How I Fall

by Anne Eliot

  And I know all of this, because back then, the part of my crush where I’m worrying and wondering about her all the time also increased. That year, in addition to the wheelchair, her leg and her forearm had been covered in thick, mysterious bandages.

  I actually felt like I couldn’t breathe right for months because of those bandages. Not until the day she came to school smiling because they’d been taken off and she’d been allowed to use a walker. Until she got rid of that walker and into crutches, she also had a school aide by her side at all times. This cranky-huge lady had to help her get around. Walk her to lunch, to the bus, sit at her desk in case Ellen had to go to the rest room—which probably had to suck. It had to have been kind of like going to school with your mom or something. And that lady was always there, creating even more of a distance and a difference between Ellen and the rest of us.

  Ellen didn’t complain when she should have, either.

  Not once. I’ve never, ever seen her cry in all these years. To me, her road has been so rough that she’s got the right to cry and complain anytime she wants, but...from her...nothing. Luckily, since that same grade eight year where I lost my ability to not sneak looks at this beautiful girl, Ellen hasn’t seemed to have had any more surgeries. Now that we’ve been at Huron High I think she’s getting stronger and more confident. I’ve been silently cheering her on through some huge successes, too, like the day she stopped bringing crutches to school all together. The happiness that seems to have come from her finally being free of any walking aids seems to have made her more beautiful. This, of course, just makes her more out of my league than she already was.

  Maybe that’s why I hesitate.

  I look over at her now and swallow.

  Oh, heck yes, she’s beyond beautiful. That’s positively why I hesitate! It’s why all guys hesitate. She’s on that pedestal I made for her years ago, being extra beautiful, cool and unapproachable as usual, all while I’m holding up a bus stop with my back, acting all stalker-awkward way down here on the ground—as usual.

  Even now, how she’s staring at a car and taking photos while standing on one leg makes my heart leap with interest. Why does she stand on one leg? Why does she sometimes braid her long black braid a little to the side? Does she know how cute that is? What is she possibly staring at on the roof of that car that could hold her attention for so long?

  Now she’s moved to photographing a puddle near the car wheel, and my flood of questions begins again. What’s in that puddle that interests her? What does she see that we do not?

  She’s so focused all the time she makes it seem like the rest of us aren’t even here. Worse, I get this sinking sensation that puddles and melting snow are her whole world, and this world is so interesting and amazing that it doesn’t need to include any other people—not anyone like me—that’s for sure.

  Today, she’s wearing jeans with this cute, puffy, oversized, light blue jacket I’ve never seen before. Even how she dresses makes her look all other-world, because she doesn’t go for any fads, ever. Her clothes are so unlike what all of us unoriginal clones wear. She has lots of vintage things mixed with splashes of surprising colors and patterns that always seem random, but I believe must very well thought out because they go together and match her personality perfectly.

  Safe with the idea she’s not going to turn around while she’s bent over a puddle, I openly watch her take a few shots. She straightens, flips that really cute braid around some then pauses to read a text all while managing to balance herself on that one leg! To me, she looks like some sort of willowy dancer or a yoga instructor. The way she expertly holds herself without even a wobble—it’s like she has zero memory of ever being on crutches at all.

  But I do. Everyone does. It’s because she’s the only kid in three townships to ever go to schools around here in a wheelchair. This made her some sort of town celebrity.

  Unfortunately, most people around here refer to her as ‘that handicapped girl’ or the ‘disabled kid’ or worse—all of which really makes me mad. Because if you look at her—she’s not—she’s simply not that person any more. Not disabled from where I watch her, anyhow. At least…I don’t think she is, though I don’t know much at all about CP. What does disabled mean anyhow? Ellen Foster seems more able than any of us. I bet for her whole life, Cerebral Palsy became part of every conversation she’s ever had the way football is always brought up around me. I also get how it’s a topic she wishes she could escape.

