The Edge of Falling

by Rebecca Serle

  “Dad,” I say. “Hi.” I can’t remember the last time I saw him, but it’s been weeks, at least. I can’t help but notice how much he’s aged this year. His hair is nearly all white—gone is the salt-and-pepper my mom used to say made him look like George Clooney.

  His suit is wrinkled. It looks too big. I know he must have lost weight, because he gets them all made custom.

  I stand and go give him a hug. It’s stiff. He doesn’t wrap his arms all the way around. You know how I keep saying my dad has been on a plane all the time since January, how he hasn’t been here because he doesn’t know how to deal with what happened? What I mean is: He doesn’t know how to deal with me.

  My mom didn’t blame me, I knew that. She was devastated. She was inconsolable. But she didn’t think it was my fault.

  My dad couldn’t help it. He’s right, too. It was my fault. I was the one who said she could come. I was the one who was there. I was the one who didn’t realize, who wasn’t paying attention—how can I blame him? I’ve basically sent him away.

  “You going out?” he asks me. He keeps his hands by his sides. He tucks them into his pockets.

  I nod. “School dance,” I say.

  “With Trevor?”

  I shake my head, but I don’t explain.

  “I’m only in town for the night,” he says. “Peter and I are going to Café des Artistes.”

  Trattoria Dell’Arte is this Italian restaurant near Fifty seventh Street that my dad always took the three of us to. My mom hated it, but he loved it. Loves it. Sometimes we’d sneak in a meal before Sunday dinner, the four of us. My mom knew what we were up to, but she never confronted us about it, and if she confronted him, we didn’t know. I don’t think she did, though. I think she secretly liked that we spent time without her. That we’d want to do that.

  “That’ll be fun,” I say. I think about them sitting at the table by the window. Two chairs instead of four. All of a sudden I just want to get back on the phone with Astor. To tell him that whatever he wants to do tonight is fine with me as long as we can do it together.

  My dad clears his throat. “Well, have fun,” he says.

  I look up at him. He’s still so tall, taller even than Peter. “Thanks,” I say.

  He leaves, his gray suit sagging. It seems to hold the space of all of the things we cannot see, but that are there.

  I leave for the Guggenheim at seven. It only takes me a few minutes to hail a cab and get there. I enter on the first floor. The walkway up to the door is decorated with rose petals. There are just a few left; the rest have landed on the sidewalk or over the railing, clearly disrupted by the wind. Abigail and Constance are sitting at a folding table against the left-hand side of the entrance.

  “Caggs!” Abigail coos when she sees me. She has on a red dress that plunges so far down in the front that when she stands, it reveals her belly button.

  “Hey, Abbey.”

  Constance is busy chatting with Bensen Wool, who has just walked in, and she doesn’t look up.

  Abigail tilts her head to the side. “Are you here alone?” she asks. She runs her finger down the class list and taps my name.

  “No,” I say. “I’m meeting Astor.” I peer down at her check-in sheet. “Is he, um, here yet?”

  Abigail shakes her head no. Then she leans across the table, her top dangerously close to spilling out. “It’s so funny you’re with him. I’d never put you two together.”

  She giggles, and looks down at Constance, who is all of sudden paying attention to us.

  “Yeah,” I say, “well.”

  Constance cuts me off. “Is Claire coming?”

  “Claire doesn’t go here anymore.”

  Abigail shrugs. “We thought you’d still bring her. Once a Kensington girl, always a Kensington girl. Right?”

  “You two used to do everything together,” Constance adds.

  It’s the state-the-obvious twins.

  “Have a good night,” I say, and then turn right and head downstairs.

  The bottom floor of the Guggenheim has an outdoor indoor event space. Some students are milling around outside, and there are high, round tables set up around the perimeter of the inside. They’re each covered in a cream tablecloth with a white-rose centerpiece.

