Peter reads me. “Soon, kid,” he says.
I grab my backpack and head out the door. It isn’t even shut completely behind me when I hear her voice. The shrill alert of none other than my neighbor Abigail Adams.
Good morning to me.
“Mcalister!” she sings out.
Abigail is short, and she’s got this pin-curled red hair that she usually wears back with a ribbon or headband. Her uniform is tailored to be just a little bit shorter than accepted, but not so much that she’s breaking dress code, and today she has on a purple tie with the Kensington insignia. She has about one
hundred custom Kensington ties. Passed down for generations. They are probably the same ones her grandfather wore.
“Hey, Abbey.” She hates when anyone calls her Abbey, so naturally that’s what I do.
Abigail huffs. “Do you want a ride?”
I flip my wrist over to glance at my watch: 7:37. I’ll never make it in time.
“Sure, that would be great,” I say with a smile. Abigail eyes me, and then motions with her hand. I duck
into the waiting town car after her.
She slings her book bag on the seat next to us—this season’s Miu Miu tote, the same one that’s in my mom’s closet—and unsnaps a water bottle from the minifridge. She hands me one.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So,” she says, turning to me. “I’ll bet you’re excited to see Kristen, right? Have you spoken to her at all this summer? Such an amazing thing that happened that night at my house.” She emphasizes the “my.” Then she takes a swig of water. “It was really so lucky we were both there, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
“I can’t imagine being an outsider here,” she prattles on. “I bet it was always really difficult for her. You know, when I heard about”—she lowers her voice, like the driver is going to do something with this information—“that forwarding address, the first thing I thought was I’m glad she’s getting the help she needs.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I mean, I felt horrible, but at least she was somewhere they were taking care of her, you know?”
“I doubt she was in a mental hospital,” I say, and as I do I can feel the half muffin I inhaled rolling around in my stomach. At least I think she wasn’t. I hope she wasn’t. She would have told her parents the truth. She would have told someone. The thought of that, of how fast news spreads at Kensington, makes my blood run cold.
Abigail seems put off by this. “Caggie, it’s okay, you know. You saved her, but it doesn’t mean she didn’t also have to save herself.”
Abigail looks beyond pleased with that maxim, and I wonder when she thought it up and how long she’s been waiting to say it.
She keeps talking as we drive. About responsibility, and dogs, and some neighborhood-watch program she’s thinking of starting. I just nod and smile in a noncommittal way, hoping that we don’t hit any red lights. Finally, the car pulls up to school. I immediately open the door and launch myself out.
Even I have to admit Kensington’s campus is beautiful. It’s got that old New York look. Stone columns, redbrick buildings. It’s regal and welcoming and totally forbidding all at once. It’s not a terrible place to go to school, if you want to know the truth. I just wish Claire was here and that Trevor and I were, well, anything. Friends, even.
Claire and I were in the fifth grade when her parents relocated from LA. She was this gorgeous Malibu transplant who already had a handle on the New York scene. I was a fifth-generation New Yorker who had never even been photographed for New York Social Diary. We were an unlikely pair, but we fit perfectly.
Abigail follows me inside. “It’s just like Mrs. Thompson sooo doesn’t get my schedule. How are you supposed to do piano and clarinet and still have time for chorus? I’m trying to make Juilliard here, not give myself a hernia.”
“Yeah,” I say, already mentally checking out of the conversation. I have English first period, with Mr. Tenner. I haven’t had him since sophomore year, but he’s been my favorite teacher ever since. He’s one of those cool teachers, but he doesn’t try too hard. I think if you had asked him at sixteen what he wanted to do, he would have said teaching.
“Caggie, assembly?” Abigail gives me a withering glance. “Right.”
Every other day at Kensington there is High Assembly.
They try to make it this super-formal thing where we have to sing the school song and pledge allegiance and all this business, but really most students sleep through the thing. They take attendance, though, so you have to be there and check in with your advisor, even if you don’t pay attention.
