How I Fly
Page 21
He grimaces. “Okay. I’d fight you on that point, but I’ll let it slide only because it would kill my reputation if I broke the heart of a girl who’s all handi—” His eyes go down my legs, and I wince. He recovers and finishes, “—with crutches.”
“Nice save.” I smile and lean on my crutch to put my hand over my heart so I can be sure nothing hurts inside of me about this, and it doesn’t. Nothing at all. And from the look on Harrison’s face, I know—just know—that he’s more than fine.
*Wonders: Why, why were we dating at all?*
Was it me hanging on too long, just for the sake of me having a rebound guy? Was it him, being too nice, because, like he just admitted, he didn’t want to dump ‘the disabled girl’?
I say, “All of this really seems meant to be, doesn’t it? Like, it’s completely…okay, isn’t it?”
He nods. “It’s like we both planned it out this way. But don’t mistake me for anyone who’s okay, because I’m not.” Then, like he’s got some sort of private joke going on, he lets out a cryptic and wry-sounding laugh, pulls his glasses off his face, and places them in the pocket of the flannel shirt he’s got tied to his waist.
“What? Why?”
“Because when given the chance to do the right thing, I throw it away. If that weren’t the case with me, I’d fight to keep you, Ellen Foster. Because you are one awesome girl. You are. You always think everything and everyone is going to be okay, and I think you’d even think that about me if I gave you the chance.”
“I would.” I frown. “I do think that about you.”
His voice drops. “But is it okay that I don’t want to change to be the kind of person someone like you deserves to know? Is it okay that I find that particular concept to be simply too much work? You have no idea…” His eyes graze me with a look I’ve never seen before. “Even as a friend I’m pretty sure I won’t have what it takes to make you stick around me for long.” He sighs loudly. “For some reason I feel like I should apologize to you in advance for that, so yeah…I’m sorry, Ellen Foster. Really sorry.”
I shove at his arm. “Shut up, would you? Of course we’re forever friends after this. We have to be. We’re both getting that scholarship and we’re going to hang around together for all of university. So…no regrets.”
“Regrets…” He rakes my face again with that same look, like he’s assessing me on a whole new level. Finally he seems to pull himself back together and gives me his impish player smile. “What about how I regret that we didn’t skinny-dip? And I’ll always regret that we didn’t, you know.” He raises his brows suggestively. “Once you lose that boot, if you want to have any sort of no-strings-attached—closure—about all that you missed, you let me know. I’ll be available.”
“How about you closure your mouth?” I laugh, shoving him as hard as I can.
He taps his mouth with his index finger. “I know the next time I see you, my lips are going to miss you, though. What about their feelings? Will they get, at the very last, some sort of last-kiss consideration right now?” He winks, those brown eyes dropping to my mouth with a heavy sigh.
“No. None. You’re such a player. Start to finish.”
“You called it, but you liked me a little anyhow, didn’t you?”
“I did. I do.”
He sighs and reaches forward to tug on my braid. His expression is still locked on to me, as if he’s got so much more to say. I hold my breath and start to feel really nervous, because I’m scared he might suggest that we change our minds, and I really, really hope this conversation is over.
Just in case, I pull away. “Will you tell Patrick and Laura what happened? That I’ve gone back to my room?”
He nods. “Sure. Yes. Of course. Right when I see them.” When I don’t waver or say anything else, his bright brown eyes cloud so I can’t read his thoughts, and he whispers, “Ellen. If only I could be a different person, and if only I—”
“Don’t.” I look away, trying not to hate him because he’s not different, all while trying not to hate myself because I know some of this didn’t work out because the CP makes me so different. Finally I add, “Just—be who you are. I know more than anyone that it’s stupid to wish you could be anyone else.”
He steps back and sighs. “See? You just did it again. Somehow, you swooped in and won this round.”
“Okay. Whatever.” Shaking my head because I simply don’t understand him, I turn away. “Go have some guilt-free fun, Harrison Shaw. I know some French girls who are going to love your skinny-dipping idea.”
Cam
When I first see Ellen walking near the spot where I’ve set up my camera, I think I’m hallucinating her.
First, because she’s not on her crutches, and second, because she’s taken off the Velcro and metal boot she’s been wearing all summer. Though her gait is slow and cautious, her good leg seems really strong. Better, her bad foot and leg look solid, strong, and great. The entire leg has turned nearly straight from the knee, just how she said it would.
I stare, watching her snap photos. Some she angles high, others low, as she leans to the right and then to the left. I let myself breathe when I get that her movements don’t make her wobble once. And because it’s twilight—that exact moment in time when all colors besides blacks and whites are nearly impossible to see—Ellen’s pale face, her wide inky-black eyes, and her shining braid are literally glowing like she’s some sort of otherworldly creature. To me, she’s more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.
So I don’t startle her, I call out softly long before she reaches me, “Ellen? Hey. What are you doing?” My voice betrays me then by stuttering some: “I-I—why—are—you out here?”
I can only hope the purple-lit sky hides how my face instantly flushed because of that slip.
She walks closer with her brow furrowed. “What are you doing out here?”
I quirk my head to the side, because I could swear I heard a catch in her voice.