  I glance down at the black dress I chose. Something I bought in the Hamptons last summer. It’s a halter, with silver straps and one cutout circle at the chest. I’ve been waiting to “fill out” since the seventh grade and it’s never happened. This is probably the sexiest thing I own, and on me it might as well be jeans and a T-shirt. If Claire were here she would pull it down in the front. She might have even pinned it down before we left, so that it could show more of my nonexistent cleavage. Claire would step back and survey me. Not bad, she’d say. I really do my best work on you. Then I’d throw a shoe at her or something, and we’d start hysterically laughing. I realize that sounds like a movie montage of friendship, but the sad part is it’s sorta true. Or it was.

  I go over to the bar and pick up a cranberry juice in a wine glass. Sometimes they even have champagne at these things for “the chaperones.” Our school makes very little effort to pretend the kids at Kensington don’t drink. I take a couple of sips, surveying the scene. Gidget and Bartley are a few tables over, talking to Harrington Priesley and Greg Mathews. I think about going over to them and saying hi, but if I remember correctly, I think they have crushes on these boys. Trevor told me that once. Interrupting while they’re trying to flirt doesn’t feel like the best “make friends” plan.

  I just sort of stand off to the side. Ten minutes pass and Astor doesn’t show up. You know what’s sad? Standing at a party that is being thrown by your high school, by your own grade, and realizing you don’t have a single person to talk to.

  Twenty minutes pass.

  I wave at Gidget. She smiles, but quickly turns back around to Greg.

  Thirty minutes pass. Astor still hasn’t arrived.

  I set my third cranberry juice down. My black dress now feels like I’m trying too hard. To impress who? It’s becoming increasingly clear I don’t have a date.

  And then I see Kristen. She’s standing by the bathrooms, toward the other side of the bar. She has on a light purple dress that looks a little like something Hayley used to own. She looks small, innocent. Too young to be here. All at once, my heart starts racing. Because she’s looking at me.

  I see her at school, of course—in English, in the halls. But we haven’t spoken since that day in Mr. Tenner’s class. The day she promised me she wouldn’t tell.

  I take a deep breath and walk over to her. She straightens up and sets her drink down.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says. “Who are you here with?”

  I shrug. “Astor was supposed to meet me, but he hasn’t shown up.”

  “It’s pretty, huh?” She gestures toward the dance floor. I nod. “It is.”

  “I’ve always really loved the Guggenheim,” she says. “It’s the kind of museum you could see being remembered in. Not too flashy, you know?”

  “Do you paint?” I ask.

  She looks down at her drink. “Sort of. I mean, yes.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

  She raises her shoulders as if to say, you never asked.

  “So how are you?” I say.

  “Good,” she says. She shuffles her feet. I notice she’s avoiding making eye contact.

  “That doesn’t sound awesome,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not your problem.”

  “I think we’re a little past that,” I say. I realize, suddenly, that she’s not going to tell what happened in May, that she never will. The realization strikes me right through the stomach—so strong it’s crazy I never felt it before. It makes me grateful and relieved and guilty; all at once. She laughs. It makes her sound older. A little more solid. “I guess so.” She turns to me. “It’s not that I ever had too many friends here. But
I’m so sick of Abigail and Constance.”

  “Amen,” I say. “I feel you on that one.” I raise my glass to hers and we clink.

  “Right?” she says. She loosens up a little. Her tone gets higher.

  “You just have to ignore them,” I say.

  She sighs. “I know. It’s hard sometimes. The other day I was coming out of the Journal and they . . .” She pauses, glances at me.

  “Are you working with Trevor?” I ask.

  She nips her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she says. “They needed a sub. I’m just helping out. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

  “No, no,” I say. “That’s good. That’s great.”

  She nods a few times. “It’s been fun,” she says. “Trevor has been telling me some of your ideas. They’re really good.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “But most of them were his.”

  Kristen squints at me, then shakes her head. “That’s not what he said.”

  “He’s just being modest,” I say. My mouth feels dry. I suddenly want to get out of here.

  “He’s a really nice guy.”

