at work only five minutes before my shift starts, so I don’t spend any time talking with Spencer up front like I usually do. Instead, I hurry passed him and run to the back of the store where the staff room is located. Once I get to the door, I promptly punch the security code in the number pad above the knob and push my way into the room. I’m digging around in my backpack for my keys as I’m walking in the direction of my locker, when all of a sudden I smash into someone. The person’s phone drops out of their hand to the floor below and makes a loud cracking sound. I cringe.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I say, dropping to the floor to pick it up.

  The screen is completely busted. How the hell am I going to be able to pay for this? Judging by the make and model, it must cost at least three hundred dollars, if not more. “I didn’t see you, I was in a rush and I turned… I’m not sure…” I look up and my voice catches in my throat.

  I’m looking at the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen. He’s crouched down beside me now, reaching for his phone, but I can’t stop staring at him long enough to hand it over.

  “Can I have it back?” he asks me finally. He doesn’t sound impatient, but rather amused instead.

  I continue to stare into his dark brown eyes, almost mesmerized by how deep and soulful they are. His face is square, with so many handsome features I don’t know which one to focus on first. His eyes, his lips, his dimples, his hair; all perfect.

  I realize what I’m thinking and instantly
begin to blush profusely.

  I hand him the phone. “I’ll pay for it,” I manage.

  He stands up straight and I follow his lead, rising to my feet once again. He’s taller than I had originally thought, and I find myself looking up in order to see his face.

  He shrugs. “It was old anyway.”

  It doesn’t look old, it looks pretty new to me, but who am I to argue, he’s letting me off the hook and I should be grateful for that.

  “Let me help pay for a new one,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”

  He smiles, showing off a fine set of beautifully straight teeth. Oh. My. God. What is wrong with me? I’m staring at his teeth now?

  “I just might hold you to that,” he says as he stuffs the broken phone into his pocket. He begins to walk toward the door.

  “Are you the new guy?” I blurt out, and instantly feel like an idiot for asking. Of course he’s the new guy. You don’t know him Bree, so he must be the new guy. I’m such an idiot sometimes.

  “He laughs. “Is it that obvious?”

  I guess he didn’t realize how stupid the question was, after all. Thank God.

  “Not at all,” I stammer. Seriously? I shut my mouth, turn on my heels, and walk over to my locker.

  “I’m Evan,” he says.

  I shove my backpack into my locker, slam the locker shut, and turn to face him. His hand is extended out to me. “I’m Bree,” I tell him as I take his hand into mine. He makes a polite attempt at shaking my hand but his touch makes me freeze in place and my arm refuses to budge during the process, making for a very awkward, one-sided greeting. I take a deep breath and look up into his eyes.

  We stare at each other for what seems like hours but is probably actually only a couple of seconds before he awkwardly lets go of my hand and returns his arm to his side.

  This is so embarrassing.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Bree. I’ve seen you around at school,” he says, not letting on about the embarrassing handshake, or lack thereof.