Falling From Grace (Grace Series)

by S. L. Naeole

  “No. I was more than difficult. I was a terror. A monster. I don’t blame my mother for picturing eleven more years of living with me and thinking it was too much to deal with. I always made things much too difficult for everyone. Maybe I should have been drowned at birth. And there I go: Making it about me again. It’s always about me.

  “Why do I have to make it about me? Even now, talking to myself, it’s about me! I should be talking about the country or poor, starving children in Africa, but all I can think about is myself! It’s like I’m obsessed or something. I just don’t get it. This is why people stare at me all the time, why no one wants to be my friend, why I’m always the butt of everyone’s joke.

  “I’m too self-involved. I’m too needy. I want too much from people. It’s like I’m an emotional leech and I’m just looking for my next victim to feed off of. Perhaps…maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t survived the hit and run. Maybe it wasn’t even a hit and run. Maybe it was me being so needy, I threw myself in front of some poor guy’s car. Maybe I was just trying to finish what my mother had started. Maybe…”

  When that last word left my lips, and I heard my voice echo off of the walls, only then did I actually feel the trembling in my arms and legs, even through the casts. The casts! They were rattling against the music stand and the floor, and the sound was like one of Dad’s antique word processors typing up a twenty page essay. It was the only sound in the entire auditorium once my voice stopped echoing.

  I had done it. Spastic shaking and all, I had done it without stopping, without crying, without screaming out denials, and most importantly, I had done it without a single audience member saying anything. I couldn’t see them, the lights were far too bright in my face, but I knew the faces that were the most important were not looking at me with the same disgust I felt for having said those words. They were looking at me with disgust for the person who had written them.

  And that person was standing off to the side with a smile that would brighten even the darkest room plastered on her gleeful face. Cheshire cat indeed; she was the red queen and the cat all rolled into one. One great, big, sadistic, scepter carrying, red and purple smile with a tail.

  “Well…thank you, Miss Shelley, for sailing through that…uninspired and absolutely predictable diatribe written by Miss Hamilton. I think that were it not for the person reading it, most of us would have walked out before the third line was ever uttered. You were the only redeeming thing about that piece, and I applaud you for sticking with it and completing it even though I’m certain that it disgusted you as much as it did the rest of us.” Mr. Danielson stood up and ushered me off of the stage.

  I clumsily sat down near the stairwell, numb and speechless, my crutches leaning up against the wall behind me while he gathered the sheets of paper that were still on the music stand and unceremoniously tore them in half lengthwise. The sound of the paper tearing, more so than the actual tearing itself, caused a few gasps to ripple across the auditorium. I turned around in disbelief, afraid that I had just embarrassed myself for nothing.

  I watched as Erica walked out on to the stage, my blue folder in her hand, that evil smile still stretching from ear to ear, and stood in front of the microphone. Whatever her thoughts, the tearing of her three page ode to me wasn’t enough to disturb them. She opened the folder and removed the two neatly typed sheets of paper that had been placed inside.

  With utter confidence, a confidence I certainly hadn’t possessed when I started, she placed those papers directly on top of the folder and placed that on top of the music stand. She seemed so comfortable, so at ease, and I knew it was because she had enjoyed the reaction of the audience, and more importantly, my own.

  It had bolstered her. If I hadn’t known who she was, what she was capable of, I would have thought her to be the most approachable person in the world. But I knew exactly what type of person she was, and she had demonstrated in black and white just what she was willing to do in order to get her way. What exactly she was trying to get, I wasn’t quite sure yet, but I knew that after today I would definitely find out. She had already embarrassed me, and planted seeds of doubt amongst the people who had witnessed my reading. What else was left?

  I heard someone cough, and realized that the no one had uttered a single sound other than the few gasps at the tearing of my script. Erica had herself a captive audience, and she liked that.

  I held my breath as I saw her take a deep one to start. And then her voice began to read the words that I had agonized over for what had, at the time, seemed like a lifetime but now felt as though I had rushed through it instead.