At the same time, we say, “I didn’t want to do the bonfire.”
And then simultaneously again, “Oh. Cool. Me either.”
This makes us laugh, but when my eyes meet hers, I’m hit with this massive falling sensation, because I think I know why she didn’t want to do the bonfire—and that it had something to do with me.
Even though I’ve told my heart to stay shut down where she’s concerned, I feel it expanding against my will just the tiniest bit.
I say, “You don’t have your crutches.”
“I know. I figured I’d be alone down here and that no one would see. I just wanted to be rid of the weight of that boot and the clanking crutches for a few hours. I thought since the hotel was so close and the pathways are designed for wheelchairs and—and—people like me—that I could risk it.”
“And people like me, hello, discriminate much?” I try to joke, because I don’t like the way she said ‘people like me’ as though it hurt.
“Right. No. Of course.” Her expression turns grateful, like I’ve succeeded in helping her shake something off. “Nash said I’m allowed to be out of all that stuff. When we get back home I’ll have a cane, and that’s only a couple weeks away. And…even though I swore I wouldn’t do it anymore, I wanted to pretend away my CP for just tonight. I know that’s stupid, but…sometimes it’s difficult not to go there.”
My mind urges me to say: I want to pretend that you’re still my girlfriend. Can we do that tonight? Can we?
I answer instead, “Ah. Well…you don’t have to make excuses to me. Ever. And now that I’m here, you know I’ll watch out for you. I was once my official job, after all.” I wink.
She shakes her head, and I wonder if she’s trying to clear it or if she’s begging me somehow to please not bring up the past. I decide it’s the latter, and vow to do all the right things. I work on realigning my thoughts back to thinking about how we are just friends to calm myself down. Because nothing calms a guy into a coma like the crap-ass “we’re just friends” idea.
“You know I’d never do that.”
“Yeah, I do know.”
We smile at each other again, and suddenly, all we know about each other, past and present, settles in around us like we’re wearing this comfortable cloak. When the noise from the croaking frogs grows too loud between us, I decide to talk about the one safe topic that still connects us—the reason we’re both here at this lake. Photography.
“I—I—uh—I couldn’t concentrate much this week, so—I was behind on my assignment. I’m doing make-up work. There’s so much down here to shoot that it’s been really easy to get caught up.”
She smiles softly, looking around. “Right? I love this little park.”
I don’t tell her that I know that. I don’t tell her that I’ve practically watched her every move down here all week long. Instead, I point like a robot and say, “I just captured the sunset and some awesome close-ups of the frogs—their eyes, mostly. I think they came out very cool. I want to do more of them when it’s dark.”
“You have to show me all of them. Promise? I love seeing what you see through your lens.”
I can only nod.
“What else did you get?” she asks, visibly relaxing.
“It sounds kind of strange, but I got some shots of these dried grasses down by the stream about an hour ago. They were blowing around—all heavy with these puffy seeds. Random, I know, but I swear they’re cool because they had all of these filament-looking grass threads hanging off of them. The way the sun hit each and every one of them, well…just…took my breath away.”
“Oh…oh, wow. Now I have to see those, too. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” I laugh, glancing down at her, because she’s just staring up at me with this funny expression—like she’s been dying of thirst and this conversation is some sort of freshwater oasis. Or…is that just me…drinking her up?
Whatever it is, it feels awesome. And good. It hits me that I’ve missed her—this easy friendship with her—so damn much.
She points to my camera. “What are you up to now?”
“Now…I’m going to try to…” I pause, motioning to where my camera’s poised on a flat-topped rock that overlooks this little swampy area near the stream. “With your permission, of course, because I already know you and Harrison did shots of these the other night, but…I really wanted to shoot the fireflies. I hope you don’t mind or think that I’m copying you guys. I don’t have to turn them in. I’m simply curious as to what I can pull off.”
Her eyes go from cautious to sparkling with excitement. “No. I’d kill to see those shots. And I knew
you would love the fireflies.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. There’s been a few fireflies in that little garden back at school—around that pond and…”
“And what?”
She rushes on, “The first time I saw them was the first week in the dorm. I thought of you right away. Because—I watch them fly while I’m awake at night unable to sleep, which has been a lot this summer. So when I see the fireflies, well…that’s when I think about you the most. You. And them, I mean.” She pauses, and I wonder if in that silence she can hear how my heart’s thumping way too hard.
“Me and them?” I raise a brow really high, struggling to follow her.
“Um.” She blinks up at me, furrowing her brow. “Yeah. Ugh. Sorry…I know I’m not making sense, but do you know what I mean?”
My mind is stuck because I’m trying not to ask: You thought about me? You thought about me? You thought about me all summer long?
My morbid curiosity won’t let her off the hook. “No. I have no idea what you mean.”
“Photography! And the lights the insects make,” she blurts out. “I thought about them, and you, and your photography, and how you’d pull of some sort of genius with them. That’s what I’m trying to say. I thought about how you would see the fireflies differently. How you would do that awesome thing you do with your photographs where you don’t photograph the thing, rather you take shots of the light coming off the thing. And then figured if the thing was also the light—well—I figured you’d go crazy and blow minds with your shots.”
