How I Fall

by Anne Eliot

  Laura’s making her hands into tiger claws, doing this silent roaring thing.

  Cam, also making tiger hands, starts mouthing Katy Perry’s, ‘You’re gonna hear me ROAR’.

  Instead of laughing, their antics make me want to cry more.

  It’s time to beg.

  “Please. Look at them. I can’t trust my whole future to those two. Please. Let me out of this. I’m sure this is going to ruin my life. We are all…obviously too…different.”

  Miss Brown’s gaze goes over my head and she bites her lips when she sees their antics. “Differences will bring opposite perspectives on how those trees will photograph. This is a good thing. Camden and you have tons of common ground. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “He and I will never have common ground.”

  “You already do.”

  “You’re ruining everything, you know that?”

  “You can thank me for all of this later. I’ve got a class to teach.”

  I glare and Miss Brown glares back. I turn away, unable to look at her anymore.

  “Everyone’s got five minutes to upload,” Miss Brown calls out to the class. To my back, she says, “Please tell Cam I would like to speak to him next.”

  I return to the work table but don’t sit. Instead, I give myself a little pep talk to force Miss Brown’s words out of my head: You do not need anyone’s help. You do not have limitations. You are infinite. Powerful. Titanium. You are not handicapped…not that handicapped anyhow…you don’t even use a cane.

  “All worked out?” Cam asks, looking up with a slight crease in his forehead when I don’t sit in the chair he’s pulled out for me. What? Does he think I NEED him to pull out that chair for me?

  *Tries to hate him. Tries to hates his smiling eyes and those little eye crinkles. Tries even harder.*

  “Uh.” I swallow, taking in Laura’s hopeful, smiling face next as I go on, “I—yeah. I—guess we are working the group project together, after all. Sorry if I overreacted.” I swallow down a lump of invisible sandpaper that’s crept up the back of my throat.

  “Awesome!” Laura grins. “I can’t wait to get started. Here.” She hands me a slip of paper and a pen. “Write down your number, and we’ll give you ours.”

  Because I can’t think of a way to deny her, I scrawl my cell number on the paper.

  “I got your bus accessory for tomorrow.” Cam shoves the tiger beanie at me along with a piece of paper where he and Laura have already scrawled their own numbers for me.

  Laura’s smile is so huge now I turn away as she says, “I can’t wait for the morning already. I’m so happy about today. And that I met you two. I was extra worried about coming all the way to Canada for the year. Thought no one would like me. And…it’s…just never been this easy for me to make friends. My mother was right. Everyone here is so nice! It’s all just going to be so fun, isn’t it?”

  I pocket the paper, and shove the beanie and the copies of Cam’s photo assignment into my still damp messenger bag.

  “Yeah. Um…about the fun bit…” I start, but hold back the fifty-five thousand word tirade that begins with: I’m not into FUN. I’m into serious, hard work. And if either of you two screw up my awesome project, my life, my future, and every single dream I’ve ever had, I will personally take every hair on your heads and…and…I will…I will…completely…

  I sigh, feeling my shoulders slump. It feels like I’m so tired from this day right now I’ll never be able to straighten them out again.

  “Never mind…” I say finally because they and their stupid tiger beanie eyes are still blinking up expectantly at me.

  “Go on then, Ellen. Take a seat so we can come up with a wee-little plan.” Laura pats the chair Cam’s been holding out for me this whole time.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my rolling stomach. “I’m going to the office. Something has hit me much harder than I thought from this morning’s fall. It’s like I can’t…can’t…get warm.”

  That last part at least is not a lie because every inch of my body inside and out has suddenly gone ice cold.

  “Do you need me to walk you there? I can—” Cam’s gaze clouds with worry and he’s already half to his feet as he goes on, “I can—help?”

  Why did he have to use that stupid word?

  “Please. No. Okay? No, I do not need—no thanks,” I grit out.

