by Anne Eliot
“Good. I wonder if I should make a larger duct taped basket for it as well.”
“I’d appreciate it. Could protect it from banging around.”
When I get that her smile has turned genuine because of talk of cameras and duct tape, I’m freed up to breathe almost normally but I can’t ditch the feeling that I need to stay on my toes. When I’m sure she’s not looking, I watch her carefully as she releases her hands from one tree and shifts her weight expertly until she can balance herself using the branches of the next. As she moves slowly toward the goal of getting to my bag, my gaze soaks up every movement like I’m seeing the CP part of her for the first time. And, I just can’t look away. I want to stop tracking every puff of air around her, stop seeing every rope waving in the wind above her head, and I would like to stop hating even the leaves that now dare float too near her! But I can’t, not after already witnessing her close call with that rope.
The whole time Mr. Nash’s words about her being in danger and breakable are tumbling through my own tangled thoughts: No…no…she has no idea…how sweet…how beautiful she is…what I’m going through. What we all see when we see her…that she’s beautiful and special and…and…and that the world is just not safe…not safe…not safe…not safe at all for her!
Struggling to push back my thoughts even more, because they’re actually bringing on some sort of irrational panic attack, I manage to act like I’m thinking about the project as much as she is. “Because the light’s going to start to fade some, should we do the branches farthest from the lakefront first and hope the reflections off the lake will allow us more time closest to the water later?”
“Okay. Yes. Good idea. Whoa.” She gasps as the wind surges harder than the gust that brought down the rope earlier and she starts to go down! My heart skips beat after beat and somehow my feet are flying in her direction before I know they’re moving. I’ve got my eyes on every swinging cord around her, then I’m tracking the direction her feet are pointed, because I’m trying to determine the direction she’s going to fall so I can get there.
Her left foot catches on a root and her hair whips off her face. I’m watching pure fear spike through her coal-black eyes. She tilts, but I’m still too far away, helpless and watching as she manages to grip a low hanging tree branch.
“Ellen!” I’ve shouted her name and now I wish I hadn’t because somehow, that little branch and her skinny good arm is holding her upright just fine.
I pull in a long breath as she turns to look at me. Her black eyes are half hidden behind her long bangs. This time, she can’t quite hide everything from me because I’m beginning to know her pretty well. “What?” she answers, voice questioning and careful.
We’ve both heard the small tremor that came from somewhere in the back of her throat.
She’s afraid. She knows I’m afraid for her, too.
She feels all of what I’m feeling and more because she lives this. She’s the one going through these small but treacherous and nearly fatal moments—probably many times—every day. I also sense she doesn’t want me to see her this vulnerable and exposed, but after the fight with Nash and now this, there’s no going back.
If only she could read my mind a little deeper, if she would just trust me a little more and if I weren’t such a mind-stripped idiot, I could try to explain…but explain what?
How much more I like her today than I did yesterday? I’m a freaking mess.
“I—I—nothing.” I sigh. “Can we sit and wait for this wind to die down?” It takes all of my effort to ratchet the fear off my face and turn away to grab at one of the ropes flying by, hoping she did not notice how I tried to execute some sort of ridiculous tackle move to try and save her.
“Worried about your Nikon?” Her voice moves from trembling to that low, raspy-catch sound that makes me insane.
I breathe a sigh of relief because she doesn’t bring up my awkward failed interception at all. Avoiding her gaze, I bite my lip, clinging to her words as an excuse. “Yes. Blowing sand will murder that thing and freeze the automatic lens. And, honestly my legs are killing me after that game. I’m—tired.”
“All right. You win. I’ll sit. Liar.”
“What? I’m serious. This is all me, not you.”
“You are quite possibly the world’s worst liar. This is all me.”
“Please. You can’t know anything about me on that level,” I challenge.
She pulls her mouth into a straight line and says in a wry, attorney voice: “Let the record show, when Cam Campbell lies, he bites his lip and looks sideways at the sky. Every time.”
“Damn.” I laugh. “Let the record show, Ellen Foster is some kind of mind reader. And it’s not a whole lie. I am tired, but quite honestly I don’t think I could survive watching another rope whip down and almost kill you, okay?”
“Well, I could survive it just fine because I survived the last one.”
“I know. I know.” The wind whistles through the branches above. “But…please?”
She looks up to where the ropes are hanging and walks over to sit by the tree nearest my backpack which seems to be out of any sort of dangerous drop zone. “Meet me over here, then. It’s the only rope-free zone.”
I tie the ropes nearest to me down solid then I head to where she’s now sitting and I wonder if things between us could get any more awkward. She’s got her back snug-up next to the tree, probably a protective move in case another giant gust comes through. Thankfully she’s let her mask slip back off again.
As I sit near her she smiles, but her gaze is tentative—guarded. “I guess…if we’re going to be working together so closely, I’m not going to be able to hide myself from you like I want.”
“What’s to hide? And you’re not the only one with secrets, you know? I’ll try to share some of mine, if it helps?”