I’m stuck on her words like a broken record now: Blow minds. Blow minds. Blow minds. My mind has now been blown by her.
When I still say nothing, she goes on, sounding almost desperate: “So…I’m happy to discover that you’re down here doing just what I’d hoped you’d do.”
I wonder…did her voice just crack again?
“Oh. Yeah. You’re absolutely right. I…I’ve been dying to photograph them all week. Not sure about pulling off any sort of genius, though. But…thanks for…thinking of me.”
I look away. I have to. I was thinking of her thinking of me and staring at her mouth.
Her beautiful, twists-at-the-edges mouth.
Sounding really unsure, she adds, “Well…I think it would be some sort of crime against photography, art, and nature if you don’t shoot the fireflies. I want you to teach me some of your magic ways. Tell me all of your secrets?”
My mind won’t stop. Tell her secrets? Tell her…secrets! Like what? Like…I love you so much, Ellen Foster? Like that kind of huge, impossible, mind-crushing secret?
She suddenly steps in way too close. This makes me hold my breath and pocket both of my hands so I don’t touch her while I war against her vanilla-scented braid, the luminous sheen to her skin, and what those darn lips are doing to my soul as they twist into another smile and compel me to kiss her.
I tell myself, She’s not mine. Not mine. Not mine!
Suddenly it feels as if there’s a shoebox clogging the back of my throat and that my ribs weigh thousands of pounds, but I manage to at least smile and answer, “Ha. Secrets. Please.” I’m proud that I’ve said it without touching her and without making any strangling, choking, or dying sounds.
She points at my camera bag. “Do you have your telephoto lens with you? And…if so, could I borrow it? I’m sort of on this telephoto binge these days.”
I nod, grateful her request has given me something to do with my hands. I walk over and pull out my lens, forcing myself to breathe deeply as I return to her side, clutching the lens as if it’s a shield while her soft voice traps me all over again like it’s some sort of drug. “I want to do some shots of the stars, and…” She looks around while tapping her chin in that cute way I love. As if she’s avoiding looking at me as much as I can’t stop staring at her. She’s fixated on the water. “Then I’ll do some reflections off the moon and the lake, maybe. Since I can’t walk out there on the sand just how I want, maybe your lens will satisfy me.”
The lips smile, and her sparkling eyes finally meet mine.
I hand over the lens, and because she’s always so careful and aware that her left hand is not as strong as the right, she gingerly focuses all of her attention on making sure she’s not going to drop my lens.
While she’s balancing herself to bring up her Nikon and turn it over, I stare openly at her face and those lips all over again. Then I memorize the blue-black streaks the rising moonlight is adding to her hair. When she trades out her lens, I take the smaller one from her hand without asking, and walk it back to place it where it will be safe inside my photography bag. I can’t trust the way my body is reacting to her. I almost pulled that girl into my arms all over again. And had I done that, I swear there would be no way I could ever let her go—not without losing what’s left of my sanity, that is.
“Thanks,” she whispers, as if she knows I’m struggling so badly over here. Her sensitivity to me makes all of this worse, because—damn, how well she knows and worries over me, and damn how well I know her and worry over her.
Finally she asks, “Do you mind that I’m here, crowding out your space?”
I can’t answer that directly, b
ecause I do mind how I’m not allowed to kiss her. Instead, I shake my head and allow a few telling, sandpaper-coated truths to escape: “It makes me happy we will get to do some photography together.”
Her eyes grow huge. Maybe how my voice sounded surprised her, but thankfully she only nods. Without another word or a glance in her direction, I head over to activate my camera. That’s because my eyes can’t take any more of her in right now, and because any other words I’m tempted to utter will have me down on my knees and at her feet while begging her to come back to me.
I force myself to think it again: This girl is not mine. Not mine. Not mine.
Ellen
We’ve worked in silence for a whole hour. Cam, bending over the small glowing fireflies, and me on the far edge of the pathway with my lens always pointed at the lake. It’s practically perfect. So comfortable that I’ve been able to process my endless, whirling thoughts about what just happened with Harrison. I’ve refocused on what I want for my future. I’ve mulled over what’s going to change between me, Cam, Patrick, and Laura when we return home to Brights Grove. Made a plan about how we will all stick by Cam when the gossip hits that he’s returned. I’ve even dialed in how I’m going to finish the final projects for Professor Perry so he’s impressed enough to offer me one of the scholarships. I’ve wondered about how my mom’s doing without me, thought about how Nash would be upset with me for taking off the black metal boot without him to supervise, and have even promised myself to put the boot right back on when I get back to my room.
Then I took all of those whirling thoughts and buried them in my work. I’ve somehow used the sounds of the crickets and the frogs nearby, the repetitive sounds of the waves hitting the shore, the faraway music and laughter from the distant bonfire, plus the steady click-click-click of Cam taking his own shots nearby, to reach a point of calm and contentment that I’d nearly forgotten I could feel.
I think it’s partly because I’m out of the boot, and for the entire hour I’ve been so balanced and steady on my feet without the crutches to drag around that I feel like I’ve crossed some sort of personal threshold.