  He sits back down like I’ve decked him. His kind consideration has filled me with guilt and shame, because he doesn’t even know he’s been assigned to watch over my lameness yet so all of my anger at him is undeserved and so unfair. Obviously none of this is his fault and now I’ve yelled at him like a jerk. I’m the one who falls down like a freak all the time, and I’m the one everyone always worries about. Worse, Cam’s wounded, slightly sad expression, combined with Laura’s confused and hurt-glitter-blinking thing is about to make my eyes spill over with the tears I’ve been trying to hide.

  I catch Miss Brown’s second or third—or is this her zillionth—disapproving frown directed at me?

  “I mean…thanks for offering. And thanks for all that you both did to help me today already. But…I can handle myself. And, besides you can’t leave.”

  Cam’s folding his copy of the paper with all of our numbers on it into a mini, zigzagged fan, but pauses to raise one brow up high. “Why?”

  “Miss Brown wants to talk to you about the project next, so you probably need to do that.” I shoot a small smile at Laura just as my throat starts to close up some. “We can make your ‘wee-little plan’ tomorrow. Okay?”

  My voice wobbles at the end, so I quickly whip my face around and hide in my hair in case my face starts up the hateful lip-tremble thing it does when I’m about to cry.

  I pretend to hear Laura’s answer and execute a small wave as I eye the clock, wondering if there’s a possibility my mom can convince Nash to come get me. If not, I’ll hide out with the nurse and wait until her shift is over then beg her to give me a ride home in her car.

  At this point, there’s no way I’m getting back on the school bus. No way. No how and not even if I have to walk all the way home.

  Without another glance at them, I slowly traverse through the chairs, avoiding sideways tilting messenger bags and lumpy packs hung on the chair backs. I also successfully miss tripping on the minefield of feet sticking out from under the work tables. It’s second nature to me to watch extra carefully for anyone who might suddenly stand and knock me off balance, but truthfully, I’m surprised when I’ve made it to the door still standing because I could hardly see a thing through the flood of tears I finally let spill down my cheeks as I step out into the hallway.

  cam

  “Throw the damn ball, son!” My dad’s voice always makes me grind my molars. “Are you on some sort of flipping vacation?”

  It’s the last thing I hear as blood and white noise rush into my head, because I know I’m not going to throw the ball. I’m going to tuck it under my arm and run away from my dad’s voice and head toward the goal line!

  My eyes zoom to the defenders facing me. Adrenaline spikes. It has me easily tracking a run-line through the empty spaces between the opposing players.

  I’m in the zone. Threading the needle. No problems.

  Without dropping speed, I pull in one right shoulder, then cruise into a full body twist to the left. My cleats dig deep into the turf as I wrench away from a pair of grabbing hands and slide into, then out of, the next hole I see.

  I feel my lungs expand and the muscles in my thighs stretch and pull, giving me needed speed. Flipping back to the right now, I end up in a crouch run to avoid Tanner Gold’s grab. Then I jump over someone’s leg as it strikes out to trip me. And I’ve gone from the 40, to the 20, to the 10! But as I’m running directly toward Patri
ck who’s heading up from the 5 at full speed, I don’t try to avoid him. Instead, I speed up.

  I see his eyes flash in surprise and his giant form moves into tackle mode.

  That’s when I choke, because I’m still unsure of my plan. Still unsure of how and when and where I’m supposed to do this. My head spins with doubt. Do I aim my throwing shoulder at him, hoping the impact of his monster-sized chest will crush and hopefully snap a few tendons around my rotator cuff? Or, should I let him hit me straight and rely on physics? His speed plus mine could create a head-on collision type incident that flings me into the ground somehow? Which choice will create a permanent effect? Which one is the better option?

  But then, I’m thinking of the team and the dreams some of the guys have that are hinging on me. Thinking how I should wait until we qualify for the state championships.

  Is this too soon?

  Is this too obvious?