“The only thing that could help would be if I didn’t need help, or a cane, or have CP and you can’t deliver that so please don’t even try to go there.”
“Okay. Fair request. I won’t.”
She sighs. “But I love secrets. If you want to spit some out, I’ll never tell.” She turns her face to the lake. The sunlight’s all peaches and whites and it’s hitting the edges of her face, making it and her hair shine so bright and beautiful that my heart stops beating for myself. Completely. It’s hers. Whatever she wants to do with it. Simply hers, because I’m so in awe of how this girl never feels sorry for herself.
Every damn day…how…how does this girl do this balancing act and then never complain? How? And…how can I make her like me back?
“Candy?” I dig deep into my pocket, suddenly realizing how hard it is to keep the conversation going without Laura London flinging glitter all around us.
Ellen nods at the caramels I’ve produced. “Sure. I’ll take one.”
Without thinking, I toss one up high into the air and then quickly realize my mistake. Her eyes have widened, and her arm has twitched like it was going for the catch, but the candy, of course, never reaches her. It just falls into the sand between us.
Her cheeks instantly color bright red. Before I can tell her how stupid and sorry I am, she breaks my heart straight down the middle when she whispers, “Sorry,” and pulls the arm that failed behind her back. “I’m—you know—slow reactions.”
Hating myself now, I try to cover for both of us. “It was a crap throw. I can’t aim anything that’s not egg shaped. I swear. You should see me try to throw a basketball.” I go for a quick grab at the candy, not realizing that she, in her own way, is in the middle of doing the same with her other hand, so our heads bump.
“Sorry,” she whispers again, leaning back into her tree and rubbing at the red spot I’ve made on her forehead.
“Pretty sure I’m the one that is beyond sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m clumsy and a
n idiot, and yeah, I do want to die for failing at everything when it comes to me interacting with you.”
She’s biting her lower lip like she’s trying not to laugh or cry. “No. That would be me.”
I recover the abandoned candy from the ground and brush off the wrapper then work to unwrap it. “Do you ever find yourself wishing life could be like those movies or books where the character gets to travel back in time and quickly do over moments or days until everything goes right?”
She blinks at me. “Since the day I was born. Literally.”
I hold out the candy, but she doesn’t move to take it. Her eyes are going over the caramel like she wants it, but then with a sigh, she shakes her head. “When I’m nervous or upset nothing on me works quite right. You go ahead and eat it. I don’t think I can chew, let alone take it out of your hand at this point—not even with my good arm.”
“Is it me, making you nervous?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Can’t lie. It’s your eyes. They kind of startle me because they’re so cool looking.”
“They do? They are?”
She nods. “I get stuck trying to separate the colors. I do that with everything I see. It’s a habit, but with your eyes it’s become sort of an—obsession.”
I laugh. “Really.”
“Really. And…well…because despite the lies you tell me otherwise about your coordination, I know that everything on you works so well and everything on me just doesn’t. So when you’re around I’m really aware of how different we are. I think, because of all that, I try to be extra graceful around you, which is why I manage to fail on a higher level every time you are near me.”
“Pretty sure I almost fell all over you on the bleachers this morning. That was not me faking coordination! That was pure clumsiness, because you also have very interesting eyes—so opaque and dark that I’m always trying to figure a way to read your thoughts. Those peepers of yours give nothing away. And the part where you smell like some sort of flower shop throws me off as well. So it’s you making me incredibly nervous also. See?”
She smiles. “Please. I almost fell off the whole bleacher when you sat next to me—in case you don’t remember that? Because I do. And I almost ate sand in front of you just now. And you smell like some sort of candy store all the time!”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“It’s because I’m addicted to sugar. Which probably adds to my clumsiness.”
She blinks and bites her lower lip. “You won’t win this contest. Don’t even try. I’m already a gold medalist in the falling and awkward department. Sugar shakes are the worst excuse ever.”
“Oh, it’s a contest now, is it?” I grin. “The part where I tried to take your eye out by chucking random candies at you has us officially tied at least.” I lean my head against the tree and a small laugh slips out as I go on, “And while we’re still battling for first place, I take credit for the part where I just head butted you so damn hard! Or, does the lump on your head not hurt because mine does.” I hold the candy out again. “Don’t make me eat this thing. If we really tally the scores here, you’ll see that I’m on track to accidentally get this caramel caught down the wrong side of my throat. I’ll wind up passed out in front of you just to win. I will.”
I can tell she’s about to laugh, but instead she widens her eyes to look all solemn. “You, passed out at my feet, is something I might like to see.”
“Oh, really…” I laugh more. She spoke so openly about being nervous and things not working quite right with her, I decide to press her a little more. “You’re hiding your arm? Are you?” I point. “Hiding your bad arm—from me—why?”
She pulls in a breath like I’ve surprised her. “Um…” Her expression goes from relaxed to shuttered. “My CP…it makes my hand and my fingers turn in and stiffen up a lot. I’m self-conscious about how it looks, so I guess I’m always tucking it away. It’s nothing personal, if that’s what you think.”