  I swallow. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  Then Kristen touches my arm. It startles me to feel her fingertips like this. “We just talk about the Journal,” she says. “In case you were wondering. He won’t even let Mrs. Lancaster assign me to your position. I think he still thinks you’re coming back.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but something stops me. Trevor is here. He comes in from the outside, laughing with Phil Stern. Our eyes lock instantly, and he smiles. Maybe it’s because Astor isn’t here, maybe it’s because I was standing alone for close to forty minutes, but so do I. I see him relax; I recognize that grin he gets when he’s really happy about something. In the next moment Trevor excuses himself from Phil, and then he’s making his way over to us.

  “Hey,” he says. He glances at me and then at Kristen. “How’s it going, Jenkins?”

  “Pretty good,” she says.

  Trevor raises his eyebrows at her. “Remember what I told you. If those girls give you lip, you come to me. Yeah?”

  She sighs. “I know,” she says. “Definitely.”

  Trevor looks at me. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  I can hear Kristen clear her throat next to us. “I just remembered I have to relieve the babysitter,” she says.

  “Oh, come on,” Trevor says, knocking her shoulder lightly. “Try a little.” She laughs. It’s good to see her smiling. Happy. Alive. “It was nice to see you both.” She gives us a half wave and takes off for the stairs. When she’s gone, I can feel Trevor close to me.

  “You scared her off,” I say.

  “Nah,” he says. “Jenkins is cool. And those rumors about her are total bullshit.” He looks at me, shakes his head in disbelief. “What am I saying? You know that.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.” I suddenly have the intense desire to tell Trevor everything. To spill exactly what happened that night. To tell him how deeply I was hurting—how much I still am. But I know I can’t. I’m not even with him anymore. And if he ran away in the spring, this would send him for the moon.

  “So how long have you been here?” He’s dressed in a gray suit, with a pale pink button-down underneath. I bought him that shirt for Valentine’s Day two Februarys ago. We went to Brooks Brothers and picked it out together. I remember I went into the dressing room with him and he pinned me up against the wall. We made out for a while, until some salesman saw us and told us we had to leave. They let us buy the shirt, though, first. “I guess Brooks Brothers is still a business,” Trevor joked, stroking my hand.

  I wonder if when he puts it on, he thinks about that. I wonder if the link is as direct in his mind as it is in mine.

  I shrug. “Not that long, you?”

  “An hour or so. I’ve been outside.” He gestures toward the doors, toward where Abigail & Co. are now watching us, whispering.

  “Ah,” I say. “Cool.” I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to talking to him like this—like we’re just acquaintances. Classmates.

  We might as well be commenting about the weather. “I guess some things haven’t changed,” he says. He looks

  up at me. His blue eyes are soft. Familiar.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess not.”

  We stand there for a moment, just sort of looking at each other. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t think he is either. Then the song changes. It’s so obvious, really. So predictable that a slow song comes on at this moment, and people start to pair off.

  “Do you want to dance?”

  I glance up at Trevor. He’s looking at me intently, a small smile on his face.

  Astor isn’t here. He’s probably not even showing. I should have listened to what he was really saying on the phone. He was telling me he didn’t want to come tonight. He doesn’t want to be here.

  “Okay,” I say. Trevor takes my hand. Instantly I get a flashback to our first winter formal. It’s like a premonition or something, except from the past. But it’s crystal clear—like we’re there, right now. The roof of the Gansevoort. The way it felt to have his arms around me, exhilarating and safe all at once.

  Like being on a ride at an amusement park—even a roller coaster—but knowing you’re strapped in. Whatever happens, you’re not going anywhere.

  Trevor leads me out onto the dance floor and pulls me close. I let him. I lean my head on his shoulder. He takes my hand in his.

  “You look beautiful,” he says into my ear.

  I want to close my eyes against him. I can feel myself slipping back—back to a time where dancing with Trevor was just what I did, what I should have been doing. When the only thing I had to worry about was where we were going to dinner on Friday night, whose house we were going to study at on Sunday.

  With my eyes closed, it almost seems like nothing has changed. I can hear Claire’s voice in the background, from a memory: “Hey, lovebirds, Rouge Tomate or Serafina?” The casual way we’d make brunch plans. The ignorant confidence in our forever.