  “He loves me. There is no doubt that he loves me. The way he smiles at me, the way he listens to me and the things that I say; there couldn’t be any more proof necessary to convince me that he feels so deeply for me.

  “In my own little tea party of life, he is my ultimate guest; one who never needed an invitation, and who has always been and will always be welcome. He enjoys my crooked, funny little mixed up world. He accepts me for who I am, and that’s an amazing, beautiful, incredible thing. But, most importantly, he sees behind the mask that so many people like me wear to protect our real selves.

  “But, what if the me he knows isn’t the real me? What if it’s just another mask that I wear as well? Two masks, one underneath the other, both hiding the me underneath; Victor, Victoria, and Erica.

  “Everyone sees the first mask. Cold. Mean. Angry. Beautiful Erica wears that mask very well. People fear me, rather than respect me. But, cracked, cold, mean, and angry, I still fit into this mask wearing world like a round peg in its equally round hole. And, as cracked as that mask is, it still doesn’t let the second mask beneath it show through. No one knows what’s under that except him.

  “That second mask shows me off as someone softer, more vulnerable. He sees me as sweet, caring, and loving. He sees the part of me that could be kind. He’s seen it be generous, and he’s enjoyed it. It’s helped to justify so many of his actions; it made him believe that all of it was worth it. And even that mask, soft and sweet, giving and loving, has allowed me to be as much a part of everyone and everything as anyone would want. I’m just as accepted as anyone else.

  “But underneath that mask, underneath everything that everyone thinks they know, is the real me; the person that they’d never expect—the person that they’ll never, ever see.

  “The cruel me, the evil me, the heartless me. To show the real me would mean losing everything that I’ve worked so hard to set up. I cannot show him, or anyone, to what lengths I would go to get my way. I cannot let him see to what lengths I’d go to get rid of something as insignificant as a dormouse. I cannot let him think that his love is wasted on me.

  “But, what happens if I’m honest? What happens when I reveal that beneath the first mask of ice, and beneath the second mask of down, lays someone who wears no mask at all, but instead a hat. And that hat is of someone quite mad? Will he still be willing to sit down at this Mad Hatter’s table and have tea? Will I be two masks too late? Can I set back my watch to a time before truth? What was it the Mad Hatter said? ‘…it’s very easy to take more than nothing.’ And that’s exactly it, isn’t it?

  “I have given nothing, and have taken so much more. I’ve taken his trust, and I’ve given him back nothing but lies which only take more themselves. I’ve taken his love and I’ve given him back nothing but hurt in pretty little sugar coated packages. Mask one and two. So perhaps I simply remove the hat, and keep the masks on. He doesn’t need to know.

  “I can simply try to put more cracks in the first mask, and polish up the second. The person that he loves wouldn’t be hurtful and spiteful. The person he loves wouldn’t be cruel and hateful. He loves me, and I have to be that person, because the truth is that he loves everyone—if he can’t love me, then that makes me different in a way all my own. There are no cakes or drinks that can change me so that I’ll fit into that slot he has opened in his life for me. And, I can’t s
it at my own tea party alone, different, while the rest of the world’s story goes on.”

  The confusion on Erica’s face was plain. The lines between her brows threw off the smile she kept planted on her mouth. It was as if her face were comprised of two halves, but both seemed intent on losing to the inner struggle she seemed to be having with herself.

  “Um, I don’t get it, Mr. Danielson. I thought this was supposed to be about me, and not about some silly kid’s story.”

  Mr. Danielson, who had sat down on the stage to listen to Erica’s monologue, shook his head, himself seeming confused. The way he brushed his hand through his hair, and the sigh that came out of him seemed a far more passive reaction than the one that he had given after my reading, but could he be just as disappointed, too? Perhaps I wasn’t plain enough?

  “Miss Hamilton, I don’t understand what exactly it is that you don’t get. Is it perhaps the symbolism? Or could it be that you don’t get why Miss Shelley wasn’t as spiteful with her words as you were with yours?”

