The Harder the Fall

by Lauren Barnholdt

  Did he really have to go with Madison to Mr. Jacobi’s room? Yeah, it was only for ten minutes or so. And it’s not like I needed him for anything. It wasn’t like he left me stranded at the mall or stood me up for a date or something. But still. It’s polite and cordial behavior to come back if you told someone that you’re coming back.

  I think Lyra knows I’m upset, because even though she rides the bus home with me, she doesn’t say a word the whole time. When I get off the bus, I head right for the cemetery. I take a walk around, and then sit on the bench near my grandmother’s grave for a while. Being close to her always makes me feel a lot better, although today it’s not making me feel as good as I thought it would.

  When I get back to my house, Cindy’s there with my dad. They’re both at the kitchen table, eating soup.

  “Hi, Kendall,” Cindy says warmly.

  “Hi.” Great. Talk about the last person I want to see. I know I said I wasn’t mad at her anymore, and I’m not. I mean, it’s not her fault she’s in love with my dad and he decided not to tell me. I’m not her daughter. But I’m already not in the best mood.

  So how am I supposed to be nice to her?

  “Would you like some soup?” my dad asks.

  “No, thanks.” I hate tomato soup. There’s nothing in it. No noodles, no vegetables, not even rice. Why not just eat sauce?

  “Are you sure?” Cindy asked. “I made it myself.”

  She’s looking at me with a super-hopeful look, like she wants me to eat her stupid soup so bad that she can’t take it.

  “Fine,” I say, sighing. “I’ll have some soup.”

  I grab a loaf of Italian bread out of the bread box and cut myself a thick slice. Then I slather it with butter. Hopefully, I can use it to sop up most of the soup. I sit down at the table, and my dad sets a steaming bowl in front of me. “Thanks,” I say. And then I realize that the power is on.

  “Hey,” I say, “they fixed the lights!”

  “Yup,” my dad says happily. “Apparently there was some kind of surge or something that caused the whole box to fry.”

  Yikes. The whole box to fry? That sounds serious.

  “It was going to cost me two thousand dollars to get it fixed.”

  I almost spit tomato soup all over the table. “Two thousand dollars? Do we even have two thousand dollars?”

  “Well, luckily we didn’t have to worry about that, because Cindy saved the day.” My dad smiles at her across the table.

  “I have a friend whose husband is an electrician,” she says, waving her hand in the air like it’s no big deal. “And so he gave your father a deal.”

  “He said he’d never seen anything like it,” my dad says. He gets up to cut himself a slice of bread. “He said it was the weirdest thing, and he doesn’t have any idea how anything like that could have happened.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Um, maybe we have bad wiring in this house.” Or, you know, a crazy ghost who might be dangerous and here to get some sort of revenge on her ex–best friend. I take another bite of my bread.

  I wonder if Mrs. Dunham’s so determined to keep me away from Brandon that she’d do anything, even hurt me. I always thought ghosts couldn’t do that, because they can’t touch people. But obviously she has some kind of power to surge electricity through people’s houses. Who knows what else she can do? And who knows what she was trying to do? Maybe she wanted to start a fire. Oh my God. Does Mrs. Dunham want to kill me?

  What the hell did my mom do to her, anyway? And why won’t my dad give me any more information about it? I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he ladles more soup into his bowl. Hmm.

  He’s obviously very good at keeping secrets. I mean, think about how long he kept the whole thing with Cindy a secret. He’s sneaky, that one. I should have known it when I caught him putting a slice of cheese onto his egg-white omelette a few months ago even though his doctor specifically told him that he needs to limit his saturated fat intake because of his high cholesterol.

  I’m so caught up in thinking about what crazy things Mrs. Dunham could do that at first I don’t realize that Cindy is talking to me.

  “. . . do you know what I mean?”

  I swallow my spoonful of tomato soup and wonder if it would be rude to ask her to repeat whatever it is she said. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just so into eating this delicious soup that I got distracted. What did you say?”

