by Anne Eliot
This book is dedicated to Allison Winn, a big eyed, dark haired, willowy teen who has taught me and so many others that living an amazing life is possible despite who or what knocks you around, and that it doesn’t matter how many times you might fall.
She’s shown us all that life should be about how one person can change the world no matter how small they are. Life should be about how you treat others while you’re down that counts—and mostly— life should be about what is gained in your own soul each time you get back up, again, and again, and again.
How I Fall
by Anne Eliot
Published by Butterfly Books, LLC
Print
ISBN-10: 1937815048
ISBN-13: 978-1-937815-04-2
Ebook ISBN-978-1-937815-05-9
Library Catalog Information
1.__ Teen Romance Fiction 2.__High School Teen with Disability 3.__ Cerebral Palsy 4.__Issue YA 5.__Friendship 6.__Sweet Teen Romance Suitable for All Ages 7.__Hemiparesis 8.__ First Love 9. Young Adult Literature 10. __Football
Summary: Ellen Foster (16) hides her Cerebral Palsy despite a few accidental falls, but is forced to work on her digital photography project with a guy who is assigned to keep her safe—a guy she thinks is cute—but a dumb football jock; only he’s anything but dumb, hates playing football and he’s had a crush on her for years.
9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1
Copyright © 2014 by Anne MacFarlane, writing as Anne Eliot. All rights reserved. All work and characters are fictional and no part of this work should be distributed or copied without the author and publisher’s direct permission . Cover design by PeterFreedman.com. Editing Lana Williams. Photo editing Katja Kulenkampff.
What people are saying...
“How I Fall is a beautifully romantic high school love story and a highly enjoyable read that will capture readers of all ages.”
— Heather Love King~ @javalotta
“Anne Eliot’s written about a teen facing a huge challenge here—hemiparesis with Cerebral Palsy. Only, what I love is how the story is not about the CP, it’s about real, contempoary high school teens learning who they are while growing up and falling in love. The sweet first kiss blew me away.”
— JT blogger~ @IloveYAfiction
Contents
1. Two Crushes
2. Fate
3. Saving Ireland
4. Group Project
5. After School Activities
6. Brave New World
7. Game Changers
8. Kisses, Butterflies, Bonfires
9. When Everything Goes Right
10. Falling in Love & Frozen Trees
11. Being Patient
-Preview of Book Two-
ellen
I pause at the corner down from the bus stop so I can regain some control. Both legs—the good one and the bad—are quaking dangerously. I’m also breathing like I’ve run a marathon in thick maple syrup instead of simply walking five blocks, but who cares? I’ve just navigated sidewalks covered with snow and ice with no crutches and no cane for the first time in my life. And I did not fall. Not once!
I check my phone to record the time and what I see has me almost gasping out loud.
*Crowd roars. She waves. She bows. She’s got ten minutes to burn!*
Because I have mild Cerebral Palsy, my physical therapist, Nash, would normally get half of the credit here. But it was my idea to pull double workouts all summer and fall. This victory is all mine, but either way, I can’t wait to give him a report. He’s going to be so proud. This will prove to him there is light at the end of my tunnel. The guy is so gloom and doom. He’s always thinking about my future and making predictions based on statistics, while I’m trying to convince him that I can write my own statistics.
Today, I will get to be the one who’s right!
Breath caught up, I straighten my messenger bag and face the bus stop ready for anything and anyone this day might try to throw at me! But two steps into walking the last half block, the calf of my bad leg spikes a surprise cramp.
“Please…no,” I mutter, jerking to a stop as white-lightning fires up my entire leg. The pain’s so harsh I could swear it’s stopped my heart. Scanning for anything that can save me from a public wobble-wobble-Ellen-falls-down event, I veer off the sidewalk and head for the cars parked on the street. Luckily, I’ve locked my hand onto a car mirror just as the knee on my bad leg buckles completely. For insurance, I lean most of my upper body weight on the dripping car hood, happy that my lumpy, hand-me-down jacket is at least waterproof. Only then do I pull in a slow steady breath and test—and beg—and pray—for my still trembling good leg to be okay.
It holds steady, but since I’m not allowed any guarantees with how my body behaves, I keep a death grip on the car any way I can. At least my sudden move has turned me away from the kids down at the stop. If I’m lucky, no one will have seen how I almost just hit the pavement. Even better, while I work out the kinks in my calf, I’ll be able to pretend that I’m simply admiring the snow and taking pictures of random stuff with my iPhone like I always do.
“Come on. Please. Come on.” I twist my bad ankle in a slow circle while more shards of pain pull my calf even tighter. Elation has disappeared, replaced by lead-heavy frustration. If Nash saw me clinging to this car, he’d launch into a thirty-minute lecture about how I’m supposed to have a cane with me at all times. I’ve been ignoring my promise to him and my mom since the first day of school about the cane, but it’s my life. So far, no harm’s been done, only good because I’m doing so well without it. But still…if he tells on me I’d feel terrible. Mom already works and worries so much.