  I want to tell him I miss him. I can feel the words bubbling up. Because it’s true: I do miss him. I miss this. I miss feeling safe. When I’m in his arms it’s like anything could happen— the world could end—and it would somehow be okay.

  “Trevor . . . ,” I start, and that’s when I see Astor. He’s on the landing of the stairs, looking at us. I can see the bewilderment in his eyes, the flash of anger. I don’t think; I just tear myself away from Trevor.

  “Hey,” Trevor says. He doesn’t let go of my waist. “What’s wrong?”

  I’m already trying to move past him, to get to Astor and explain.

  “Stop,” I say.

  Trevor takes a step back, and I can see how hurt he is. It’s sharp. It stabs. “Caggie, what—” But then he sees Astor. He reaches out to stop me again, and his fingers land on my arm. “No,” he says.

  “Let go of me,” I say. It comes out harsher than I mean it to. Or maybe exactly like I intend. All I know is that I have to get away from him.

  “Caggie, please,” he says. “Stay with me.”

  I look up at him and see the pain in his eyes—the same pain that was there the day he ended things. The day he told me he didn’t want to do this anymore.

  But Astor is turning to leave, and I don’t answer Trevor. I just unlock my arm and race toward Astor, leaving Trevor on the dance floor. I can see other students watching us. I’m sure this is making Abigail’s night.

  “Astor, wait.” I run up the first five steps and grab on to the back of his suit jacket. “We were just dancing,” I say.

  He spins around. His eyes are dark. They make him look just a little bit scary. “I guess it didn’t matter if I came, after all.”

  “No,” I say. I shake my head. “That wasn’t what it looked like. Trevor just asked me to dance. We’re friends.” I’m out of breath. My chest feels shallow, like it’s too hard to get air. Lies. Lies. Lies.

  “It didn
’t look too friendly.” He continues to climb. I follow behind him until we’re in the museum lobby.

  “You’re wrong,” I say. I try not to think about Trevor’s words: Stay with me. Why? He didn’t. “And you weren’t even here. You’re an hour late, Astor.”

  This makes him turn around. “I told you I had family stuff,” he says. “Who cares about this stupid dance?”

  “I do,” I say, because it’s true. “I care.”

  I feel him relax, slightly. He runs a hand over his forehead. I watch him, as he deflates like a tire. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. He lifts his eyes up to meet mine. “You look incredible, by the way.”

  I feel myself exhale. Relief.

  “Yeah?”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Why do you think I got so mad about Trevor? You’re too hot to be in somebody else’s arms.” I don’t think; I just reach out and pull him down toward me. Talking to Kristen, seeing Trevor— it’s all just too much. Too real. Right now I want to disappear. I don’t want to think about the past; I want to be here. Astor can help with that. He does help with that.

  We keep our lips locked. The thing about kissing Astor that I never had with Trevor is this feeling of confidence. Power. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me when we break apart—running his eyes over my collarbone, and then up to my lips—that he wants me. And it feels good. Intoxicating. It makes me want to do things I haven’t before. It makes me feel like I’m not quite myself. Like I’m slightly different— older, maybe. Not someone who sleeps with a night-light on and still wears a retainer but someone who dates a mystery man from London with a (troubled?) past. It’s better than the alternative.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper. I put my lips right up against his ear. “I want to go to your house.”

  He draws me close to him. He kisses me, runs his hands across my shoulders and down my back. I reach up and wrap my arms around him. He pulls back after a moment, touches his nose to mine.

  “Let’s,” he says. I realize I’m holding on to him, my hands on his shoulders, my fingers gripping his skin. Even my eyes are tight to him—locked, like they’re keeping him in place.

  As we make our way to the doors, I glance back at the stairs. I don’t know why I do it, because I know what I’ll see. Sure enough, Trevor is standing on the top platform, his hands hanging by his sides, staring at us. I don’t permit myself his gaze, though, not even for a moment. Instead I grab Astor’s hand and lead him out through the museum doors. “Sixty-eighth and Lex,” Astor tells the cabdriver. My heart leaps a little, like a kid on a trampoline. That has to be his house. I’m going to see where he lives. He leans his face down and touches his lips to mine.