  Over the years, many of our neighborhoods, and especially the golf course area where I live, have held annual fund-raising events to pay for extra physical therapy just for her. I remember some of us doing a car wash so Ellen could have a special tendon lengthening surgery down in Boston. I remember it was during grade four, because that was the year I started to really hate playing football—and being my dad’s puppet. That year, Dad was always trying to get our club featured in the newspapers for raising the money for Ellen’s ‘cause’ so we washed hundreds of cars.

  The last thing I remember about that year was how Ellen went away for her procedure. The surgery must have been so bad that she didn’t come back to school until the end of the year. We all had to write her get-well-soon letters or sign our names onto cards our teacher got for her all the time.

  Ellen’s mom works for our golf club, so everyone we know knows Ellen and her mom. The club always rallies to help out as well, because Mrs. Foster is really nice. Everyone knows there was no way Mrs. Foster, with her small salary, could afford to pay the bills from American hospitals. Not as a single mom, that’s for sure.

  Ellen’s got one good friend. A guy called Patrick. He’s been around a long time, but I just met him this fall when he was recruited to play on our team. Like Ellen, he keeps to himself or hangs out with her. For all I know, he might be her boyfriend which makes my plan to finally talk to her a possible, complete waste of time!

  But I’ve got to try. I’ve worked hard to develop this idea and I think it’s foolproof. I’ve set it up for today because it’s a known fact that in the snow, and on that soul-sucking bus, Ellen Foster needs a friend.

  Me. Me. Me. Hopefully me.

  I sigh, glancing at the back of her head and then quickly look away because she’s turning around in my direction now, taking photos of more stuff.

  Last spring, when she rode the bus on a snowy day, I’d been sitting two seats behind her and witnessed some irrevocable sadness. I still blame myself for what went down even though none of us could have predicted it.

  I, like everyone else, was jammed immobile into my own triple-crowded seat. A seat that had me in the perfect position to watch my teammate, Tanner Gold, slam Ellen off his lap like a jerk. The sound of Ellen’s shoulder hitting into the side of the bus wall still haunts me today. I also can’t forget how her shoulders tensed beneath her braid afterwards like she was hiding how badly she hurt, probably inside and out from that whole damn incident.

  Though she never cried or anything—I knew. I just knew. Heck, everyone knew, even the jerks who laughed at her had to know.

  I vowed that day would be the last day that Ellen Foster would be left alone on the bus during a snow day. And even though the girl doesn’t even know I exist beyond maybe knowing my name or recognizing me in passing, I’ve been watching out for her—yes, because of the crush—but more so just in case she might need…something. It’s the least I can do. Heck, it’s kind of the only thing I can do because until I came up with this snow day idea, I’d been stumped on how to finally approach her.

  With the snow aiding my moves, the goals are simple: 1. Sit by her to make sure she doesn’t fall. 2. Talk to her. 3. Ask for her number.

  Or, okay…I’m realistic. At the very least…I’m hoping for number one.

  I force my gaze away from her and pretend to stare at my phone as I try to imagine how number two, the conversati
on between us, will go today. But I draw a blank. Instead, I fast forward to the part where I ask for her number, and that’s when my heart clenches in another wave of panic as my mind spins out of control.

  Damn…now that I think about it, it’s too fast. She’s going to think I’m a freak. She’ll never give me her number all in one day. But…maybe I can do the silent bus ride thing today and then, tomorrow, I could try the talking to her part. Surely sitting by her today will be enough so I can casually sit next to her on the bus all over again tomorrow? Then, it won’t seem strange—not to her—and not to everyone else if by the end of the week she and I reach texting status, right? They will all just accept the fact that Ellen Foster and I have become…like…bus buddies. Yeah. Bus buddies.