Slowly, so I don’t freak her out, I scoot to her side, reach over and pick up her hidden hand and gently turn it over so her palm is facing up before placing the candy in the center of it. “I like how it curves and it’s pretty. It could be an asset. Maybe it’s easier for you—to—hold hands with people?” I meet her gaze, but she quickly looks away like I’ve just said the stupidest thing on earth.
Because. Crap. It is possible that I did JUST SAY the dumbest line on earth.
“Nothing about this hand makes anything easier, but I shouldn’t complain because I can use it to almost full capacity. Watch.”
With visible effort, she straightens her hand and wiggles then bends each finger one at a time while I’m holding it.
“So many people with hemiparesis can’t do this at all. Probably doesn’t look like much to you so sorry for…bragging or…” Her brow crinkles and she lowers her eyes. I feel her wrist tremble slightly as she tries to pull her hand away.
Damn. Damn. Fumble. Fumble. Failed recovery. Save it, dude. Save it.
Quickly, I rush on, “Ellen—” I shake my head. “Again I have to apologize to you for the second time in five minutes. I don’t know what to say about you and about your CP and—”
She saves me. “It’s okay. No one knows what to say about my CP. I’m actually happy you tried to say something about it at all. The part where you don’t seem nervous or repulsed by me is also really—refreshing.”
“Repulsed? Are you kidding? I’m trying to say that I think you’re extremely cool. I’m trying to make you understand that I don’t care about your CP except the part where I care if it makes you sad or might hurt you somehow. And I certainly don’t notice it in any sort of bad way. To me, it’s seems part of who you are.”
“Too much of who I am, sometimes. You just don’t know me that well. It takes over everything.”
“Well, to me it’s another part of what makes you so interesting. How you live with your CP and your strength makes me want to hang out with you more. I’m blabbing again, I know, and I bet I sound like a dork; but I want you to know I think you’re simply awesome, that’s all. There. I’m done now.”
She laughs. “Well…thank you. You’re also—really cool.” I lighten my grip and she pulls her hand away, shaking her head like I’m mental; but I count it as a win because she’s not exactly glaring at me or anything. She actually appears to be finally relaxing. I try not to stare as she takes her good hand and gingerly, with two fingers, collects the candy from the curved one that still doesn’t appear to want to move much and pops it into her mouth. “Mmm. I do love caramels.”
“Best ever candy,” I agree. I take up a small stick so I can pretend that drawing patterns in the sand is about the most interesting thing in the whole world while my mind spins with the enormity of how every little thing in Ellen’s life—like eating one small piece of candy—can be a challenge. I have so many questions I want to ask her. Like: Does it hurt her to sit? To stand? To lean on a tree like she is now? Does she know people look at her? Wonder about her? Does she understand just how much I look at her—how much I wonder about her? Does she have a clue how my heart aches when I look at her face? Will I ever be able to tell her?
“So…why do your legs hurt after a football game? Is it all the running?” she asks after the silence is almost unbearable between us. “I sure would love to run. Is it fun to go really fast like you do? I can’t even imagine.”
My chest twists. I think of the countless times me and the other kids who’ve known Ellen just as long as I have, must have simply run past her, taking for granted the fact that she couldn’t. She was always a shadow on the wall or sitting in her wheelchair, watching us and she’s still doing it.
“Yeah. It’s fun,” I answer after a long pause. “But my legs ache after games because I tense up for the entire game. Every muscle, every tendon and every bone in my
body is like on some sort of adrenaline spike, and I can’t seem to shut it off till the last whistle blows. It’s exhausting.”
She smiles. “Well I do know what that feels like. Guess that’s why you’re so good at the game though? I don’t know much about football, but you sure seemed really good to me.”
I don’t know how to answer that. Everyone says I’m good. My dad’s convinced I could go all the way. But how can I be ‘good’ at something I hate as much as I hate playing football?
She goes on, “Mind if I ask you more questions about it?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Here’s my list. Does it freak you out when there’s an audience watching you? Does it hurt when you’re tackled? Aren’t you afraid when the other huge players are running at you and shove you into the ground? Don’t you ever worry you’re going to get massively hurt? Do you notice the people watching you, because everyone does seem to stare at the quarterback and don’t the marching band and the cheerleaders get into your concentration? You don’t have to answer all…I’m curious, that’s all. And if you want to know the truth, watching you play that game was excruciatingly painful. I couldn’t wait to get away from the stadium.”
“Why?”
“You already know about the bleachers being dangerous, but I spend all of my free time trying to avoid getting stared at so the crowd was too much. I also think watching you and Patrick get tackled was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. The idea of being at the bottom of any sort of dog-pile of giant bodies is quite possibly one of my biggest phobias. And you guys kept getting crushed. The whole thing was really stressful for me to watch.”
I smile over at her, then turn back to dig deeper swirls in the sand. I’m now completely envious of her ability to draw me out with the very types of questions I wanted to ask her. “Let me try to answer your questions in order. I’ve always been the QB—since about age six, so I’m used to the staring people. To force me to get used to it, my dad has put me in front of any camera he could find since I could carry a football.”
