Ready to Fall

by Marcella Pixley

  So I do. And as I eat (a little latke, a little jelly), I see it. The plate. Mom’s favorite plate. Put back together.

  “I gathered up all the pieces,” she says.

  “Oh, Grandma.”

  “The night it broke I came back downstairs after everyone was asleep and I picked the pieces off the floor and saved them. And then the night of your accident all the commotion woke me up. The ambulance came. Your dad went with you to the hospital. After Lydie got the twins settled down, she and I stayed up waiting for your dad to call and tell us you were okay. We got to talking. She brought up how Soleil had broken the plate and I told her how I’d kept the pieces for you. It was her idea to glue them back together.”

  “Oh Grandma,” I say again.

  “It wasn’t so hard. Look how we did it. Can you see? It was like a puzzle.”

  I finish my last bites and hold the plate so I can see. It’s amazing. Here is the bridge. Here are the mountains. Here is the pagoda. Here is the trail and the bird flying overhead. There are long scars that crisscross through the scene where she glued the pieces back into place, but with the exception of one missing spot, the plate looks almost whole again.

  “There are some slivers missing. And there’s a whole missing piece,” says Grandma, apologetically. “One shard. Right in the middle. Just that one triangle.”

  “I know where it is,” I say.

  “Where?”

  “I have it,” I say. “I’ve been keeping it.” I take the shard out of my back pocket. “I’ve been keeping it with me ever since.”

  “Oh, perfect!” says Grandma.

  She shuffles to the odds-and-ends drawer and takes out the superglue.

  Carefully, carefully, I spread glue on the edges of the shard with a butter knife.

  Then I place the shard in its spot on the winding trail. I tap it into place with the tip of the knife.

  “There,” says Grandma.

  The tiny blue woman stretches up on her toes. She lifts her arms as though they are wings and raises her face to the sun. All around her, tiny folded pieces of paper are falling like feathers. This one has the wing of a dragon. This one has a slender ankle. This one has the letter M. This one has the eye of a beautiful girl. The tiny blue woman twirls in circles until she catches each one like a child catching white butterflies.

  Dad comes down. He has shaved and put on a brand-new shirt.

  “You ready for school, Max?” he says.

  “Yes, I am,” I whisper.

  “Almost ready,” says Grandma. “There’s one more thing. One more important thing we need to do.” Grandma picks up a pencil.

  “We need to go, Jean,” says Dad, checking his watch.

  “This will only take a second. Measure him. It’s his first day back.”

  “Okay,” says Dad. “Got your stuff ready?”

  I lift my backpack to show him. Then I grab my jacket off the back of the chair. Grandma gives the pencil to Dad.

  “Are you sure you want to?” Dad asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was too sad before. But now I’m ready.”

  Together, we walk to the wall where Mom used to measure my height. Kindergarten. Grade three, grade five. All the way up the wall. One for every year until this past year. Dad and I stop in front of the wall. We look at all the different years written in my mom’s handwriting, letters and numbers that curl and twist, thin and slanted like tendrils. I stand against the wall, just like I have done every first day of school since I was in kindergarten.

  “No tippy toes,” says Grandma.

  I drop down an inch or two. Dad draws a line.

  I am towering above the last line we drew.

  “Would you look at that?” says Grandma. “How can this be true?”

  But it is true, Grandma. It is true.

  AFTERMATH

  Even though Fish meets me in Trowbridge Hall just like she promised me she would, even though she welcomes me back with her classic, fabulous, full-body koala hug, even though she grabs my arm and skips me Yellow Brick Road–style all the way down the corridor to World Literature class, my stomach is still in knots. I’m worried about how The Monk will react to seeing me again. We take our seats. I look over and try to make eye contact with him. He doesn’t even look at me. He spends the entire class taking notes and nodding at Dr. Austerlitz with great interest. I try to get The Monk’s attention, but he looks through me as though I were a ghost.

  At the end of class, I walk up to him.

  “Hey,” I say. “Can we talk a minute?”

  “I don’t have a minute,” says The Monk. Then he pushes me aside and storms off to his next class.

  * * *

  I get up the nerve to call Cage during my free period and arrange to meet him during lunch at the Salty Dog, a café. I have to admit, I have a real craving for an egg roll, but Cage makes a good point that meeting at Panda Wok would be like returning to the scene of the crime. And besides, they probably wouldn’t be too happy to see us since they had to pay a fine for serving alcohol to a minor, even though it wasn’t their fault.

  The Salty Dog seems like the perfect hole-in-the-wall for two outlaws to meet for the last time. It’s dark. The walls are covered in posters from old Ingmar Bergman and Woody Allen movies. There are people sitting in faded leather chairs with their feet up on scuffed tables drinking mugs of dark coffee and working on their computers; others are just browsing the Internet and trying to look intellectual while they hide away from the world for a while.

  I spot Cage sitting on a couch in the back of the café and hurry over to him.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “I am so sorry for what I did.”

  “Don’t be,” says Cage. “I had it coming. Sit down. You look completely freaked out. Jeez. I’m still the same guy. I’m gonna live. You want me to order you something?”

