“Come with us!” I turn around to find Abigail and her girl squad a few paces over, handbags on their shoulders, primed for escape.
“Oh,” I say, “I don’t know, I . . .” I gesture toward the sandwich stand, which never has a line. Today is no exception. With New York at your fingertips, who would go for a turkey and rye at Kensington?
Abigail marches toward me, hooks her arm through mine, and starts dragging me to the double doors that lead into the courtyard and out of school. “We know you and Trevor have broken up and Claire hasn’t been here in a year.” Abigail looks at me pointedly. “And we think you should start spending more time with us this year.”
Constance Dunlop and Samantha Bennett nod emphatically.
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s sweet of you.”
They bookend me so there is no way to get out as we head straight into the park. Sure enough, we don’t stop to pick up food. It’s hot out, but not as sweltering as yesterday. Even with Abigail’s arm linked through mine, it’s nice to be in here. A slight breeze curls around a bend and picks up my hair, cooling the back of my neck.
“Here,” Abigail directs.
She lets go of me, and Constance produces a blanket, which she and Samantha sit down on. Abigail follows and so do I, so we’re all making a little circle. I half expect them to pull out an Ouija board.
“I heard you talked to Kristen after class today,” Samantha blurts out. She leans way forward, sticks her chin in her hands. “Tell us everything.”
They’re getting filled up on gossip. Obviously. I wish I’d brought lunch.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say. “She just wanted to know how my summer went.”
Constance and Abigail exchange a look. “Did she say how that mental place was?” Samantha giggles. “I heard they had to strap her down so she wouldn’t run away.”
“She wasn’t in a hospital,” I say. My voice gets quiet, and the three of them lean in closer. Abigail’s eyebrows travel up her forehead like they’re trying to reach her hairline.
“Yes she was. Constance saw her forwarding address,” Samantha says.
Constance has busied herself with rummaging through her Chanel purse.
“Well, she wasn’t,” I say. “She was just with her grandparents.” I lean back on my hands.
“Yeah but come on,” Samantha presses. “You don’t just try to kill yourself and then give it up the next minute. That’s not how it works.”
“Really? How does it work?” Constance says. Samantha clocks her in the side, and both girls tumble over, laughing. Only Abigail stays upright.
“Did she say anything else?” she asks me.
I close my eyes into a spotlight of sun. “Not really.”
“Okay.” Abigail is silent for a moment. “It’s just, she tried to kill herself.”
I open my eyes and find her looking at me. Constance and Samantha are lost in another conversation. Something about the way Abigail is leaning forward, squinting, like she’s trying to read something off my face, makes my heartbeat quicken.
“That was a rumor,” I say.
“She was on the ledge of our roof terrace,” Abigail says. “What do you think she was trying to do up there? Enjoy the view?”
I thread some grass through my fingers and pull. “It’s over. It’s a new year. I think we should just move on. Leave her alone.”
“Can you imagine if you didn’t get to her in time?”
Abigail says, shaking her head. “I can’t even think about it.”
She shudders, like she’s suddenly freezing. In reality the cloud cover has lifted and the sun is beating down, full force. “I guess you know what you’re going to write your college essay on,” she says, winking at me.
That’s the thing that’s always really stunned me about these girls. Their ability to go from dead serious to ridiculous in no more than a second. How can you switch gears that quickly?
“So you were at the beach this summer?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from Kristen.
“Yep,” she says, suddenly animated. “You know Tripp came out for a full week? He didn’t even stay with his parents, just with us.” At this Samantha and Constance jump back into the conversation, exclaiming how Tripp showed up with flowers and insisted on making Abigail breakfast in bed, even though they had a full-time summer chef out there. Abigail leans back on her hands. “I think he’s the one,” she says after a moment.
I balk. “The one?”
She smiles her patronizing smile. It seems to say, Someday, dear; you’ll know what I’m talking about. “I think we’ll get engaged,” she says.
Constance and Samantha start squealing. They sound like tiny animals in the wild.
“You’re seventeen,” I say, slowly, like maybe she’s forgotten.
“Oh, not now,” she says, waving her hand around. “I just mean someday. He’ll start working at his father’s firm, you know, and it would just make sense . . .”
She starts rambling about Park Avenue real estate and summers in Bridgehampton and I feel that pang again, the pang of missing Claire and Trevor. The only two people in my life who ever validated my suspicion that this world is a total and complete farce.
I remember when I could have said the same things about Trevor. Not the marriage part, not beach houses in Bridgehampton, but things that made sense. Things like going to the University of Iowa for their writing program, starting our own literary journal. We’d always argue about whether or not we wanted to end up back in New York. He did. He said he wanted to live on the Upper West Side, where he was from. I couldn’t imagine living here, having just the park to separate me from Kensington and everything that comes along with life here, but Trevor said that the park might as well be the Atlantic Ocean and that Kensington wouldn’t matter once we left. “That’s the thing about New York,” Trevor used to tell me. “You can make it whatever you want it to be.”