There are two girls in my grade, Gidget and Bartley, who aren’t too bad. I spot them when I step inside the hall. If I miss a class and need the homework assignment or something, I usually ask one of them. I can’t say they’ve replaced Claire, but at least there is someone to talk to who isn’t Abigail Adams. They’re the kind of girls who won’t immediately say something bad about you the second you leave the room, and at Kensington that’s a pretty valuable commodity.
I make my way over to them and sit down next to Bartley. Of the two she’s probably a bit prettier—her hair is a little longer and it looks more naturally blond than Gidget’s does. “Hey, guys,” I say. “How was your summer?” Despite liking them all right, I haven’t actually seen them once since June.
“It was great. We were at the beach!” Gidget nudges Bartley and she winces.
“I mean, we . . .”
“It’s fine,” I say, catching on. “Glad you guys had fun.” “Of course,” they both say together.
They were nice about Hayley, too. They didn’t harass me the way my other classmates did. Constantly asking if there was anything they could do, following me home from school to make sure I was “okay.” Abigail walks up to the podium and launches into a speech about how this is going to be the best year yet. About how Kensington has been “leading the world frontier on excellence” for the last hundred years and how we owe it to our forefathers and fathers to uphold their tradition. Lots of applause. A few slow claps.
I make a point of not looking around for Trevor. He’s a pretty dedicated student and always on time to these things, so I know he’s there. I just sit back and let Abigail’s shrill turn into a drone. Kensington isn’t looking promising this year, and I haven’t even had my first class yet.
The single thing I miss the most about Claire being at school is how every day felt . . . unknown. Like there was the possibility for something totally different to happen. The time we ditched and snuck into Madison Square Garden when they were setting up for a Prince show. Claire knew one of the security guards. We ended up spending eighteen hours in there, on the side of the stage.
Then there was the time we dumped food coloring in the school pool, and when the swim team showed up for practice, the water was a deep purple, like Gatorade.
I couldn’t dump food coloring into the Kensington pool on my own. If I tried, which I wouldn’t, I’d probably just dye my hands and then get in troubling for staining my uniform.
When I get to first period, Tripp Remington and Daniel Jeffreys are already there, sitting on the tops of their desks. They never say more than ten words to me, which is totally fine in C my book.
Tripp used to date Abigail. Or does. They’ve been pretty on and off for most of the last two years. He comes from a journalist dynasty. His father’s company owns a media empire. Every magazine you read? They publish it. He and Daniel have been slouching their way through school with me since the first grade.
“How was your summer?” Tripp asks.
“Fine,” I say, a little surprised they’re showing any interest. I shouldn’t be. People have been treating me differently this year. “I kind of just hung out in the city. You guys?”
I slide into a desk near the back left-hand corner. Tripp shakes his blond locks out of his eyes and swivels to face me. There are rumors he dyes it. His hair, I mean. I wouldn’t be surpris
ed. It looks almost identical to Claire’s, and she says she’s seen him at her salon downtown.
“Went to Brazil.” Tripp socks Daniel in the arm. “Boys’ trip.”
“Right,” I say. “Sounds fun.”
“Epic.”
Students start to file in around us and take their seats. I assume we are done with this little conversation, but Tripp leans in closer. “I just want to say,” he says, his voice dropping, “that I think what you did last spring was really cool.” He nods at Daniel, then turns back to me. “I mean, not many people can say that, you know? That they saved someone’s life.” He straightens up, like he’s proud of himself. “If you ever want to like talk about it, or whatever, I’m here.” He winks at me, then socks Daniel in the arm again, and the two of them drop into their seats. Talk about it. Right.
Sure, I’d love to tell you the story of last May. Of how Abigail Adams threw a “Welcome Summer” party at her apartment. About how I went up to her roof penthouse to get some fresh air and spotted that the safety gate on the ledge, the one the window washers use, had been undone. About how I saw Kristen standing there on the six-inch platform, the city swaying below her. About how I selflessly stepped over that railing and took her hand in mine and asked her not to do this, to climb back over with me. About how I was just about to get through to her when she slipped. About how she screamed and everyone came running.