My phone dings with the ultra-quiet bell tone I’ve set for my best friend, Patrick.
Every morning, from his bus stop on the other side of the golf course, he sends me cheesy inspirational quotes as a way to half-cheer, half-annoy the heck out of me. But he’s too late to do either. If I can’t get a handle on this spastic muscle response, I’ll be forced to drag one leg around like plywood until it recovers. A fact that will make me limp awkwardly in front of everyone. A little show people seem to watch with interest when I’m forced off balance. I hate that my limp will feature how I still have CP on the very day I thought I might be able to forget about it for a little while.
I also won’t be able to lift my leg high enough for my foot to gain access to the steps up the bus, so I’ll have to ask the driver to activate the mobility ramp. Something I haven’t needed for two years!
I breathe out a long sigh, forcing my thoughts to calm and my ankle to turn and turn, even though it’s making my eyes water from the effort.
*Vows to cling to this car and limp home before asking to use that hateful, stupid, noisy ramp.*
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
With the cramp still deciding which way it’s going to settle, I pull out my phone and scroll back to the beginning of Patrick’s messages. I shake my head, unable not to crack a smile despite my dark thoughts. He’s outdone himself with this one. It’s a horrible moving .gif that features a kitten with extra big, extra creepy blinking eyes staring at a ferocious hyena. The swirly font reads: Face Your Fears.
He’s added: I can’t tell which is scarier. Hyena or kitten? Thoughts?
I read the rest of Patrick’s texts, sent after I did not respond: Ellen? U there?
I woke up late. Had no clue about the storm.
Stupid snow. I would have come to your stop but no time.
U ok?...
Don’t make me walk over there. Ellen?
; ELLEN. Answer.
While I’m reading, more come in: I’m coming there now and calling an ambulance.
Before he goes insane—and because I know he’s not kidding about the ambulance call—I quickly fire out: Very funny.
Then a few lies to calm down his crazy: I’m awesome. Kitten is scarier than hyena. It’s a perfect beautiful day. I was taking photos, sorry it took so long to text back.
He knows that despite the pitfalls winter storms have brought me, I’m happiest when I’m taking photographs of ice and snow. There might not be much to do when fall closes the small lake front beaches all around our small town of Brights Grove, Ontario, but for me, living on the shores of Lake Huron delivers winters that serve up ice photos like no other place on earth! This storm’s just a taste. In a few weeks, I’ll wake up to find iced trees, iced grass, iced park benches, iced branches and iced everything.
Heaven. And I’ve waited all spring and summer long for them to come back.
I text him a few more lines because Patrick’s hard to convince. I’m also trying to focus on the few positives I have left: Guess who arrived at this bus stop in record time? Me. I’ve also snapped some awesome shots. Wait till you see.
He replies: Waiting.
I evade: Shh. Busy.
If I mention my spazzed leg it will only make him worry. Patrick’s got a geometry test first period he won’t ace if he’s distracted by my daily CP drama. The guy’s already acting extra guilty about how he’s ditched me to be on the Huron High football team this year. The coaches plucked him out of oblivion and made him something called a Varsity defender. Whatever that means. Patrick says it’s some sort of miracle for a kid who didn’t play JV. It’s also made Patrick so happy I can’t complain one bit for the simple reason that it makes me happy when he’s happy.
He and I have been best friends since he was instantly labeled, too-tall-guy and wound up at the loser lunch table with me, the-handicapped-girl. That was way back when he first moved to town, for grade seven.
And so, there we sat. Together. Alone. For a really long time.
Our first conversations happened while we were both pretending we didn’t hear the snide comments directed at us. He’d crack into my silences saying stuff like, “You got lime Jell-O? I love Jell-O.” And then he wouldn’t give up until I smiled at him or answered. His real progress with our friendship occurred when I found out his mom is a manager at Tim Hortons, what I consider to be the best donut/coffee/food place ever created. It didn’t take Patrick long to figure out that I have a particular weakness for Timbits. But who doesn’t? They’re these fresh little donut hole pastries. At least twice a week, because his mom is awesome and hooks him up all the time, he’d pull out the cute rectangular, Snack Pack cardboard box all kids love, push it across the table, waggle his brows all funny and say, “Want some?”
Of course I always did.
The Timbits generosity alone should have been enough to seal our friendship for good—because those tiny balls-of-addictive substance are that fresh and that good—but Patrick swears he wasn’t sure about my loyalties until the day I faked a spastic-limb-attack to soak a kid with a whole tin of Mandarin oranges after the kid called Patrick the Jolly Green Giant. I think I also shouted something like, “He’s not even green, you dummy, and now you’re the Mean Orange Bully, so there!” I’ve always sucked at fast comebacks.
I finally gave Patrick my permanent trust one week later. It was the day some kids thought it would be funny to take my crutches and leave me on a swing. Back then I couldn’t go across a room without crutches because my good leg was not strong like it is now.
No one noticed I was missing, either. Except Patrick.