I knew he was right, but there was always something so alluring about the idea of moving somewhere it would be just the two of us, where no one knew us. We could read and write and have a tiny cottage and a vegetable garden. It all sounds so ridiculous now, but at one time it was the only thing I wanted—to have him in my life forever.
“We should get back,” Constance says.
Samantha yanks the blanket out from under and the four of us march back down Fifth Avenue toward Kensington. I’m starving, but there’s no time to get anything now. I think I have an old granola bar stashed somewhere in my locker. Do they go bad? Probably not.
As we’re passing through the gates, back inside, I spot Trevor. He’s seated on a bench in the courtyard, his arms crossed, looking toward the sidewalk like he’s waiting for someone. When he sees me, he straightens up. He lifts his hand and waves, but I don’t mirror him. I can’t bring myself to wave back. He smiles with just the corners of his mouth. His smile seems to say, This is pretty sad, huh? Where we’ve ended up? I want to agree, to shake my head, run to him, laugh at how out of hand everything has gotten, but he ended things. When you’re the dumpee, you don’t have those kinds of privileges. He keeps holding my gaze until I look away.
“Ex stalking much?” It’s Abigail, in my ear like a mosquito. “What?” I say.
“Trevor obviously still has a thing for you. He’s like a pining puppy.”
“No he’s not,” I say, trying to swat her away. “Yes he is!” Abigail squeals out.
“Trust me,” I say. “If Trevor still has feelings for me, they’re just pity. We’re done.” And then I walk off toward history, making a mental note that, no matter how lonely I get this year, I will not, under any circumstances, submit myself to another lunch with Abigail Adams & Co. Some things are just not worth it.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hey, wait up.” I turn around to see Trevor jogging behind me.
It’s three o’clock, and this year I’m determined not to stay at school a moment more than necessary. I used to run track and the school paper—I
was the first junior to ever make editor—but I gave that up in January. It just seemed so trivial. Everything did. And the stories he ran were pointless. Taste tests on Diet Coke vs. Coke Zero? I couldn’t take it.
“Trevor,” I start.
He holds up his hand. “Wait, I just want to talk to you.” He sticks his hands on his knees, panting. Despite his tall frame, Trevor has never been very athletic. He used to come watch my track practices and tell me he was tired just being there.
“And say what?” I’m trying hard to remain composed. His face slackens, smooths out, and I can’t help but run my eyes over his cheeks, his ears, the freckle on his face. I think about how many times I’ve kissed that exact spot. When someone break up with you they should take their memories with them. It shouldn’t be possible to remember someone when they’re no longer there.
“I heard you and Kristen today,” he says.
My breath catches. “Heard us what?”
He looks at me. That look he has that I know means stop bullshitting . “What isn’t she going to tell?”
I take a deep breath but don’t automatically say anything.
I hate lying to him; that was part of the problem. He could sense it, I know he could. But I also can’t tell him. Just like I can’t tell Claire. It wouldn’t be fair. To them or anyone else.
I just pray Kristen meant what she said. It would be so easy for Trevor to ask her . . . and she has no reason to protect me. “I thought you left,” I say lamely.
Trevor shakes his head. “Come on, Caggs. I heard her. What was she talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, turning around and walking. “Just forget about it.”
Trevor follows. “I know something happened. Why won’t you tell me?”
“It isn’t important,” I say. “Like hell it isn’t.” Trevor grabs my arm. It’s hard, and I’m surprised. Trevor never gets annoyed or raises his voice. “Stop shutting me out,” he says.
“I didn’t shut you out,” I say. I’m still moving forward, fast, trying to get away, but Trevor won’t let me.
“Yes you did,” he says. “After January you wouldn’t even look at me.” His fingers are still on my bicep. “Come on, Caggs, it’s me. You can talk to me.”
I’m suddenly filled with anger. The force of it sends me whirling around to look at him, and I shake his hand off. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Are you forgetting that you broke up with me?”
He shakes his head. “You think that’s what I wanted?”
“Pretty sure, yes,” I say. “Because it’s what you did.”
Trevor throws his hands up, the way he does when he’s watching a soccer game that’s going particularly badly. “You forced me to. After your sister died—”
“Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t bring her into it.” Trevor softens. He reaches for me. His hand grazes my arm. “I was just going to say you let me be there, in the beginning . . .” His voice trails off. “It got worse, not better.”
I close my eyes. His touch, his words, are overwhelming.
Having him this close makes me feel more than I have in months. I’m not sure I like it. Feeling too much is dangerous. It makes me want things I can no longer have. It’s what led me up to that rooftop. “She didn’t come back,” I say. “How could it have gotten better?” I shake my head, take my arm back from his grasp.
“All I ever wanted was to be there for you,” he says, his gaze dropping to the ground beneath us. “I didn’t know how to do that. I left, and I should have stayed. I should have forced you to—” His voice breaks. Trevor has never been shy about his emotions. He cried watching The Notebook. I think it was his suggestion to download it too.
I know my resolve has cracked somewhere in the course of this conversation. I need to get out of here before I break open completely. I cut him off. “Are we done?”