  “I said that I know your dad has talked to you about our relationship, and that you said you’re okay with it.” She sets her spoon down and then twists her hands in her lap nervously. “I want you to know that I really appreciate your reaction. I’m sure this can’t be easy for you.”

  “Thanks, Cindy,” I say.

  She visibly relaxes, and I feel kind of bad for how hard I’ve been on her. She was obviously nervous about talking to me just then. She probably thought I was going to yell and scream at her. The truth is, she’s always been nice to me, and she’s trying to be nice to me right now. It can’t be that fun to be in love with a guy who has a teenage daughter.

  I wonder if they’ll get married. Ooh, I’ll probably get to be in the wedding! I mean, how can they really leave me out? I’m the daughter of the groom. I’ll definitely get to be a bridesmaid. And I’ll probably get to have my hair and makeup professionally done. Probably by one of those makeup-and-hair people that come right to your house.

  And I’ll get to wear a really flowing gown, with lots of sequins or fake flowers or something. I wonder if I can talk Cindy into having her wedding color be purple. That would be so pretty, a purple wedding. And I could wear an orchid in my hair, and then—

  “Hello!” Lyra yells, appearing in front of me. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  I sigh and take the last spoonful of my tomato soup. “Dad,” I say, “do you mind if I walk into town for a little while?”

  Chapter

  9

  “Wow!” Sharon says when she sees me walking into the salon. “Our best customer is back!”

  “Well, probably second best,” Micah says, looking up from where he’s reading a sports magazine at one of the nail stations.

  His mother shoots him a look. I try not to feel offended. Who’s their first best customer? There can’t really be anyone who comes in here more than me, can there? I mean, no offense to Sharon, because she’s really nice, but let’s face it—this salon is kind of awful. And when I say “kind of,” I mean, you know, “totally.”

  “Yup,” I say, wandering over to the nail polish shelf and looking at the bottles. “It’s me. I’m back.”

  “Well, we have a new shade that you might be interested in,” Sharon says.

  Oh, thank God. It would definitely be weird to ask them to put on the exact same color as last time.

  “Also, you should know that we’ve had to raise our prices, to, ah, accommodate for some unexpected administrative costs,” Sharon says. “So manicures are now two dollars more than they were previously.”

  “Yeah, if you count lack of customers as administrative costs,” Micah chimes in.

  “Micah!” Sharon scolds.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I understand all about, ah, administrative costs. My dad has his own construction business.”

  “Wonderful!” Sharon says. “Now let me show you our new color.” She pulls it out of some box she has hiding behind the register, like she’s presenting something really huge. She sets the bottle of nail polish down on the counter with a flourish. “Isn’t it something?”

  I peer at it. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “It’s something, all right.” If by “something” you mean a puke-green color I wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  “Would you like to try it?” She cocks her head. “I’ll give you a dollar off if you promise to tell all your friends where you got it.”

  Oh, God. I stare at her. She can’t really think it’s a good color, can she? And that my friends would just be clamoring to come in here and get it? Is she really that clueless?
<
br />   Lyra shakes her head next to me. “Yes,” she says, “my mom is really that clueless. But her heart’s in the right place.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I lie. “But I think I’m going to stick with something a little more, ah, red. That way it will match my outfit for tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” Sharon’s face falls. “Maybe you could wear something different.”

  “I told you no one was going to like that color, Mom,” Micah says. He shakes his head without looking up from his magazine. I catch a glimpse of a BMX bike on one of the pages.

  “I don’t understand,” Sharon says. “The salesman said this was a very hot color for fall.” She stares at the bottle, perplexed.

  “Poor Mom,” Lyra says, her voice catching. “First she has to lose me, and now this.”

  Oh, for the love of . . . “On second thought I will take that color,” I say, picking up the bottle. “It’s a nice shade of, um, green, and I’m sure I can find an outfit that will match it.” Not.