He’d dashed back out to the playground while the teacher was calling the office for back up. He found me, dried my tears, and without a word, helped me to the office. They let him wait while the nurse bandaged the scrapes on my hands and knees. My mom, the principal, and Patrick were angry that I’d been stubbornly trying to crawl my way back inside instead of calling out for help. But later Patrick told me he understood. Said he would have done the same.
He’s never left me alone at recess ever again. Of course, we haven’t had recess for years, but the guy still tries to make sure I’m okay no matter where I am or where he is. I endlessly tell him I can take care of myself, but I know that it’s just his way. He’s still trying to keep that promise because that’s who he is as a person. His inspirational quotes and texts are some sort of over-compensating thing he’s developed because he can’t be near me all the time.
Last summer, Patrick got really lucky. He stopped being so clumsy, his shyness disappeared, and his six-foot-four frame makes perfect sense now that some of the other guys have had growth spurts to match. All that, plus the part where his status on the football team has locked him into the popular crowd, has fast-tracked him to a completely different level than where I’m stuck.
I figured it would happen eventually, because he’s awesome and gorgeous and people were bound to discover that. I refuse to let him be slowed down by me for his entire life, so I’m really careful about acting sad or letting him think I’ve been left behind somehow, because that idea would kill him. Besides, I’m not sad or left behind.
I just miss him, that’s all. I’m also doing great, making my own way bit by bit. And when I’m not, like today, I’m a master at faking it. As much as I try to hide my condition and pretend that I’m just like everyone else, I know that people with CP don’t get lucky and transform into graceful swans like Patrick did. It just doesn’t happen.
Testing the pain in my bad leg with half my weight again, I’m relieved to discover it’s fading away. Just in case, I keep one hand on the car and turn to grab a few shots of this long, delicate icicle melting off the bottom of a mailbox at the edge of the driveway. It’s too tempting not to snap it off and drop it in the perfectly round, snow-bordered puddle near my feet. I get a bunch of cool shots when it floats to the top dead center. The narrow tip is pointing outward and it’s going around and around like it’s a nature-made game spinner.
Patrick texts again: Give me a sign that you are perfectly happy and that you aren’t lying to me right now. How’s the snow? Are you really, truly, absolutely okay? Prove it, or I’m coming over there.
I text him one of the floating icicle photos and add: I’ve never been better. Swear. Now get on your bus and study for your test.
His answer: Beauty. You should take up photography or something…you might be good at it. ;)
Me: :)
I grab a few more shots of the snow-heavy, leafed-out branches above, and then force myself out of my photography haze, because I’m supposed to be working on casually getting myself near enough to board the bus.
My heart sinks and twists yet again as I realize what I’ve missed. No wonder Patrick texted me that big-eyed, brave kitten. The crowd down at the stop is huge. I’ve got way bigger problems than the possibility of limping in front of people. I’d totally forgotten—or blocked out—how crowded it was going to be today. In our town, all car keys are pulled by parents on snow days, because the school closes the student parking lots. I let out a long, shaky breath, wishing I could run all the way back home. Today, we are going to be forced to ride three-to-a-seat.
*Ellen Foster prepares to die.*
cam
I tap some snow off the top of my shoe, trying to remain calm. But as every second ticks by I’m getting more and more annoyed that the bus is this late. First, because I’m so tired of hearing Bella-Jane Jameson and her friends giggle about how cold they are. And second, because waiting to launch my talk-to-Ellen-Foster-plan has twisted my stomach so tight I’m about to snap.
I’ve waited so long for just the right day plus this perfect snowstorm to hit—and it’s all come together today—and I’ve even planned out how it’s all
going to go.
Only, now there’s this glitch!
It’s already early November. We’re creeping up to the half way point of our junior year, and if I keep waiting, all of my time will be gone. Just how freshman year is gone, and the part where I also wasted all of sophomore year choking every time I tried to talk to this girl.
At this point, I’m starting to wonder if I can ever pull off the word ‘hi’ to her, or if I should finally give up on my endless crush? Even the dripping, melting snow seems to be mocking me. It sounds exactly like a clock going: tick, tock, tick, tock! Reminding me how much time I’ve already wasted.
It—the crush—and my inability to speak to her at all, started back in grade eight. Ellen had showed up for orientation that year in another one of her wheelchairs. It was obvious she’d had another surgery to her leg. But after my long summer away at football camp, I sure wasn’t looking at her leg. I was looking at her face, her smile and how beautiful she’d become over the summer. From that point forward, I’d been unable to talk to her. I try to forgive myself for that, because in middle school no one talked to anyone, really. Some couples who were ‘officially going out’ dated and broke up by only muttering to each other.
Grade eight, is the year my crush on Ellen solidified. While everyone—everyone but Ellen, that is—ran around that year, gossiping about friend dramas and thinking we were big-time as the oldest kids in the middle school, Ellen Foster was involved in bigger things none of us could relate to. Things about her leg and her arm and how hard she had to work to get back out of that wheelchair.