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “Right. I get it. It didn’t work out so well last time. Listen. Sit down. You’re making me jumpy standing there. Or maybe it’s the caffeine. Either way, please get over here and stop looking guilty.”

  I sit beside him.

  Cage offers me his coffee. “Want a sip?”

  “Um. No.”

  “Jeez, did you see that? I almost made the same mistake twice. Don’t want them throwing me in the can for offering you a hazelnut double-dark macchiato, do we? No sir. Coffee is bad for kids. All those Minnesotans and Sicilians have got it wrong, my friend. Wouldn’t want to lead you down the path toward evil, now, would we? Oh. Right. Too late. I have already tainted your brain. And the whole school board knows it.”

  “How did they find out?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it, but the entire Trowbridge family was dining at the Panda Wok the night we were there. I know. It’s crazy, but it’s true. I didn’t see them, of course, squiffed as I was. But they saw me ordering the scorpion bowl. They saw you stagger out. The rest is history. They notified the school. They met with the review board. By Monday I was out on my ass.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I say. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s what I told them. But no matter how many times I explained what happened, it didn’t measure up. You had a virgin piña colada. I gave you one sip of the scorpion bowl. But somehow you got drunk. Just tell me one thing so I know I’m not crazy. You had way more than that one sip I gave you, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I had many, many sips.”

  “You think you had about half?”

  “Probably,” I say.

  “That’s what I figured,” says Cage. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  “I should go to the administration and tell them you didn’t know.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” says Cage.

  “But I made you lose your job.”

  “I made me lose my job,” says Cage. “If it wasn’t this blunder, it would have been another. The administration’s been on my back for years. And those Trowbridges never liked me. They�
��ve been looking for a reason to give me the ax since I started at this school. Remember I told you that the best thing about being a writer is that folks don’t expect you to behave like everyone else? Get-out-of-jail-free card and all that?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “That was bullshit,” he says.

  “I knew that already,” I tell him.

  “Good. You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Listen. Before we say our tearful goodbyes, you owe me one thing that you should have given me a long time ago.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell me what the hell has been going on in that head of yours all these months. What’s the big secret that’s been twisting you up into pretzels?”

  “You want the long version or the short version?” I ask him.

  “Well, I want the long version of course, but I gather you need to head back to campus soon, and if I hear you got in trouble for skipping class and they kicked you out of paradise, the bad news will be a tad too rich for my diet at the moment, so the Reader’s Digest version, please. No pun intended. And that pun, in case you weren’t listening closely, was diet and digest.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Reader’s Digest version. At her funeral, instead of crying, I convinced myself that my mother’s brain tumor had somehow gotten inside me.”

  “Kinky,” says Cage, leaning forward.

  “Yeah, isn’t it? So when I was in class, even when I tried, I couldn’t concentrate. I was imagining this tumor living inside my brain. Calling me a wuss. Listening to loud music at all hours of the night. Throwing epic keg parties. Scratching off the wallpaper. Peeing in the corners, etcetera.”

  “He was a very bad tenant,” says Cage.

  “The worst.”

  “And so you were convinced you were dying of brain cancer?”

  “Pretty much. And I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want them to know what a mess I was.”

  “Big mistake,” says Cage.

  “Yeah. Then after I fell, I went to the emergency room and I was so blitzed out, they decided to give me a brain scan. They took pictures of every nook and cranny. And as you know, there are lots of nooks and crannies in the brain. Guess what they found?”

  “No tumor?” says Cage.

  “Yeah,” I say. “No tumor. Not even a baby one. It turns out I’m going to live.”

  “Congratulations,” says Cage.

  “Thank you. And I should be congratulating you too.”

  “And why is that?”

  “If you hadn’t accidentally gotten me trashed, I wouldn’t have hit my head and I wouldn’t have gone to the ER, and I wouldn’t have had a brain scan and I wouldn’t have found out the truth.”

  “Which was?” asks Cage.

  “Which was that besides being a total basket case, I am going to be okay.”

  “I was an accidental hero,” says Cage.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Rescued you from yourself with my trusty scorpion bowl. Even though I tried to be virtuous by ordering you a virgin piña colada.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to tell the dean it was my fault?”

  “Nah,” says Cage. “Let’s not press our luck. Listen. You need to get back to campus. It’s time to say goodbye, young grasshopper. But first, one last piece of advice, however unwanted. I think you should consider talking to a professional about what’s been going on. A shrink. A counselor. Someone who can help you sort through what’s really in your head. Trust me. It’ll be good for you. Tell me you’ll consider it.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll definitely consider it.”

  “Good,” says Cage. “Freud is good people. And listen. They’re gonna give you a new advisor. The one and only Mrs. Donna Pruitt. I’ve touched base with her already, and she is actually going to follow the handbook and meet with you at least once a week for the rest of the school year. Don’t worry. You’ll like her better than me.”

  “I don’t think I could possibly like anyone better than you,” I tell him.