  “Really?” Sharon’s eyes widen. “Wonderful!” She turns around and gives Micah a satisfied look.

  “Now,” she says, “I have an appointment booked for four thirty, but Micah would be happy to get started on your nails, wouldn’t you, Micah?”

  Micah doesn’t answer. He’s totally absorbed in whatever article he’s reading. “Micah!” his mom yells.

  “Oh, yeah, yes, definitely,” he says, rolling his eyes and putting his magazine away.

  I sit down in the chair. And then I think about what Brandon said to me earlier. About how I was flirting with Micah. Which I so wasn’t. But still.

  “Maybe we can skip the hand massage today,” I say. “I’m, um, kind of in a hurry.”

  “Sure,” he says, taking the bottle of lotion and setting it under the counter. I watch longingly as it disappears. Good-bye, pear-and-vanilla-scented goodness. I’ll miss you.

  “So,” he whispers once he’s done taking off my nail polish. “Did you really like this green color, or did you just pick it to be nice to my mom?”

  “I really like it,” I say quickly.

  But he just grins at me, like he knows I’m lying.

  “Ask him about Rachel,” Lyra commands. “Ask him why she’s up all night crying and clutching her phone.”

  I roll my eyes. Yeah, great idea. I’ll just bust out with, Oh, hey, Micah, I know I’m a perfect stranger and all, but what’s going on with your dead sister’s friend Rachel? Why is she crying all night in her room? What? How do I know all this? Oh, don’t worry about it. Just give me the info.

  “I’m sorry if I’m a little slow at this,” Micah says. “I’m going to get better. At least, if my mom has anything to do with it.” He sighs and dips the brush into the polish. And then I realize he thought I was rolling my eyes at him for being slow.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I wasn’t rolling my eyes at you. I was rolling my eyes at . . .” Something tells me “the ghost of your dead sister” isn’t going to go over too well. “This memory of this girl at my school.”

  “Really?” he asks. “What did she do?”

  “Ah, well, she . . .” I rack my brains trying to remember something cringe-worthy that happened at school. I roll my eyes probably a million times during the course of a school day, and yet now, when I need to remember an example of one of those times, my mind goes blank. The same thing happens to me when I’m taking a math test. It’s like I know how to do the problems, and then, when the test starts, whoosh, all the info goes right out of my head.

  “She what?” Micah prompts.

  “She, well, you know, she um . . . she dropped her hot lunch all over the floor.”

  “Oh.” Micah frowns. And doesn’t really laugh or anything. Not that I can blame him. Rolling your eyes because someone dropped their lunch is a pretty bratty thing to do.

  We lapse into an awkward silence. I look around to see if there are any family pictures or if there’s any way I can bring Lyra into the conversation.

  “Ask him about me,” she says again. She tries to poke me, but of course it’s no use. “Go on,” she says. “Ask him.”

  “So,” I say, “do you have any funny school stories to tell me?”

  “School stories?” Lyra asks. “Why are you asking him about school stories? Ask him about me!”

  “Um, or maybe some family stories,” I try. “Like something funny that happened in your family?”

  “I don’t have any school stories,” he says. He takes a cotton ball and soaks it in nail polish remover, then gets to work removing the nail polish from my other hand. Which isn’t exactly the way you’re supposed to do it. Normally you’re supposed to remove the nail polish from both hands first, and then get to work filing and polishing. He’s trying to do it one nail at a time, I think. Hmm. It’s definitely illegal for him to work here. Like, for real.

  “Why not?” I say. “What was your old school like? In your old town?”

  “How did you know I have an old town?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “How did you know I just moved here?”

  “Oh, good job,” Lyra says. “Now he’s going to think you’re some kind of nutter.”

  Oh, now she’s worried about me seeming crazy. She didn’t seem worried about it a little while ago, when she was trying to get me to just bring up things that I should technically have no idea about.

  “Well, I just assumed you had,” I say, “since you would probably go to my school and I, um, haven’t seen you around.”