They piled onto that roof deck like sunbathers on the one sunlit strip of beach at high noon. They watched her dangle twelve floors above the concrete jungle, our fingers still locked. They saw me haul her up and both of us collapse on the floor, tucked back safely on the other side of the gate.
But you already know that’s just one version of this story. And I’m getting tired of telling it.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble.
People start hustling in, including Trevor. We took Mr.Tenner’s English together sophomore year, and Trevor liked it even more than I did, so I should have assumed he’d be here. He hangs in the doorway for a second and catches my eye. He smiles—that soft, sweet, heart-melting smile—and slides into the only available desk: two rows over, the same seat as mine.
Hey, he mouths and holds up his hands like who would have thought?
I give him a small smile and face front, but my heart is racing. It’s ridiculous that after two years, Trevor can still light my pulse.
It’s always been this way, though. He came to Kensington from The Anderson School on the Upper West Side, and from the first day freshman year there was just something about him, something that made me want to be close to him. A lot of girls felt it too. He was the new hot commodity on campus, the boy with the soft brown hair and blue eyes. The one with the freckle on his cheek like a tear. He was sensitive and kind, and when you spoke to him, about anything, he’d listen, like you were the only person in the room. The only person in the world, really. Most girls in our grade wanted to feel that from him, and I was the one who got to.
We didn’t become friends until sophomore year, but once we started hanging out, it was instant. It felt like I had known him forever. I recognized him and he recognized me. It didn’t take very long after that for us to be a couple. I remember the exact day, the exact moment. We were sitting in my room with Hayley. She wanted to paint us, and she had her whole station set up—her canvas board, aisle, watercolors. “Hold still,” she said. “Don’t move so I can do it properly.” That was when he did it. We were sitting side by side, and he just reached across, ran his thumb over my cheek, and kissed me.
Hayley put up a fuss. She said that we were disobeying her orders, we were moving, but when she gave me the painting a few weeks later, it was of us just like that: his hand on my face, his lips brushing mine.
I try not to think about that now, though. Because now we’re not together anymore. We can’t go back.
Mr. Tenner asks us to take out our syllabuses. I see we’re reading Virginia Woolf and Nine Stories, J. D. Salinger’s shortstory collection, this year. I happen to be a huge Salinger fan. I own multiple copies of all his books: Franny and Zooey. Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters. When we used to go up to the Berkshires, I’d make my parents stop at every bookstore to try to scour for first editions. I’ve gotten some off the Internet, too. I couldn’t admit this to anyone, because it would seem too obvious, like it meant something different from what it does, but he’s my favorite writer by far. It’s the way he so clearly identifies humanity. It’s crisp and sharp. Like C iceberg lettuce, or a knife. You don’t know whether you want to bite into it or use it to cut through something. Mr. Tenner is counting down the books, explaining what we’re going to attempt to finish before December break, when Kristen walks in. I’m immediately struck by how tiny she is. She’s always been small, even shorter than me, and she’s got ice-white skin that’s almost translucent—ghostlike, even. But she looks even smaller than I remember. She holds her hand up to Mr. Tenner. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers.
The room erupts into deafening silence—the kind that’s filled to the brim with glances and raised eyebrows and restrained gossip. Everyone is looking between her and me and Mr. Tenner, who motions for Kristen to take a seat at the empty desk in the back. He doesn’t pause for more than a moment before he keeps on lecturing.
Kristen weaves her way left. Please don’t look at me, I silently pray. Not in front of everyone. Seeing her now makes it all real. The things I pushed aside over the summer. The whispers I ignored and buried down right there with the truth. What if she actually spent the summer getting treatment? The thought of it makes me feel ill, makes the room spin—like a globe flicked into motion. She takes her seat, and we plod through class. I pull out my notebook and begin scribbling. I’m not even writing coherent sentences, but anything to look busy. I can feel Trevor’s gaze on me, heavy like concrete, and I can feel the pull of Kristen—what I’d say to her if I could.