  Erica’s face morphed through a few different shades of red before finally settling on an irate sort of rouge. “She wasn’t spiteful? Calling me cruel and evil and heartless isn’t spiteful?”

  “Miss Hamilton, do I need to remind you of some of the things that you had Miss Shelley here say? Most of which go beyond spite and border on absolute vindictiveness, I might add.”

  A murmur started traveling through the audience. It sounded like a soft hum, barely perceptible, what with the whistling of steam coming out of Erica’s ears, but it grew louder. It could only have been my imagination, but the murmur started to take on a more tangible vibe. The louder it got, the clearer it became, and the words certainly had an effect on Erica. She stormed off of the stage as the chant of “Flunk Erica” echoed all around me.

  I watched her, her shoulders hunched over, her face still confused, but her eyes now misted over with angry tears, and I couldn’t help but feel a sort of sympathy towards her. Had I felt a bit more confident, I probably would have reached out my hand to her in truce, as a peace offering, or maybe just in support and understanding. Instead, having the taste of saying that I had killed my mother in my mouth caused me to feel far less confident, and far more disgusted with myself.

  Flunk Erica? Flunk Grace for having had no backbone to stand up for my mother, for myself… Erica might have written that vile nastiness, but I read it. I put a voice to her words, gave them power and life, and the nausea that hadn’t felt a need to make its appearance during my speech finally showed up at my acknowledgement of that.

  Gee?

  “Grace?”

  I looked up to see two beautiful faces, two pairs of beautiful eyes, one green, the other silver, both filled with concern, and both for me. How could they be concerned for me after what I had just done?

  Gee, you have done nothing wrong. Do not feel guilty and give Erica what she wants.

  “Grace, I’m sorry about what Erica did. I didn’t know that you were in the same class. She said that she had something planned for her partner, but I swear I didn’t know it was you she was talking about. I-”

  Robert’s face was reassuring, while Graham looked so lost, his voice couldn’t find its way back out of his mouth. He looked at Robert, and nodded. My eyes widened. Did Robert let Graham know about his secret?

  No. He’s come to a decision.

  “Grace, I have to take care of something. Do you think you could wait here for me?”

  I looked at Graham, his face hardened from the pain and anger he was feeling. I didn’t like that face. It was the same face he had on when he told us we couldn’t be friends anymore, and the dread in me started to pile up again, only this time I didn’t have an old Buick’s windshield to keep me propped up.

  “I need to talk to Erica, Grace. I’ll be back…I promise.” He felt he had to reassure me. He knew what I was feeling. That wasn’t expected.

  “I’ll be here.”

  He nodded his head at my own promise and stood up. I watched him walk away, this time with a lot less dread in my heart. Of course, this time, when I turned my head, there was another pair of eyes still on me, still gauging my emotions.

  “How horrible was it? The thoughts in everyone’s heads?” I knew he had no choice but to be honest with me, a painful perk I was glad for at the moment if only because I knew that I wouldn’t be led into believing anything but the truth.

  “You cannot begin to understand the deep level of sympathy that your fellow classmates feel for you. Odd though you are to them, none of them could have placed themselves in your shoes and felt they deserved it.”

  I felt the moisture build in my eyes, felt their weight cling to my lashes as they tried to cage in the tears, but their release was unstoppable, and they rushed out, free at last. “I don’t understand how they could feel something like that for Grace the freak. What Erica wrote, a great deal of it is based on the truth. A lot of them do think that way, and I do often times blame myself for my mother’s death because I know what happened…I just can’t remember.”

  Robert’s hand beneath my lower lashes, wiping away an errant tear, caused me to breathe in sharply. I bit my lip to keep from gasping at the intense burning sensation his skin had caused, and held my breath to try and slow down my racing heart. The emotions in me from the words I had uttered today felt so raw; he was affecting me differently than normal. That was the only thing I could blame this on.