  I feel like the sides of my head are about to blow right off, because I know she’s going to think I’m mental. How could she not? I’ve been in school with her for years and we’ve never spoken and now that I’ve been in digi-photo with this girl for five weeks—a class I signed up for because I knew she was already in it so possibly we could speak—I haven’t managed to utter one word to the girl. So yeah. It’s not going to be strange at all that I suddenly want to sit next to her on the bus every single day after today.

  Not strange at all.

  Nope.

  I pocket my cell phone and run both hands through my hair just as my head starts to buzz like it’s on fire.

  This plan is never going to work.

  ellen

  As the pain fades and my cramp releases some, I sigh with relief. It takes all my strength to lock a solid grip on the side of the car so I can use it to take my weight while I turn around. Because the bus is still nowhere in sight, I risk a few extra seconds to make certain I’m not the object of laughter or any silent staring that would notify me the other kids saw what almost just happened.

  These kids have spent a lifetime pretending I’m invisible so as long as I don’t draw attention to myself, I’m good. But if I’ve already hit their radars, then it’s going to be one sucking, long morning. I track everyone quickly as I test both legs by shifting full weight onto each of them a few times, just to be extra sure. I breathe out a second relieved sigh because no one seems to have noticed me, or that anything at all is out of the ordinary.

  *Applause. Applause. She’s ready to walk*

  I push away from the car and begin what I hope looks like a bored, limp-less but extremely slow stroll into the group. Bella-Jane Jamison is thankfully drawing everyone’s attention to her as she jumps up and down, dramatically crying out, “Oh. So. Cold.”

  I always have to admire the various ways Bella-Jane’s able to vault her whole body—cheerleader style with a cool little leap—off the ground. She does it all while flipping her hair and giggling at the same time, too. Impressive, if not limited, talents (besides the giggling part) that I wish I could replicate with my own legs.

  I envy anyone who can jump high. I think it would be so cool to be able to do it, even once. Watching her bare knees knock together makes me realize I must have missed some fashion orders that had to have gone around between Bella-Jane and my long-time neighbors (but never my friends) Paige Whalen and Jennie Martin. To ring in the first snow, they’ve all shown up dressed exactly alike: matching underwear-sized jean shorts, hair ironed ruler-flat, cheer hoodies and bright neon flip-flops.

  If the bus weren’t extra late, this move might have been seen as bold and cute. People risk wearing shorts in the snow during the early season all the time. Everyone knows in November the snow can melt off by lunch; but with the girls’ noses and toes going bright red, and the fact that they’re trying to play it all cool while shivering like crazy, has this bunch coming across more obnoxious than usual.

  As I crunch closer, I track the location of my biggest guy-nemesis, Tanner Gold. I do this every day to make sure I’m never in the position of sitting, standing or accidentally being near him ever again. It’s not for my safety it’s for Tanner’s. Last year, that guy made the last three-to-a-seat bus ride an epic torture-fest. I was sitting next to him—torture enough, if you ask me—and I was unable to place my feet where they needed to be in order to keep upright. So, on the first sharp turn, I jellied straight across his lap.

  And I mean face up and staring into his beady eyes.

  I was of course, frozen solid, because my CP kills every limb-to-brain signal when I’m scared and embarrassed. At that moment, I was both. Embarrassed as usual, but terrified because Tanner’s giant, bobbing Adam’s apple looked really freaky from that angle.

  In hindsight, I like to console myself with the fact that falling face up on any guy’s lap is way better than falling face down. But either way, flopping all over Tanner Gold’s thighs in public does rank as some of the worst minutes of my whole life. And I’ve had some very bad minutes here and there.

  As usual, no one moved when it first happened. That’s what most people do when I fall. They freeze right along with me and watch the whole thing unfold like I’m some live news story. That day, the gaping and staring got so bad, it was as if the earth stopped spinning and the entire bus had developed CP instead of just me.