I spend class in a state of hyperconsciousness. My upper back feels hot from tension, but I don’t pick my head up from my notebook. I’m afraid of whose eyes I might meet.
There are chimes between classes at Kensington, no bells, and when the tinkling sound goes off, everyone grabs their book bags. The Kristen drama seems to have evaporated over the last fifty minutes, and now students are way more interested in their bone-dry cappuccinos than whether or not the disturbed girl and the one who saved her are going to embrace each other after a long summer’s absence.
I slide my book bag over my shoulder and make my way toward the door. I only stop when I feel a hand on my back. “Caggie?”
I turn around to see Kristen, students knocking past her, Trevor included. He half waves as he leaves, but I’m so distracted by contact with Kristen that I don’t respond.
“Hi.” I swallow.
She smiles. Relief floods my body like warm water.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” she asks.
“Sure.” I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other. I peel a hangnail off. Up close, Kristen looks good. Tiny, but well. Her skin is even a little darker, like she spent time in the sun this summer. I hope that’s true.
She waits until the students have barreled out. A few turn back to look at us, but there are only five minutes between classes at Kensington, so no one can really afford to wait.
When the last student has left, she turns to me. My heart beats frantically, like it’s trying to run away from this conversation. “How was your summer?” I ask. I try to keep my voice casual, but I can feel my pulse in my neck.
“It was good,” she says. “Calm.” My mind jumps—calm like . . . medicated? She smiles, and her warm, brown eyes seem to slow my racing blood. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I just went home to Minnesota. I saw my old friends, stayed with my grandparents. It was exactly what I needed.”
I exhale. “Right,” I say. “Good. I didn’t really think . . .” I trail off, look at my shoes.
“How about you?” she asks.
I screw my face up into what I hope is a smile. “Good!
You know, busy. Well, mellow, I guess. I didn’t really. . . I mean . . .” I sigh. “It was fine.”
She shakes her head. “I meant to call you, but I wasn’t sure . . .”
I look up and meet her gaze. “Same,” I say.
“You know, it’s all right. I’m not . . .” Her brown eyes are fierce. “I’m not going to say anything.”
I look away and shuffle my feet a few times back and forth in lieu of words. This kindness isn’t what I expected from her. I should say thank you, but I can’t bring myself to get the words out. I also don’t know if she means it. She may know my darkest secret, but I barely know her.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say instead.
She takes it and nods. “So I’ll see you around, then?” Kristen looks up at me, her eyes wide, and for a moment I see her on Abigail’s rooftop, hanging from my fingers, her face wild with terror. “Definitely,” I say.
And then I duck past her, just as the chimes start to go off again. Class is beginning.
Lunch at Kensington is an interesting affair. No one really eats in the cafeteria. For one, most girls in my class have been on a diet since they were about ten, so lunch either consists of gossip or celery. For another, one of the perks of Kensington is that you’re allowed off campus at lunch. It’s always been this way. It’s meant to foster “community appreciation,” which means Kensington is somehow under the delusion that its students use the freedom of their lunch hour to check out the new Imperial Age exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Mostly what happens is that they go to the park and make out. Claire and I used to do that, minus the making out part, no matter what Tripp says. Trevor always had some school-related project to attend to at lunch—an extra AP class, prep for a debate, etc.—so at lunch it was just me and Claire. We’d pick up sandwiches from Caffe Grazie on Eighty fourth and go eat them on a bench in the park. Even in the winter. If it was really raining, we’d duck into Island on Ninety-second and sit with coffee. Besides mornings with Trevor, it was my favorite part of the day, and now, staring at our school’s sandwich stand, I miss Claire more than I have in a year and a half.
The Edge of Falling Page 4