  The darkening metal of his eyes seemed to confirm my thoughts. He was hearing them just as clearly as if I had said them aloud, I already knew. “Grace, don’t blame yourself for your mother’s death. Her life had reached its intended end. You did not cause her death any more than you could have caused the deaths of everyone on the Titanic. This has been explained to you already.” He reached for my hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  I nodded my head in compliance. What else was there to do? It had been explained to me, although not in as much detail as I would have liked. Lark had told me just enough to keep me curious, and Robert had told me nothing at all, despite all of his admissions.

  “It’s just that what I said, as difficult as it was to say, it was as though she had been in my head, read some of my thoughts herself, and just embellished them. Not all of them, but you know what I mean.”

  I couldn’t look at him anymore. Not with the way I was feeling. Unbeknownst to either Erica or myself, we had written about each other’s hidden selves, sides of us that we both perceived that no one had seen but were so wrong, for we had both seen it in each other. For her, the darkness she had kept hidden away; for me, the doubt and guilt I had tried to deny. How alike we both were, and how much that killed me to admit.

  Again, the strange, insane feeling of needing to comfort her, wherever she was, crawled into my mind; I knew it was absolutely impossible for there to be anything between us now except animosity.

  I looked up again when I saw Mr. Danielson squatting in front of me, a concerned puckering of his forehead masking what would have been a very pleasant face to look at had I even been remotely interested in doing so. “Grace, I think I should apologize for what happened here today. It was not my intention for any of this to occur.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “You couldn’t have known how far either of us were going to take it, Mr. Danielson.”

  “No, you’re wrong, Grace. I should have known that the tension between you two would result in something like this. On her part at the very least but I didn’t, and for that I’m truly sorry. What she made you say…I cannot believe—I want you to know that there will be a suspension hearing on Monday regarding today’s incident.”

  I shook my head, my eyes widening in shock. “If she deserves to be suspended, then so do I. We both took pot shots at each other, and none of them were because we were fooling around. I don’t think it would be fair to punish her and not me when we both did the exact same thing.”

  He stared at me, his expression one of surprise. I knew w
hat he was thinking; I must be weird to want to go down in flames alongside Erica Hamilton after what she did. Truth was I simply couldn’t let her be punished for something I knew was going to happen and yet something that I had allowed myself to be a part of anyway.

  “Mr. Danielson, whatever her punishment, I deserve the same.”

  He brought his lips inward, clenched between his teeth in a thin line of disapproval. “You’re definitely not like everyone else, Grace Shelley. After everything you’ve been through recently, I half expected you to burst into tears during your soliloquy, but you kept yourself together. Whatever it is that Miss Hamilton seems to think you’re incapable of acquiring, I don’t doubt you’ll have no problem of getting it-” he looked at Robert, who was still looking at me…I could feel it “-if you don’t have it already.”

  The hand that was still holding mine squeezed it again. A silent confirmation. I had him. I knew this. But as what?

  Mr. Danielson stood up. “I’m going to go and see if I can find Miss Hamilton to discuss what’s going to happen. If you change your mind, do let me know on Monday, Grace. That gives you the whole weekend to think about it.”

  As he walked away, it dawned on me what it was that Erica had wanted. She had wanted the emotional outburst, the retaliatory actions in defense of me; she wanted the very thing that my own conscience would not allow, and she wanted it because she wanted to be the victim. She wanted to lessen the sympathies that might have been felt towards me so that her pain and suffering could take center stage and not be overshadowed by whatever it was that I had gone through. She was…jealous.

  “Holy crap.” I was in disbelief.

  Robert looked just as stunned as I felt.

  “Erica Hamilton is jealous because people feel sorry for me?” Even saying it couldn’t make it sound any less ridiculous. “But why?”

  Robert stroked my thumb with his and sighed. “She’s never felt that before. She’s never had people thinking that she’s vulnerable, or that she could be the victim of anything or anyone other than herself. She puts up such a strong front, people are afraid of her, and the natural instinct in people is to feel everything but sympathy. They shy away from her with most emotions really, but the one thing she has never been able to experience is sympathy, because who can feel sympathy towards someone who feels no sympathy towards others?