  Is this even going to do anything for me beyond hurt like crazy?

  I see a quick mirror of panic crossing Patrick’s face as he runs at me, going for the tackle. Then Ellen Foster’s face floats between us.

  Best friend…Ellen’s best friend…what about working with Ellen?

  I pull myself to the side, hoping I’m not too late.

  Sounds crash back into my concentration. Whistles screech and screech from the sidelines. The coach and my dad—who’s the unpaid assistant coach—are going nuts. Patrick seems to have heard the whistles before I did so thankfully, he slows down just as I work my feet toward a stop. We slam together chest-to-chest but it’s not enough to bring either of us down. We’re face mask to face mask, both panting for air and eyeing each other.

  He drops his hands and I can read the relief on his face. I figure my own face probably shows some regret about what just didn’t happen, but I cover it with a small smile and say, “Nice moves. You would have had me.”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do with you though, so I’m glad they stopped the play.”

  I hear my dad screaming his tirade of ‘dammits’ at the top of his lungs in a voice more frantic than I’ve heard in a long time, but I refuse to care. I toss the ball to Patrick as we traipse back to the line of scrimmage.

  When I see my dad’s beet-red face, I realize letting Patrick hit me would have been unfair and uncool to the poor kid. I talk through my smile to Patrick. “Be prepared for my dad to yell at you for nothing. He flips when I almost get sacked.”

  Patrick shakes his head. “I’m kind of getting used to his voice. Whether you almost get sacked or not, it seems he’s flipping out on you all the time, huh?”

  “You should hear him at home.”

  “My dad used to shout 24/7 but I got lucky. He moved to another province.”

  “Lucky. If only that would happen to me,” I mutter.

  My dad’s still going on as we approach. “What was that, Cam? You’re so damn lucky you made the first down.”

  “I made second,” I correct him, gaining a cold glare.

  Coach Gruber pipes in with his scratchy-smoker’s voice. “And Tanner Gold! You should have had him down ten yards back! Worst defense I’ve seen from this team all season!”

  I watch my dad’s wheels spinning behind his flashing gray-black eyes. His face gets even more flushed as he analyzes my lighter weight, six-foot-three and around 170 pound quarterback frame next to Patrick’s six-foot-five defender height and girth. Patrick’s made of sheer muscle and I bet he weighs somewhere near 195 if not over 200. I get that me, facing The Giant—as we all have been calling him—has probably scared my dad to death. But Dad’s reaction fills my soul with hope. Because if he’s this freaked out, then my plan to permanently exit the game by using a stretcher might actually work someday!

  I’ve just got to figure out how. If only all the other teams had players as huge as Patrick.

  I tune Dad and Coach back out again when Dad begins the, “You are all lucky this is a damn scrimmage! If you idiots play like this for the game Saturday, we’re going to have your heads on sticks…and you all just better…blah, blah, blah, blah.”

  I’ve heard variations of this same speech since I was six. Now, at seventeen, I can hear it in my sleep. Dad began perfecting the ways he lectures whole teams of kids being idiots/losers/fools on the field—because no one is ever as smart as he is—back when I played on my first club teams down across the border in Michigan.

  Dad says, if you want to be big, you’ve got to start young, and he started me before I could even walk. He’s also been the volunteer assistant coach on every team I’ve ever played for because no coach would turn away a famous ex-quarterback who wants to give kids free coaching.

  Dad doesn’t have to work thanks to the money he banked and good investments made during his glory days, so he’s got plenty of time to make rosters and draw up new plays. He’s always funding team uniforms, and headlining pre-game pasta parties, and doing charity fund raisers with my mom. In our town, he seems to be everyone’s favorite fun guy. In our house, the real guy comes out. He’s usually not that nice, and he makes those helicopter moms look like babies. Round and round Dad goes, zooming in and taking aim as he judges, over analyzes, over schedules, tracks and orders around every single breath I take.