  I will never forget the gasps, giggles and whispers that passed over my head and from seat to seat, all while I blinked and tried to move unsuccessfully off Tanner’s lap. My good arm was pinned under me and my bad arm was not participating at all. When I finally got it to move, the hateful thing twitched in exactly the wrong direction of where I’d commanded it to go. That’s what CP does. It’s a misfire of communications between your brain and your body. Meaning, in this case, my hand had gone up and latched onto the back of Tanner’s neck!

  And that’s where my hand stayed. Curved around his neck while I stared at him, not even blinking once, giving off the impression that I was lost in pure longing for the guy or something!

  *Hangs head, tries to forget.*

  Tanner, being the ultimate gentleman, decided to resolve the situation by elbow-slamming me off his lap. He also shouted about how he was taken then hollered for me to stop throwing myself at him!

  I should have decked Tanner that day, but his push jammed my bad arm so much I could hardly breathe. Worse, the pain set off a whole new round of left-sided immobility for me. So instead of taking my good arm and handing out at least one quality black eye, I just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying to breathe. I shoved my good leg into the seat-back in front of me and used my good arm to keep me upright. At the very least I made it into the school bathroom without shedding one tear in front of anyone. I also made it without falling on Tanner twice, which was at that point, was sort of a positive.

  As I get close to the crowd, but before I come to a stop, I hold my phone half way up and quickly snap multiple shots of the noisy-girls-in-shorts huddle, trying to get a low shot that encompasses their six, perfectly straight, perfectly formed and flip-flopped feet against the snow. I glance at the last photo and grin. Despite the subjects, and even without filters applied, these are going to be really interesting and contrasting shots.

  My favorite kind.

  *Applause rings out. Medals are bestowed. Photography scholarships fall out of the sky.*

  When I’m settled and standing still quite close to another parked car in case I should need it, I do what I always do next. I search for Tanner Gold’s polar opposite. My very own, long time and hopelessly cliché crush: Camden Campbell.

  Cam is what he’s really called. Not by me, but by people who say his name—you know—out loud.

  *Blushes.*

  I call it a cliché crush because he’s quite possibly the most beautiful guy ever born in Canada (obvious for a crush), a star football player (of course), and richer than the ex-Ukrainian president (because rich is part of the cliché when you are as poor as I am). I use this crush for entertainment. I go through a daily, ‘Why-Cam-is-Perfect’ che
cklist as a way to take my mind off all things, moments and people who might suck. It works like a charm. Every time. Every day. He’s that beautiful.

  My breath catches in a half-swallowed gasp of admiration when I finally locate him leaning against the bus stop, way up front. Instantly, I hardly feel the ongoing throbbing in my calf.

  *Begins checklist.*

  Hair: Light brown with a bonus new haircut—perfect.

  Eyes: undefined shades of gray and light—perfect.

  Mouth: Pensive lip biting thing going on today which means he must have a test or something, and yes—perfect.

  Body: Tall-sexy-long-legged-broad-shouldered and—perfect!

  I also love the way he moves so effortlessly when he walks. He’s kind of my inspiration for how I wish I could move my own body. Whenever he’s in motion, I try to stop and watch so later when I’m doing exercises with Nash I can emulate Cam’s amazing (must I say, perfect) posture.

  My mom swears we used to hang out, but I don’t remember much about it beyond recalling that he had a really big kitchen and that he used to eat all my goldfish crackers.

  I do remember when Cam started the strong-silent-brooding thing back in middle school, though. He became really quiet and, because of it, he seemed so mysterious. Which is why I started my secret-staring thing—and I’ve never been able to stop. I’m also pretty sure every other girl in the township does the same.

  For example, Cam’s got to be the sole reason Bella-Jane and the others have escalated their half naked, jumping around antics to circus-clown levels this year. It’s like the more he refuses to notice them, the crazier they act. Unlike all of them, I’m content with one-sided staring. I also kind of like how he never notices anyone. It’s my favorite part about him, actually. Because Cam’s way of ignoring me is nothing personal like it is when all of the other kids do it. It’s just who, or how, he is.