He looks at me, his blue eyes pierced, but when I turn back around and start walking, he doesn’t follow.
I walk all the way home. I know he isn’t behind me, I can sense it, but I want to turn around anyway. I have to fight the urge all the way to my front door.
When I get inside, my mother is contorted on a mat in the living room, her Pilates instructor standing over her.
“Claire called,” she says, her leg making circles in the air. I’m surprised, because usually she doesn’t remember messages. These days she doesn’t answer the phone too often, and Claire always calls on my cell, anyway
“When?” I ask.
Her Pilates instructor, some guy named Leaf or Tree or River, gives me a pointed look.
“No problem,” I conclude for myself. “I’ll call her back.” I leave them and head into the kitchen. I’m struck by how
much I miss Peter, just knowing he’s not here. It’s weird: He was gone all summer, but having him back yesterday made me get used to his being around. It’s amazing how easy it is to fall back into old habits, how just a few hours is enough to catapult you backward, at least emotionally. But emotions don’t matter. They aren’t fact. Peter is at school, where he lives now. Things aren’t the same. I push Trevor out of my head as I reach for the phone.
“Caggs,” Claire says when she picks up.
“Yes, Claire Bear. You rang?” I can hear her plodding around her bedroom, opening and closing drawers. I know what those discontented closet sounds mean.
“Max called,” she says.
“Who’s—” But I catch myself. “Band Guy. Right.” She makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
“So what’s up?” I stand in front of the refrigerator and contemplate getting a snack. It takes me at least thirty seconds to notice the fridge been replaced. It was stainless steel this morning; now it’s all glass. You can see right through. Count how many apples are in the bin without even opening the thing.
“He invited me to some gig in Williamsburg.”
“Mhm.” I’m staring at a bunch of grapes and the nectarines next to them. My mother has belonged to a fruit-of-the month club since before I was born. Once a month piles of pears or kiwis or pomegranates show up on our doorstep. She never eats them, and they usually just sit there until they turn and someone has to throw them away.
“Jesus, Caggs, do I have to beg? You’re coming with me.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I honestly can’t think of a single excuse. I have too much homework? Not true: I have none. I have to spend time with Trevor? That go-to has definitely expired. I’ve been working on my honesty this summer. I’ve told such a big lie, such a massively irreversible one, that I figure I need to somehow even the score. But the thing about lying is that it’s not so easy to stop. Lies need one another, like a school of fish. If you start to separate them, they’ll be killed off one by one. Sometimes the only way to keep lies alive is to tell more of them.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come.” Claire screeches, victorious. It’s obvious she thought she was going to have to gun way harder for me to come out tonight.
“I’ll be down at like six.” I say.
“Can you wear your red bandage dress?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say. Claire gave me this Hervé Léger fire-enginered, skin-tight dress for my birthday. I’m born on the Fourth of July, so her reasoning was incredibly specific: “Your attitude is blue, your skin is white, and this dress is red. It’s perfect.” But it’s so tight it makes me feel like I’m being put through a juicer. There’s no way I’m putting that thing on.
“Are we going to have fun tonight?” Her tone is pointed, and I can’t help but smile. This is Claire’s role. Throughout last year, through the spring, Claire was always the one who didn’t take BS. Trevor, he was the one who held me when I cried, and asked me how I was doing, and tucked my chin against his chest, but not Claire. Claire’s job has always been to remind me that life moves on. To keep heading forward. And she takes it pretty seriously.
“Damn straight,” I say, which makes her laugh. “Six!” she calls, and hangs up.
I take the grapes out. I was right—there are twenty-six.
I get to Claire’s at six thirty. Usually she feels I am not wearing enough makeup or my clothes aren’t “fun” enough and we have to go through the process of making both me and her happy (not the easiest of tasks). So it’s best to show up late to avoid as much of this as possible.
“I didn’t know we were swinging by church first.
Excellent.” Claire scans my outfit—dark jeans, white tank top and this Native American necklace my mom bought me on a trip to Paris. My mom is always doing things like purchasing Native American necklaces in Paris.
I push past her. The inside of their apartment smells like garlic and wine. I can hear water being drained in the kitchen and the soft sounds of Etta James.
“Hey, Mrs. Howard,” I call out.
“Darling!” Claire’s mom comes around the corner, a dish towel in hand. She’s a small woman with jet-black hair that she keeps in this longish bob. Today she looks like Audrey Hepburn: cigarette pants, white button-down, and neck scarf.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself get wrapped up in her smell—garlic and ginger and the faint hints of vanilla perfume.
“I’m good,” I say. “You know, same old.”
She eyes me. “Your mother?”
I shrug. “The usual.” She nods and flips the dish towel over her shoulder. She looks at Claire—Claire in her leather vest and cutoff denim shorts. “I’m taking it you’re not staying for dinner?” “We can’t,” Claire says, snatching my hand and dragging me toward the door. “We have to support Max.”
I glance back apologetically at Mrs. Howard.
The Edge of Falling Page 5