  I started rushing the ball as my own form of rebellion against him last year. I’ve grown to hate the sound of his ‘coach’ voice so much it makes my stomach hurt the minute he opens his mouth. As the years pass, or maybe as I get older, I’ve developed this urge—one that’s turned into an obsession—to ignore or do the opposite of what he and my coaches order me to do.

  And, of course, every day I want my dad to stop his shouting things like ‘Throw the ball!’ or, ‘Throw the damn ball you idiot!’ or, ‘For-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy,CAM! Would you throw the DAMN-BALL-ALREADY’?

  Running the ball toward the end zone started as a way to get myself out of range of my dad’s voice. At first it was kind of fun to piss him off and pretend I didn’t understand why he was so upset after I’d scored even though I know full well the QB is supposed to stay protected and throw more than run the ball.

  Then, somewhere in the middle of all that was when I realized that when I run with the ball tucked under my arm, some sort of magic kicks in to the point where I believe—where I become—invincible. Untouchable. Un-sackable, just how the school newspaper reported it. Everything wrong becomes everything right and as much as I want to get hurt, this safety bubble forms around me.

  I swear, I have no idea how, or why it works, but it does and so I score and score and score!

  Because of my antics during practice last year, Coach—with Dad’s blessing—let me play starting varsity quarterback during the playoffs. When I started pulling my shenanigans during the games, my dad got more and more pissed off at me as did the coach because I refused to follow their set plays.

  But when every rush ended with a score, our team made it all the way to the AA Provincial Championships. That’s when they stopped yelling at me so much. They started saying things like ‘This should be the play, but of course, son—go with your gut if it’s the right thing to do.’

  Then, at the last big game, I rushed for three touchdowns, scored two and we actually won the championships! It was a miracle. It also put our team on the USA college recruiter map! When they visit, Dad’s beside himself with happiness because those guys remember who he used to be. They eat him and all of his jabbering up like it’s candy.

  And of course, thanks to the relationships my dad has built with these guys, they’ve all been giving half the team huge hopes that they also might land scholarships down in the states. A dream come true for most of these guys. I keep playing along, pretending I’m excited about recruiters and talking about which big university I might go to. I play my best for the team mostly because I do want them to
get what they need for a good future. Football scholarships down to the states are not easy to get.

  The college chatter keeps my dad juggling a ton of balls while he goes through the information. This means he’s been focused on other things besides me for once, therefore somewhat out of my head. I’ve been able to think, plan, and decide what I want for my future. While Dad’s preoccupied with my transcripts and filling out my applications online to schools down in the USA, I’m figuring out how to apply to digital arts programs here in Canada, which has not been easy to keep secret!

  I’m also figuring out the best way to exit the game, but I’ve got to get out in a way that has my dad feeling very sorry and supportive instead of having him going psycho. And my dad goes psycho really easily over things that wouldn’t bother a normal person, which is why we can’t just sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk. Because my dad and I never talk about anything that’s real. I just follow his orders. That’s simply the way it is.

  This is why I’ve hatched this major-injury plan.

  Because it’s football, after all. Tragic accidents happen. Everyone knows that. Even my dad, the ass, will get that. He will not be able to blame anyone but the random statistics of the sport for why I have to quit. Heck, he might even become nice afterward. Become the dad I wish he would have been all along. A dad that cares more about his family than he cares about one, singular sport. He might even help me piece myself back together and get on board with what my ‘new dreams’ are now that I can’t play football. Only they’re not new dreams. They’re forever dreams of me being a professional photographer…dreams he doesn’t even know I have.

  “Do you hear me, Camden! Dammit, son. Pay attention and stop staring down at the grass like you’ve left the planet! You still haven’t owned up to your stupidity out there. What were you thinking running straight at The Giant like that? It was like you’d lost your whole mind! We’ve got a game this weekend, and you were aiming for that kid like you wanted him to kill you! During a scrimmage!?”