  “Aw,” says Cage. “You’re just saying that because I used to feed you egg rolls and booze. Give me a man-hug.”

  We stand up. Cage grabs me and pulls me in to him. He smells terrible.

  “Thanks for everything,” I say against his sweater.

  “Keep on writing,” says Cage.

  “I will,” I tell him.

  “Dedicate your first novel to me.”

  “I will,” I tell him.

  He pushes me away and looks me right in the face.

  “You’re a good kid,” he says. “I’ll never forget you. Now get out of here quick before I start crying like a baby. Go live your life.”

  STEAMPUNK

  Fish meets me after school and we walk through the auditorium doors together, down the aisle, onto the stage, and into another world. Everything is made of gears and metal pipes, as though the Kingdom of Denmark has been rebuilt inside a gigantic industrial clock. The castle looks like a factory belching steam and dirt into the sky. Everything is hard and angular and dark, but somehow at the same time it is beautiful too.

  Donna Pruitt strides toward us. “Costumes,” she says briskly. “Hurry up. Rehearsal starts in twenty minutes. Places in twenty!” she calls.

  “PLACES IN TWENTY” screams the stage manager.

  “Thank you! Twenty!” calls Fish, who grins and then bounds off backstage.

  I stand still for a moment, gazing at the set and wondering how it’s going to feel to be onstage with The Monk and all the others. Will they give me the cold shoulder? Will they pretend nothing ever happened? Was Fish telling the truth when she said the others weren’t upset? I take a deep breath and try to work up the courage to go backstage.

  Donna Pruitt puts her hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m just a little nervous, I guess.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” she says. “We all missed you. Everyone’s going to be really glad you’re back. We’ll talk later about advisory stuff. For now get into your costume. It’s a work of art.”

  Backstage, everyone is rushing to get ready. She is right. The costumes are amazing. Leather and silk. Lace and studs. Many of them include accessories. Belts. Boots. Vests. Smitty bounds over in his leather tunic and we bump fists. Ravi strides by with an armful of costumes and winks at me.

  Griswald shuffles over, puts both of his hands on my shoulders, and touches his forehead against mine, very gently. “I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Listen. I’m really sorry about all the trouble I caused.”

  “Hey,” says Griswald. “I like a little trouble.”

  I find my costume hanging on the rack. It’s a suit of armor made of gauze, leather, and pressed tin.

  “What do you think?” asks Ravi at my elbow.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” I tell him. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. You are amazing.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Truly,” I say. “You’re truly amazing. I had no idea how amazing you were.”

  “Because I have amazed you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Put you in a maze?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does it feel? Being in a maze as you are?”

  “Mazey,” I say.

  “And is that better or worse than having a concussion?”

  “Much better,” I say.

  “Good,” says Ravi. “Welcome back to the maze then.”

  * * *

  The Monk is sitting by the bubble mirrors putting on makeup. He brushes the sponge in the brown base and begins covering his face, dabbing it across his forehead, down his nose, across his cheeks. Then he puts shadows under his eyes so that he looks as though he has been crying.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond. He is still looking at his face in the mirror.

  “So, I just wanted to let you know I’m really sorry ab
out what happened.”

  The Monk shrugs.

  “I was in pretty bad shape that night. And I’m not sure what I would have done if you weren’t there to help me.”

  “Give me a break,” says The Monk. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been there. I frigging attacked you with snowballs, dude.”

  “But then you saved me.”

  “I used my head as a battering ram, and I frigging mowed you down. So don’t you dare thank me. I don’t want to be thanked.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I won’t thank you.”

  “See, that’s what bugs me about you, Friedman,” says The Monk, his eyes smoldering. “You’re just too goddamned agreeable. Where’s your edginess? You’re turning into Trowbridge on me. Next thing I know you’re going to be calling your mother, telling her I broke a rule.”

  “My mother is dead,” I tell him.

  We stare at each other. The Monk shuts his mouth and turns back to the mirror.

  “PLACES IN FIVE!” screams the stage manager.

  “Thank you! Five!” shouts Ravi.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Ravi grins at me. “That’s what you say when you’re in the know, as I am. You shout that. Thank you! Five! So they know you heard them. And also so that they know you are theatrically knowledgeable. Like a knowledgeable guy. As I am.”

  “Thank you! Five!” screams Smitty, grabbing his cape and jogging through the dressing room doors and onto the stage.

  And now people are shouting, “Thank you! Five!” and running all over the place to get ready, buttoning each other’s buttons, buckling each other’s belts, spritzing hair-spray in each other’s hair. Fixing each other’s swords, breathing deeply.

  “PLACES!” shouts Donna Pruitt from the stage.

  “Thank you! Places!” everyone says, because that’s what you say when you are in the know, as I now am.

  We spill onstage and form a circle, Ophelia in her leather corset and skirts, Hamlet with leather and black doublet, Gertrude with wig and black leather gown, Laertes and Horatio and Claudius and Polonius and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and Lords and Ladies and Attendants and all of us, all of us, transformed in front of this magnificent set rising behind us like some kind of dystopian metamorphosis.