  “Well, that’s going to change,” Micah says. “I’m starting there tomorrow.”

  “Cool.” Hmm. Is it my imagination or is he starting with the hand rub again? “You don’t have to do the whole hand massage thing,” I remind him. “I’m kind of on a time schedule.”

  “Oh, great,” Lyra says. “Tell him you’re on a time schedule, real smart. Then what’s going to happen if you actually do start talking to him? Then what? You’re going to have to get out of here?”

  “It’s okay,” Micah says, still looking at me. “I don’t mind giving you a quick hand massage. It won’t take long.”

  Wow. He’s actually kind of looking at me . . . I don’t know, weird. Like . . . the way Kyle was looking at Ellie the first time we all hung out and he was trying to flirt with her. But that’s ridiculous. Micah can’t be flirting with me. A, because he hardly knows me. And B, because boys don’t usually flirt with me.

  Seriously, before I met Brandon, my experience with boys was, like, none. And when I say “like, none” I really mean “completely none.” So I can’t imagine why all of a sudden Micah would start flirting with me. Unless it’s one of those things where you get a boyfriend and then tons of boys start finding you attractive. I’ve heard about things like that happening. It’s like some weird rule of the universe or something. Just the other day Ellie was telling me about how this friend of her mom’s has this super-hot son who tried to hold her hand at some family get-together. It was a total scandal.

  “So, do you have any brothers and sisters?” I blurt, and pull my hand back like it’s on fire.

  Micah looks startled, but he recovers smoothly. “I have a sister,” he says. “Actually, I had a sister. She died.” He just blurts it out like it’s nothing. But then his eyes start to look a little watery.

  “That’s awful,” I say. “How did she die?”

  “She had a heart defect,” he says. “She had it since she was born.”

  “I knew it was my heart!” Lyra says.

  “That’s so sad,” I say, pretending to be horrified. “Were you guys close?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, she drove me crazy, but we were friends.” He’s trying to put on a brave face, the way that guys do, but I can tell he’s really upset about it. It’s really sad. And sweet.

  “That’s nice,” I say. “I’ll bet she was a good sister.”

  “Oh, Lyra was good at everything she did,” he says. He points over at a picture of her that’s hangin
g on the wall. “That was last year, when she won the school science fair. She was competing against eighth and ninth graders, and she still won.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Like it was hard,” Lyra says, walking over and peering at the picture. “Those high schoolers don’t know anything about science.” She leans down and looks at the photograph even closer. “I look really good in that picture,” she says. “It was because I’d just had my hair done.”

  “Yeah, she was a great sister, a great daughter, a great friend.”

  I sit up, sensing an opening. “Oh, really?” I say. “Did she have a lot of friends?”

  “She didn’t have a ton of friends,” Micah says. “But the friends she did have were really close to her.” He’s removing the polish on my left pinkie nail. I try not to think about the fact that he’s still touching my hand, even though he’s not technically giving me a massage.

  “Oh, that’s cool,” I say. “I’ll bet she was a really good best friend.”

  “Yeah.” Micah nods. “Her best friend was this girl named Rachel. They were always pulling pranks on me and my friend Nick.” He grins, remembering.

  “We were not!” Lyra yells. “You guys were always pulling pranks on us.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “Does Rachel live in your old hometown?”

  Micah nods, then very carefully paints my pinkie finger with that disgusting green color. “Yeah. But her family is still really close with mine. They’re actually coming over for dinner this weekend.”

  Lyra gasps out loud.

  I gasp out loud.

  “Oh,” Micah says. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” He drops my hand. “Sometimes I get a little too rough.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I was just, ah, thinking that it must be really nice to be able to have your sister’s friend over. You know, like it might remind you of her.”

  “I guess.” He frowns and keeps painting. He’s also giving me a weird look. I guess the whole remembering-his-sister part of the afternoon is over. Not to mention the fact that he’s not flirting with me anymore. Like, at all.